On a bustling street in Dakar, “K.” appears indistinguishable from any other pedestrian. He moves with purpose, phone in hand, exchanging greetings with acquaintances. Outwardly, nothing seems amiss. Yet, every action is carefully considered. “Here, you must know how to protect yourself,” he confides.
While his incarceration occurred on February 14th, this information only recently came to light. A French citizen in his thirties, a resident of Dakar, was apprehended during a series of arrests targeting individuals accused of homosexual acts.
He faces charges including “acts against nature,” criminal association, money laundering, and attempted transmission of HIV.
This arrest took place amidst parliamentary debates on a new law, which was ultimately passed in early March, now imposing prison sentences of five to ten years for homosexual relations. This incident also occurred within a climate of “heightened repression,” with dozens of daily detentions recorded since the legislation’s enactment.
Paris has voiced its concerns, reaffirming its commitment to the universal decriminalization of homosexuality and its support for those facing discrimination under Senegal’s new law. French diplomatic sources indicate that the French Embassy in Dakar is closely monitoring the situation and that the French citizen has received visits from consular officials.
K. is gay. In a nation where homophobia remains deeply ingrained, simply living authentically is far from straightforward.
In Senegal, acts of defiance don’t always involve public slogans or protests. More often, resistance manifests in subtle ways. Through barely perceptible gestures. In what is spoken… and, crucially, in what remains unsaid.
In his neighborhood, K. has mastered the art of reading between the lines – the silences, the glances, the unspoken implications. “You quickly grasp what you can or cannot say.” Like many, he adapts. He navigates. One life here, another elsewhere. Homosexuality is largely associated with social disgrace, and the repercussions are very real.
In a discreet Dakar apartment, “M.” speaks in hushed tones, glancing reflexively towards 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 tapestry of precautions. At work, certain topics are avoided. Within his family, he maintains a carefully constructed persona. “I know what I can say and to whom.” This mental gymnastics has become second nature.
Yet, in safer, more private spaces, conversations flow. Groups gather. They discuss. They offer mutual support. They share experiences, but also delve into matters of rights, justice, and dignity. Not always openly. But enough for something vital to endure.
For M., resistance is not spectacular. It resides in a simple refusal: to consider his life illegitimate.
Awa, a nurse, is not directly affected, but she has made a clear decision in her health center: she will not pass judgment. “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 view herself as an activist. Nevertheless, in the current climate, her stance is anything but neutral.
In another district, “I.” recalls a neighbor accused of homosexuality. The rumor quickly escalated, followed by violence: insults, threats, and social exclusion.
“I realized it could happen to anyone.”
Since then, he remains wary, but not only that. He listens differently. And occasionally, he intervenes. A comment. A question. Nothing confrontational. It may not be much… but it is a start.
Resistance in the quiet spaces
Aminata, a student, is not directly concerned, but she refuses to remain silent. One day, confronted with hateful remarks, she responded calmly. “I said that everyone should live their own life.” The ensuing silence left an impression on her. “It unsettled them.” Such moments don’t change everything, but they create a subtle crack.
The writer Fatou Diome frequently reminds us that societies are never static. They evolve, sometimes slowly, sometimes imperceptibly. Thinking for oneself, she suggests, remains a form of courage.
For his part, Mohamed Mbougar Sarr, a Senegalese writer and winner of the Prix Goncourt in 2021, views literature as a realm of freedom. A place where certainties can waver, where dominant narratives can be challenged.
Resistance here doesn’t always take an organized form. It slips into the quiet spaces. Into professional practices. Into friendships. And also, into silences. Some choose not to amplify hatred. Others protect, listen, and support. Nothing spectacular. But these actions matter. They open up spaces. Fragile, but real.
Ultimately, the principle is simple: every individual deserves dignity and respect. This seems obvious, yet it is not always so. Resisting homophobia in Senegal often means accepting discomfort. It means going against the current. Sometimes discreetly. Sometimes almost invisibly.
K., M., Awa, Aminata, I., and many others do not necessarily claim to be activists. Yet, their choices hold weight. Slowly, they shift the boundaries. Courage here is not dramatic. It is daily. And often silent.
Seneplus (Dakar)