In a bustling street of Dakar, nothing outwardly distinguishes “K.” from the other pedestrians. He walks swiftly, phone in hand, greeting acquaintances as he passes. On the surface, everything appears normal. Yet, every move is calculated. “Here, one must know how to protect oneself,” he confides.
His incarceration dates back to February 14th, but the information only recently became public. A French citizen in his thirties, residing in Dakar, was apprehended during a wave of arrests targeting individuals accused of homosexuality.
He faces charges including “acts against nature,” criminal association, money laundering, and attempted HIV transmission.
This arrest occurred amidst parliamentary discussions for a new law, passed in early March, which now stipulates five to ten years imprisonment for homosexual relations. This legislation also coincides with a period of intensified repression, with dozens of daily arrests reported since its enactment. French diplomatic sources indicate that the French Embassy in Dakar is closely monitoring the situation, and the detained French citizen has received visits from consular officials. Paris has reiterated its commitment to the universal decriminalization of homosexuality and its support for those discriminated against by Senegal’s new law.
K. is gay. In a nation where homophobia remains deeply entrenched, simply living authentically is far from straightforward.
In Senegal, resistance doesn’t always manifest through slogans or public demonstrations. More often, it plays out in other ways: in barely perceptible gestures, in what is said, and especially in what remains unspoken.
In his neighborhood, K. has learned to interpret subtle cues—the silences, the glances, the unspoken implications. “You quickly understand what you can or cannot say.” Like many, he adapts. He navigates a dual existence: one life here, another elsewhere. Homosexuality is largely associated with social disgrace, and the consequences are very real.
Inside a discreet Dakar apartment, “M.” speaks in hushed tones. He instinctively glances toward the door. “Here, you always have to be careful.” His story is not unique; that, precisely, is the problem.
“She will not judge”
M.’s daily life is a series of precautions. At work, certain topics are avoided. Within his family, he maintains a facade. “I know what I can say and to whom.” This constant mental gymnastics has become second nature.
Yet, in other, safer spaces, conversations flow freely. Groups gather, discuss their experiences, and offer mutual support. They talk about lived realities, but also about rights, justice, and dignity. Not always openly, but enough to sustain a sense of community.
For M., resistance is not spectacular. It lies in a simple refusal: to consider his life illegitimate.
Awa is not directly impacted. She is a nurse. But in her health center, she has made a clear decision: she will not judge. “I’ve seen patients who no longer dared to come,” she explains. Some arrive too late; others withhold crucial information, complicating their care.
So, she adapts. She listens. She chooses her words carefully. It may seem minor, but sometimes, it is decisive. She doesn’t see herself as an activist. However, in the current climate, her stance is far from neutral.
In another neighborhood, “I.” recalls a neighbor accused of homosexuality. Swiftly, rumors escalated, followed by violence: insults, threats, and ostracization.
“I realized that could happen to anyone.”
Since then, he has become wary, but also more observant. He listens differently, and occasionally intervenes—a remark, a question, nothing confrontational. It may seem small, but it’s a start.
Resistance in the interstices
Aminata, a student, is not directly affected, but she refuses to remain silent. One day, confronted with violent remarks, she responded calmly. “I said that everyone should live their own life.” The ensuing silence left a lasting impression. “It caused discomfort.” Such moments don’t change everything, but they create fissures.
The writer Fatou Diome often reminds us that societies are never static. They evolve, sometimes slowly, sometimes quietly. Thinking for oneself, she suggests, remains a form of courage.
For his part, the Senegalese writer Mohamed Mbougar Sarr, a Goncourt Prize laureate, views literature as a space of freedom. A place where certainties can waver, where dominant narratives can be questioned.
Resistance here doesn’t always take an organized form. It slips into the spaces between, into professional practices, into friendships, and even into silences. Some choose not to amplify hate. Others protect, listen, and accompany. Nothing spectacular, but these actions matter. They open fragile, yet real, spaces.
Ultimately, the idea is simple: every individual deserves dignity and respect. This may seem obvious, but it isn’t always. Resisting homophobia in Senegal often means accepting discomfort, going against the current, sometimes discreetly, sometimes almost invisibly.
K., M., Awa, Aminata, I., and many others may not claim to be activists. Yet, their choices have weight. Slowly, they shift the boundaries. Courage here is not spectacular; it is daily, and often silent.
