The passage of Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Act in 2023 made life significantly more dangerous for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) people and those who support them. The law, which includes the death penalty for so-called “aggravated homosexuality” and lengthy prison sentences for the “promotion of homosexuality,” has fueled a wave of arrests, raids on shelters, evictions, and public outings. Many LGBT people have gone into hiding.
Amid this repression, a small group of Ugandan mothers—some for the first time—began speaking publicly in support of their LGBT children.
In April 2023, eight of them signed an open letter to President Yoweri Museveni, urging him not to assent to the bill. They wrote: “We are not promoters of any agenda; we are Ugandan mothers who have had to overcome many of our own biases to fully understand, accept, and love our children.” They called on the president to protect all children from violence and discrimination.
He signed the bill anyway.
But the mothers did not retreat.
During 2024, Human Rights Watch met with several of these mothers in Uganda’s capital, Kampala, and the neighboring Wakiso district. In a country where public support for LGBT rights is rare and potentially criminalized, these mothers are leading with clarity, compassion, and conviction. Their stories illustrate the human cost of Uganda’s anti-LGBT laws and the quiet courage of the mothers who resist them out of love for their children.
Mama Joseph
One of the first to speak was Mama Joseph, a mother of five. Her eldest child, Joseph, now 26, identifies as gender-nonconforming. At 17, Joseph came out to their mother, saying they felt like a girl and was attracted to boys. The conversation was painful and confusing. “I cried a lot,” she said. “I knew my child was different. But it was hard.”
Like many parents, her initial reaction was to try to change her child. She sent Joseph to live with relatives, hoping they would help “correct” them. But as Joseph became depressed, Mama Joseph realized the move only caused more harm. Eventually, she brought Joseph home. “There is nothing you can do except harm,” when you try to make a child conform, she reflected. And as Joseph’s mother, she realized “No one is going to support them except me.”
Unfortunately, that support now comes with significant risk after the passage of the Anti-Homosexuality Act. Joseph lives in near-constant fear that is also affecting Mama Joseph. Simply being visible as a gender-nonconforming person can attract harassment or worse. The heated media attention on the law has created increased anxiety for LGBT people and the people who love them. “Whenever they talk about LGBT people, something bad is coming,” Mama Joseph said. But her position is clear: “No law will change my love for my child.”
Mama Denise
Mama Dennis, a woman in her late 40s, shared a similar journey. Her daughter, Dennis, is a 24-year-old transgender woman. From a young age, Dennis expressed herself in ways that challenged gender norms. She preferred dresses to trousers and loved playing with her sisters’ clothes. At 10, she entered a modeling contest against girls and won. Her mother remembers her confidence and strength.
In 2020, during the Covid-19 lockdown, when a morality-related crime happened near Dennis’s home, her neighbors took the opportunity to report Dennis’s gender expression and sexual orientation to police, even though they knew Dennis was not involved in the crime. The authorities then arrested Dennis and falsely accused her of other crimes. Her mother confronted the community directly, especially the men. “I asked them, ‘Has my child slept with any of you?’ They were embarrassed. I did not care.”
Today, because of the Anti-Homosexuality Act, Dennis is in hiding again. She no longer comes home to visit, and her absence left a silence in the house. “I miss her joy,” her mother said. “But I will keep defending her. Our children are not criminals.”
For these mothers, the law has brought not only fear, but also clarity. “This law shows us that we are not equal,” said Mama Dennis. “Our government is angry. They should use that energy to fight discrimination, not our kids.”
Mama Arthur
Mama Arthur, a mother of five, has lived a different kind of struggle. Her eldest child, Arthur, was arrested in 2014 under Uganda’s previous anti-homosexuality law. Since then, Arthur has been in hiding, and their communication is limited and secretive. The real battle, though, has been at home. Her husband—Arthur’s father—has never accepted their child. “He constantly blames me,” she said. “He harasses me for having given birth to a cursed child.”
Her marriage has become a space of daily conflict. “I live like a single mom with a husband,” she said. “But I appreciate my kid very much. I accept Arthur the way they are.” She wants religious leaders, many of whom have supported the Anti-Homosexuality Act, to reconsider their messaging. “If you are a person of faith, you should preach love, not hate.”
More Mamas
The other mothers—Mama Rihanna, Mama Joshua, and Mama Hajjat—faced public scrutiny after their children were arrested in 2016 and 2022 respectively. The widespread national media coverage that followed, which included their children’s names, faces, and alleged offenses, had devastating consequences for the families. Each mother had to navigate the fallout alone.
One sold her only cow to pay legal fees and secure her child’s release. Another was forced to relocate after her neighbors turned hostile. The third hid her daughter from an abusive husband. In each case, the family’s safety, finances, and reputation were upended overnight.
Yet these mothers remain steadfast. “Sexuality doesn’t matter,” said Mama Hajjat, now in her 50s. And so she sheltered her daughter through the worst of the backlash. Over time, even her husband began to soften. “He saw what our daughter went through, what she was capable of. He started to change.”
For Mama Joshua, the issue is deeply political. “Our kids are the easiest target,” she said. “But they are not the problem.” She believes the government is scapegoating LGBT people to distract from broader governance failures. “None of this will bring jobs. It won’t build roads. It won’t feed children. It’s all distraction.”
There is evidence to support this claim. Anti-LGBT rhetoric in Uganda, as in other countries, often intensifies in moments of political or economic pressure. Leaders use moral panic to consolidate power, mobilize popular support, and deflect criticism. The Anti-Homosexuality Act, introduced and passed amidst corruption scandals and ahead of a critical election cycle, has served that purpose. But its cost—measured in fear, violence, and exile—is borne disproportionately by LGBT people and those who love them.
The mothers interviewed by Human Rights Watch are affiliated with PFLAG-Uganda, a social intervention project under Chapter Four Uganda’s Diversity Equity and Inclusion program. They do not identify as activists. Most are deeply religious, and several attend church or mosque regularly. Some are afraid of the consequences of speaking out. But none regret standing by their children.
They have formed quiet networks of solidarity since 2019, meeting regurlarly, sharing social advice and comforting one another when children disappear or flee the country. They know they are not alone, even if the state tries to isolate them.
“We are mothers,” said Mama Dennis. “We know our children. We love them.”
Their voices are clear and consistent. Some have spoken on community radio or attended court hearings. Others write letters, make phone calls, or otherwise simply refuse to abandon their children.
And their numbers are growing, with the support of Clare Byarugaba, the founder of PLFAG-Uganda.
Their message, despite everything, remains rooted in hope: That love can coexist with fear, that understanding can overcome indoctrination, and that change—however slow—is possible. “People can learn,” said one mother. “It is a matter of time.”
In Uganda, the public space for human rights has narrowed dramatically. But these women are carving out space in the most personal realm: the home. They are challenging political violence not through protest, but through presence. Through consistency. Through care.
Their resistance may not be visible on the streets, but it is steady. Their choice to love their children—and say so publicly—is both deeply personal and inherently political.
“I could never stop loving my child,” one mother said again, without hesitation.
And she never will.
