LGBTQ Ugandans Balance Hope And Fear: Four years after an anti-gay bill attracted global notoriety, queer Ugandans are cautiously coming out from the shadows

Javan, a transgender woman, sits in the doorway of her mother’s home with her niece and sister. Javan spent six months in Kenya as a refugee after she was attacked by a homophobic mob. She is one of the rare young LGBTQ people in Uganda who has the support of her family.

Shamim, a transgender woman, poses for a portrait at Ice Breakers Uganda, an LGBTQ health-services organization, where she had been staying for the past four months. Previously, she says she was arrested, beaten, and harassed by police, angry mobs, and her family.

Toward the end of 2013, the Ugandan parliament passed what would become an infamous piece of legislation: the Anti-Homosexuality Act. The first version of the bill, proposed in 2009, sought to protect the "traditional family" by criminalizing the "promotion of homosexuality" and calling for certain homosexual acts to be punished with a death sentence. Though the language was eventually softened to life imprisonment, the message was clear. The groundwork for the bill had been laid by local religious leaders such as Martin Ssempa, who benefited from the support of American evangelicals in inflaming anti-LGBTQ sentiment. After incredible international outcry, Uganda's Supreme Court struck the bill down on a technicality nine months later.

Leticia Opio, an out transgender woman and founder of the LGBTQ advocacy group Queer Youth Uganda, poses for a portrait at the QYU offices. On the morning of Christmas Eve 2016, someone broke into Opio's home and attacked her from behind. She suffered from memory loss, nightmares, and general anxiety, and had to travel to Europe to seek medical treatment.

Nevertheless, by then the damage had been done. A report issued in May 2014 by the LGBTQ rights group Sexual Minorities Uganda suggested the passage of the Act had "given permission to a culture of extreme and violent homophobia whereby both state and non-state actors are free to persecute Uganda's LGBTI people with impunity." Acts of violence against LGBTQ Ugandans skyrocketed, and dozens of people sought refuge in nearby Kenya.

Joseph, an HIV-positive transgender woman, founder of the HIV and transgender support group Come Out Positive Test Club (COPTC), and longtime LGBTQ activist in Uganda, poses for a portrait. She says that, 15 years ago, she was kidnapped by soldiers from the Ugandan army and tortured and raped for two days, only to learn later that she had contracted HIV from the ordeal.

In the years since the bill was struck down, an uneasy stasis has become the norm in Uganda. On the one hand, the international attention generated by the bill has been a boon to the LGBTQ activists, who now have access to previously unimaginable resources. LGBTQ programs and events happen regularly in Kampala, activists travel the world, and pride celebrations are more visible than ever.

Hajjati, 22, a transgender woman and activist, poses for a portrait in her office.

And yet, even as hateful political rhetoric has cooled, low-level violence has become increasingly common, an "allergic reaction," as one activist described it, to the growing—albeit still small—presence of the LGBTQ community.

Sandra Ntebi, a longtime LGBTQ activist in Uganda, said that the threats no longer come primarily from politicians and religious leaders, but from the general population. "Our fear is society now, not the government. Anyone can do anything," she said. "Things are changing for the worse. I am one of the old activists. This is not what we dreamed of."

Young LGBTQ people gather in the bedroom of the Children of the Sun safe house. On any given night, between six and 12...