As 2025 comes to an end and Christmas approaches, homes across Africa fill with familiar rhythms. Families gather, church choirs rise in harmony, markets glow with festive brightness. For many, this is a season of joy and belonging. But for those displaced, marginalized, or erased, this season brings a different kind of reflection. A quieter, more complicated one.
I write this from Gorom Refugee Settlement Camp in South Sudan, where I live alongside more than 500+ LGBTQI+ refugees and asylum seekers. We have fled Uganda, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Burundi, Somalia, and other nations not because of drought or war, but because of identity. Because we dared to love openly. Because we sought to live truthfully in societies where our existence is criminalized. Because silence was killing us, and speaking out made us targets.
This Christmas, I want to speak not only about our suffering, but also about our humanity. About what it means to be human in a world that continually denies that humanity. And I want to offer a message of hope, grounded in the humanist values that carry us forward.
Humanism: A Philosophy of Radical Empathy
At its heart, humanism asserts that every person has inherent worth and dignity. It calls us to act with compassion, reason, and justice. It rejects superstition and fear, and instead embraces human agency and ethical responsibility. In a continent where religious extremism and political violence often shape public life, humanism offers a compass rooted in shared humanity rather than dogma.
For those of us pushed out by churches, disowned by families, and hunted by governments, humanism is not an abstract idea. It is a lifeline. It is the reminder that we matter—not because a scripture dictates it, but because we exist. Because we feel, hope, and love. Because we are human.
Here in the camp, where resources are scarce and optimism is often fragile, humanism shows up in the smallest acts. The meal shared between neighbours, the friend who listens through the night, the hand that reaches out when despair feels overwhelming. In these moments, we reclaim our dignity. We resist the dehumanization that displacement so often brings.
Christmas Without a Country
For many, Christmas symbolizes home. It is a return to tradition, to familiar songs and familiar faces. But what is Christmas when you have no home to return to? When your family has disowned you? When your traditions have been used to condemn you?
In Gorom, Christmas is quiet. There are no decorated trees, no gift-laden tables, no candlelit services. Instead, we gather under the open sky or in simple shelters. We cook what little we can. We sing songs of memory and survival. We share stories of escape, of endurance, of love found in unexpected places.
These gatherings are more than celebrations – they are acts of resistance. In a world that insists we do not belong, we create belonging. In a world determined to erase us, we write ourselves back into the narrative.
Christmas, for us, is not about the birth of a saviour. It is about the rebirth of hope. It is about imagining a world where no one is persecuted for who they are. It is about building community from the fragments of exile.
The Politics of Exclusion & the Power of Solidarity
The persecution of LGBTQI+ people across Africa is not an accident. It is systematic. It is upheld by colonial-era laws, hardened by religious fundamentalism, and manipulated by politicians who weaponize fear.
In Uganda, where I was born, the 2023 Anti-Homosexuality Act unleashed terror. Friends were arrested. Some were beaten. Others disappeared. I received death threats. I fled to survive.
But exile did not silence me – it shaped me. In South Sudan, I became a community organizer, a writer, and an advocate. I began documenting queer refugee life. Our struggles, yes, but also our joys, our laughter, our dreams. I wrote essays for this journal, insisting that our voices be heard. I built networks of solidarity across borders, connecting with people who refused to look away.
For me, humanism is not simply a worldview. It is a call to action. It demands that we confront injustice wherever it lives. It demands that we centre the marginalized. It demands that we build a world where dignity is not a privilege, but a birthright.
The Humanists Who Walk With Us
In this fight, we have not walked alone. Humanists across Africa and beyond have stood beside us publishing our stories, amplifying our voices, and offering support that sustains us through the harsh realities of camp life.
These humanists have advocated for our safety, guided us with knowledge, and most importantly listened. In a world that tries to silence queer refugees, they made space for us. And that act of witnessing is transformative. It heals, it affirms, it reminds us that we are not invisible.
Some of these humanists are known by name; others work in quiet, powerful ways. All of them make our survival possible. I want to honour the African Humanist Journal team writers, editors, and readers who have always welcomed our voices. I’m grateful to Shaun Martinez for unwavering solidarity. And I want to recognize Hank Pelliser of Humanist Mutual Aid, whose support has reached us in the moments we needed it most. These individuals embody the best of humanism. They do not merely speak of justice they practice it daily.
Lessons from the Camp
Refugee life teaches many lessons. It teaches patience. It teaches resilience. But above all, it teaches the meaning of community.
In Gorom, we have built a queer community out of displacement. We support each other emotionally, spiritually, and materially. We organize mental health circles and legal rights orientations. We advocate for relocation (safe pathways) and protection. We celebrate our identities even when the world commands us to hide. This is humanism in action.
It’s not perfect. We experience tensions, divisions, and despair. But we also experience love, joy, and the unbreakable belief that we deserve a better future and that we can build it together.
A Call to Humanists Across Africa and beyond
To my fellow humanists: we need you. We need your voices, your platforms, and your solidarity. We need you to speak out against anti-LGBTQI+ laws. We need you to support queer refugees not only through words, but through action. We need you to challenge the religious and political ideologies that fuel hatred.
Humanism is not neutral. It is not passive. It is a commitment to justice. And justice demands standing with the most vulnerable.
This Christmas, let your humanism be loud. Let it be visible. Let it be a beacon to those still trapped in silence and fear.
As 2025 Draws to a Close
As 2026 approaches, I carry both grief and hope. Grief for those we have lost those who died in exile, those denied asylum, those who vanished without a trace. But hope too. Hope that hearts are changing, that more people are awakening to our humanity, that justice is more than a dream.
I imagine a future where no one is forced to flee their home because of who they are. A future where refugee camps are replaced by inclusive communities. A future where human rights are guaranteed, not negotiated. This is the future I fight for. This is the future I write for. This is the future we must build together.
A Reflection to End With
Christmas is often spoken of as a season of miracles. But miracles will not save us. We must be the miracle. We must open our doors to the outcast. We must confront the systems that oppress. We must choose love over fear, justice over silence, and solidarity over indifference.
To every queer person reading this especially those in exile or silenced, I see you. I believe in you. You are not alone.
To every humanist, ally, and advocate thank you. Keep speaking. Keep building. Keep standing with us.
And to the world: may this Christmas be a turning point. May it be the season we choose humanity.
By Abraham K. Junior