Fleeing violence and death threats, sometimes from their own families, a growing community of asylum-seeking LGBTQ Latinx immigrants are turning to one another for support and refuge
Pedro Luis Pérez Cux was just 13 when he came out to his conservative Christian family. He lived with his parents, five brothers and four sisters in the remote town of Mazatenango Suchitepéquez in southern Guatemala. He dreaded their reaction, but he couldn’t bear to conceal his identity any longer.
“It was like a bomb,” Pérez Cux recalled. “My mom told me that I couldn't continue living near my siblings because I was going to infect them with my disease.”
His mother picked up a machete and swung it at him, striking him with the tang and hurting him badly.
“She said she was ashamed of me, and she kicked me out of the house,” he said. “It was then that my life really started.”
Now 27 and living in San Francisco, he is cautiously hopeful as he awaits word on his asylum claim. Pérez Cux said the last 14 years have been excruciating — full of rejection, mistreatment and abuse.
The one thing that kept him going, he said, was a close network of those who understood the dangers he faced. “To this day I have always received support from the LGBTQ community — emotional, moral and even financial support,” he said. “There are always acts of union and love between the LGBTQ community.”
As he moved from one city to the next, Pérez Cux says he was often discriminated against because of his sexual orientation. From his own experiences being denied service at a restaurant, losing his job, and even being sexually abused by some members of the Guatemalan police, he has concluded that it is “extremely difficult” for members of the LGBTQ community to survive in Latin America.
Pérez Cux's ordeal is not unique. Among LGBTQ migrants, 88 percent were victims of sexual and gender-based violence in their countries of origin, and two-thirds suffered similar attacks in Mexico, according to a 2017 study by the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees.
“The LGBTQ community is really vulnerable,” says Jenny Villegas, a refugee project organizer at the Central American Resource Center of Los Angeles. “Every single LGBTQ asylum seeker that we've worked with has either a really terrible story of being brutally raped or almost murdered in their home countries, which is why they've had to flee.”
Despite growing acceptance of the LGBTQ community in some parts of the world, in others, tolerance has decreased or remained the same, according to a 2018 report from the Williams Institute, a think tank at UCLA School of Law. And same-sex unions are still not recognized in many countries, including Central America’s northern triangle of El Salvador, Guatemala and Honduras, according to a recent Pew Research report.
In Latin America, for the bulk of the 20th century the vast majority of the population identified as Catholic, a population that in recent years has generally become more tolerant of the rights of LGBTQ people, according to a study by the Pew Center on Religion in Latin America. At the same time, conservative Protestant groups have seen a rise in popularity, a vocal minority playing an outsize role in the perception and treatment of LGBTQ people, says Aldo Dávila, who last summer was elected as Guatemala’s first openly gay congressman.
Even as supporters celebrated Dávila’s historic win, he was bombarded with death threats because of his sexual orientation. Dávila says the growing influence of “religious fundamentalists” is largely responsible for the anti-LGBTQ sentiment in the country. “They have an enormous influence,” he said, “including Christian-evangelical groups and right-wing extremists that claim to defend family values."
Edgar Reyes, an LGBTQ refugee from Honduras who now lives in Los Angeles, says it is difficult for Latinx LGBTQ people to reveal their sexual orientation to their families when rejection is all too often a given.
“Unfortunately, most LGBTQ persons in Central America are discriminated against by their own family,” Reyes said. “Many of these people resort to suicide because they know that they do not have the support of their family.”
Suicide rates among LGBTQ Latinx people are not known because sexual orientation and gender identity are not reported in death records, but a 2013 study published in the American Journal of Public Health, based on Youth Risk Behavior Survey data, reported that “among self-identified lesbian, gay, or bisexual youths, Latinos were significantly more likely than whites to report past-year suicide attempts.”
It is difficult — and painful — for LGBTQ Latinx people to confront powerful cultural forces, often embodied by their own families, that excoriate their identity, says Arturo Castillo, a health and prevention educator with Bienestar Human Services, an LA-based nonprofit supporting Latino and LGBTQ populations.
“Families see homosexuality as something abnormal, as a punishment from God, something that should be changed,” he says.
Indeed, thousands of Central Americans who identify as members of the LGBTQ community experience rejection and mistreatment from outsiders and family alike, leaving them little recourse at home and compelling many to flee.
Historically, asylum seekers, like Pérez Cux and Reyes, have sought — and often received — asylum in the United States. But under President Donald Trump, the number of refugees admitted to the U.S. has plummeted to record lows, according to a recent Pew Research analysis. Experts say the decline of refugees admitted to the U.S. is a consequence of the strict immigration laws that the current administration has enforced. Those include “third safe country” agreements that require asylum seekers who pass through a third country to apply for status there, rather than in the U.S., and Migrant Protection Protocols.
Also known as the “remain in Mexico” policy, MPPs are “a government action in which certain foreign individuals seeking admission to the U.S. from Mexico may be returned to Mexico to wait for the duration of their immigration proceedings,” according to the U.S. Department of Homeland Security.
The agreements, implemented since 2019, are cause for concern, say asylum seekers’ defenders, who say remaining in Mexico can negatively impact immigrants’ chances of winning their cases.
“Asylum seekers who are in Mexico are going to have a hard time getting American immigration lawyers to represent them, doctors to provide expert testimony or scholars to describe the conditions in their country that support their application for asylum,” says Jean Lantz Reisz, an immigration attorney and co-director of the USC Immigration Clinic.
Asylum seekers’ immigration proceedings can take months or even years, during which time they must find food and shelter in Mexico, and according to refugee advocates, face equal or even greater danger than in their home country.
“Mexico is not a safe place for asylum seekers,” says Martin Pineda, a refugee advocate and digital communication manager at CARECEN. “We know that many people have experienced xenophobia and others have been murdered during their time there.”
The situation is even worse when it comes to LGBTQ asylum seekers who are easily identifiable.
“We know that LGBTQ immigrants’ lives are in immediate danger at all times, especially someone who is very visibly part of the community, like trans men, or trans women,” says Villegas. “Homophobia and transphobia in Central America are much the same way in Mexico.”
Pérez Cux says that he often feared for his life during the seven months he spent in Mexico awaiting his immigration hearings.
“When I was in Mexico, I learned of many trans and gay people who were sexually abused by members of the caravan,” says Pérez Cux. “Others were kidnapped or disappeared, and we did not know what happened to them.”
Reyes traveled across Mexico for about 45 days. On one occasion, he says, he was almost kidnapped. “Several people in an armed car approached our caravan while we waited for the train to take us north,” he said. “They tried to attack us and to take us as hostages. We ran and hid among the hills.”
Given the latest immigration laws and the dangers they are exposed to in Mexico, some members of the LGBTQ community have fought to create shelters to house and provide assistance to LGBTQ asylum seekers there.
Last year, Irvin Mondragón, an LGBTQ advocate from Mexico City who has accompanied Central American immigrants from the south to the north of Mexico for more than five years, founded Casa de Luz — a collective created to help and house LGBTQ asylum seekers in Tijuana.
Casa de Luz, which now offers services to more than 30 people, depends on donations from the public and the participation of volunteers to stay afloat. There, the LGBTQ asylum seekers are provided shelter, food, and legal advice while they wait for their asylum cases to be resolved.
“Asylum seekers don’t know when they are going to be called for their immigration proceedings,” says Mondragón. “People wait almost a year. They need a place to live, a support net and legal assistance … If asylum seekers present themselves to the American authorities and they make a mistake, they can easily lose their case.”
Pérez Cux met Mondragón on his way to Tijuana, where he helped many LGBTQ asylum seekers reach the border safely.
Mondragón “was concerned about gathering and looking for people of the LGBTQ community one by one,” Pérez Cux recalls. “He managed to gather a group of trans girls and gays and lesbians and helped us arrive safely in Tijuana.”
Once he arrived at the border, Pérez Cux says that thanks to Mondragón he already had a place to live and was welcomed by the Casa de Luz LGBTQ volunteers, who helped him with his asylum claim until he turned himself in to the American authorities.
Yasdy Sánchez, a transwoman asylum seeker from Cuba, says she received help at Casa Arcoiris, an LGBTQ shelter in Tijuana that has housed more than 250 LGBTQ immigrants since 2018, according to their website.
“From day one, they took good care of us. They looked for us at the bus terminal and received us with a lot of love and affection,” says Sánchez. “At Casa Arcoiris, they take care of you in an inexplicable way… people from the community know what we live and what we go through, so they focus on making us feel loved and safe.”
According to the latest International Organization for Migration directory, which is affiliated with the United Nations, 88 shelters accommodate LGBTQ asylum seekers in Mexico. However, informal shelters such as Casa de Luz and Casa Arcoiris have been created for and by members of the LGBTQ community in recent years to serve the increasing need for safe and welcoming spaces for LGBTQ migrants in Mexico.
But LGBTQ support doesn’t stop at the border. Reyes, who was in the Otay Mesa Detention Center in San Diego for almost half a year, says that while he was in the center members of the LGBTQ community unified to help and support each other.
He says that when he was at the detention center he and other members of the LGBTQ community were “mistreated, discriminated against by the officers, and pointed out because of their sexual orientation.” Reyes says that he witnessed the death of an LGBTQ woman who did not have access to her HIV treatment while in detention.
Concerned about the situation at the Otay Mesa Detention Facility, Reyes and other LGBTQ asylum seekers united to fight for their rights.
“We created an LGBTQ group in the detention center and like that we became stronger,” Reyes said. “We went on hunger strikes to defend our rights, and we expressed our concerns at the detention center.”
The group of 11, says Reyes, was able to gain the attention of the media and of organizations that defend immigrant rights in the U.S. The media spoke about the situation of the LGBTQ asylum seekers in the detention center and their petitions for a fair treatment went viral. After that, Reyes says officials in the detention center respected their rights.
“We tried to leave that legacy and we believe that effort has to remain because if we — the LGBTQ community — are not fighting for our rights, then nobody else is going to do it,” Reyes said.
Now that he has been granted asylum, Reyes says his goal is to keep defending the rights of the LGBTQ immigrant community inside and outside the detention centers.
Richard Rocha, a U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement spokesperson, says ICE treats people across the board equally and the organization provides LGBTQ immigrants with special assistance when they need it.
“We have LGBT coordinators in each of our field offices who have been trained to identify the issues people of that community might have,” Rocha said. “They make sure that if there is a situation in which the LGBTQ community needs special assistance, they get it.”
According to the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement website, transgender individuals and members of the LGBTQ community, like other detainees, have access to counseling, mental and physical health services while they are in detention.
Rocha says ICE also makes sure that detainees “receive the appropriate medications that they might need while they are in detention.” And he added that it is “a managed care system that ICE does for everybody.”
While Reyes' experience at a detention center was negative, Cosvi Gabriela Nataren Alvarado, an LGBTQ asylum seeker from Honduras, says her experience at the San Isidro Detention Center was good. She says that when she turned herself in to the American authorities she was treated with respect, and she received the support she needed from ICE.
“At the detention center, they provided me with psychological support. I wasn’t afraid of the ICE officers. I told them I needed help and they gave it to me,” says Nataren Alvarado. “In Honduras, I was abused and mistreated by the authorities, but here they have helped me a lot.”
As she awaits word for her asylum claim in Los Angeles, Nataren Alvarado says she is thankful for the American authorities and the people who have supported her since she was released from the detention center last year.
The needs of asylum seekers do not end when they are released from detention or when they are granted asylum in the U.S. In order to be released from a detention facility, asylum seekers need to prove that they have a place to live and someone to care for them until they are allowed to legally work in the U.S.
“One of the biggest obstacles for asylum seekers is finding sponsors and housing,” says Pineda, “Asylum seekers are not allowed to have a work permit while their cases are pending or for some time after they have been granted asylum.”
Asylum seekers often find shelter in their relatives’ homes, but for LGBTQ immigrants that is frequently a problem.
Reyes, who was granted asylum in the U.S. in 2018, was released from the Otay Mesa Detention Center with scant support or information. He says that an LGBTQ organization in New York provided housing for three months, after which he was on his own.
Reyes contacted his father, who lives in Los Angeles, and booked a flight. When he arrived, a harsh but familiar truth awaited him.
“Unfortunately, my father didn’t accept me because I am gay,” Reyes recalled. ”He discovered that, and he left me, dumped at the airport.”
Struggling to get by, Reyes nearly became homeless. Still, Villegas says Reyes was lucky. Many asylum seekers who don’t have the support of their families lose their cases — they are required to pay a bond to be released from detention centers or are sent back to their home countries because they don’t have a place to go in the United States. Reyes was able to win his case almost by himself, which is uncommon, and to survive in the U.S. until he was able to work legally.
“Because Edgar didn't have anyone to receive him, he had to stay in the detention center until there was a decision on his case. That’s a miracle of God,” says Villegas. “I say that because it's really hard to win asylum. He won his case and that's why he was released.”
Immigration attorney Lantz Reisz agrees with Villegas. She says most people need sponsors to be able to leave a detention facility, but “it’s illegal for someone who's been granted asylum not to be released.”
However, when people like Reyes do not have a sponsor to support them, they become easy targets. “It's a journey, and it's not over once you get asylum,” says Lantz Reisz, “Refugees are left without any resources for about six months. If they don't have a family who supports them, then they're lost in the system again.”
Refugee advocates on both sides of the border know the difficulties asylum seekers endure even after they have been released from detention centers, or been granted asylum in the United States. For that reason, organizations like CARECEN in the U.S. and Casa de Luz in Mexico often seek ways to support asylum seekers in the U.S. even before they turn themselves to the American authorities.
Pérez Cux, who was in detention for almost half a year, had the support of Victor H. Floyd, an LGBTQ pastor in San Francisco who volunteers for CARECEN.
Floyd and his husband Lou Grosso have helped Pérez Cux since he was in Tijuana. From paying for his flight from San Diego to San Francisco, to giving him legal support and providing him with food, shelter and even a family.
“Victor and Lou are amazing, with them I feel like I am home, like I have a family,” says Pérez Cux, “I am calm and at peace. I am happy and free.”
Floyd left Decatur, his home city in Georgia, to live a safer life in California because of his sexual orientation. He says that when he met Pérez Cux while volunteering at Casa de Luz in Tijuana, he identified with him and he couldn't resist helping him.
“When I met Peter, it just seemed like God was at work,” Floyd said. “Helping him was the obvious thing for me to do.”
Now, as Pérez Cux waits for his asylum case to be resolved, Floyd says he and his husband are very happy to have him home.
“We're just so honored to be able to help somebody, and you know, it's easy, especially someone like Peter,” Floys said. “He is polite and friendly and loving and patient with my Spanish, although sometimes he looks like, ‘Oh, God. Victor is going to speak Spanish again.’”