From conversion therapy in Colombia to a new life in Britain, one gay asylum seeker’s story of finding freedom (EXCLUSIVE)

I grew up in Colombia, a country full of music, colour and warmth, but also deeply shaped by religion and traditional ideas about masculinity. In many families, religion is not simply a personal belief; it influences how people raise their children, make decisions and define what they consider acceptable. In my case, it shaped almost my entire childhood. From a young age, the people around me noticed that I was ‘different’. I preferred spending time with girls; my behaviour wasn’t considered manly enough and didn’t fit the expectations others had of how a boy should behave.

When I was around 12 or 13, my mother discovered that I was following pages of shirtless men on Facebook. For my family, that confirmed something they feared: that I might be gay.

Praying the gay away

What followed was presented as help; they took me to religious “meetings” and conversion therapy sessions designed to “correct” me. At the time I was a child and had no real capacity to understand or decide what was happening. During these sessions, they made me repeat phrases for hours, pray constantly and fast, because they believed this would weaken what they called “the demon of homosexuality”. Some of these practices included physical punishment and electroconvulsive therapy in water. It was all presented as an act of love.

Over the years, I came to understand that survival often meant hiding. I became extremely conscious of how I spoke, walked and moved. I avoided gestures that people considered ‘feminine’, even simple things like putting my hands on my hips when speaking. I was constantly monitoring myself because I realised that standing out had consequences.

Forcing uncomfortable heterosexual ideals

By the age of 15, the people around me believed I was already ‘cured’. I attended a religious school where, every Friday afternoon, the chaplain would call me into his office. He would ask me questions about girls and what I found attractive in women, trying to push me towards heterosexuality and asking questions that I felt were inappropriate for a teenager. At the end of each conversation, he would read me passages from the Bible, often in ways that made me feel ashamed of who I was.

Every few months, I was also sent to religious camps that promised freedom and spiritual transformation. Years later, I met people who had gone through similar experiences and were left with depression and lasting psychological damage.

Is Colombia safe for LGBTQ+ people

In 2024, Colombia attempted to pass a law banning conversion therapy, but the proposal did not succeed. For many LGBTQ+ people, these experiences continue to exist hidden behind religion, family expectations and silence. Sometimes I feel there is a huge gap between Colombia’s international image and the everyday reality that many of us in the LGBTQ+ community experience there. On paper, Colombia may seem a progressive and “LGBT-friendly” country, particularly because certain legal rights exist and because cities like Bogotá have areas renowned for their LGBTQ+ scene. But living there is different from reading about it in a report.

During my asylum interview, I remember the interviewer asking me why I didn’t simply live in Bogotá’s “gay neighbourhood”, because supposedly it was safe there. That question struck me deeply. It made me think: does that mean I can only live, work or exist within a specific small space? That I must limit my entire life to certain places to be safe?

I should be able to move freely throughout my country without fear.

And although I know that coming from Bogotá may have given me more opportunities than many LGBTQ+ people living in rural or isolated areas, that does not mean I was truly protected. Even in areas considered modern or privileged, rejection, harassment and violence still exist.

Dating as a gay man in Colombia

In Colombia, there are also cases of gay men being attacked or murdered after being contacted via dating apps. Often, these crimes do not even receive proper attention or investigation. For many LGBTQ+ people, especially gay men, using an app to meet someone also involves constantly assessing the risk.

Despite everything, I never completely lost my faith. What changed was my way of understanding God. For years I was taught that love and acceptance was conditional. Over time, I came to believe that God is love, and that my worth does not depend on whom I love.

When I was 17, my grandmother discovered that I was chatting to another man online. I was kicked out of the house almost immediately. I had nowhere to go and no financial independence. The only people who seemed willing to help me were members of the church, but the message was always the same: it was all my fault and I needed to pray more.

A first love

At that time, I had just started university. Studying became one of the few things that gave me hope for a future. For several years I lived with friends and distant relatives until finally one of my aunts gave me a place to stay.

University also brought me my first experience of love. I met another man and, for the first time, felt what it was like to be seen and understood. But even then, fear was never far away. We were harassed in public spaces several times simply for being together. On one occasion, a man started shouting at us for holding hands in a car park, accusing us of being “perverts” in front of children. Security staff checked the CCTV footage and found no inappropriate behaviour, but the humiliation and hostility stayed with me.

On another occasion, a relative discovered I was using Tinder. They printed out screenshots of my profile and physically assaulted me. I remember running out into the street late at night, bleeding and in shock, with nowhere safe to go. That night I slept rough.

LGBTQ+ incidents dealt by the police

When I later went to the police, they said things like: “I can’t see any injuries” and “there are people who have worse things happen to them”. My report was never really taken seriously. That experience reinforced something I had learnt many times before: even when LGBTQ+ people seek protection, they are often expected to endure violence in silence.

Leaving Colombia was neither a dream nor an adventure. It was a decision marked by exhaustion, fear and the need to survive emotionally.

The start of my asylum process in the UK was also full of uncertainty. I spent several months waiting for my first interview without really knowing what was going to happen to me. During that time, I received letters from the Home Office telling me I would be transferred to Napier Barracks, a large former military site.

Trying to survive

That was very difficult for me and made me feel anxious. My partner was in London and I was only just beginning to build a small community in a country where I knew no one. I had already spent practically all my savings and often walked long distances because I couldn’t afford transport. The idea of being sent to an isolated place caused me a great deal of distress. I felt that after spending years in hiding and trying to survive, I was finally starting to form real human connections and feeling less alone.

I kept asking myself: if they sent me far away, in the middle of nowhere, who was I going to socialise with? How was I ever going to build a life or a support network?

Applying for asylum in the UK

Fortunately, after several months I received my permission to remain in the UK. I know people who have been stuck in the process for years, and I believe the Home Office should carry out reform – that’s no way to live.

Applying for asylum was incredibly difficult, and living with the stigma isn’t easy either. The process can feel isolating and dehumanising, especially when you have to explain such painful and personal experiences. But over time, I also began to rebuild parts of myself that I had spent years repressing.

Today I have a boyfriend. And although for many people that may seem like a simple thing, for me it represents a freedom that for years I thought I would never have. I no longer feel afraid to hold his hand in public. I went to university in the UK and, for the first time, I’m in places where nobody asks me strange questions if they find out that I have a partner or that I live with him. I don’t have to constantly justify who I am or feel that my existence makes others uncomfortable.

A life changing move

For the first time in my life, I began to imagine what it would be like to exist without constantly having to watch who I am.

The UK isn’t perfect, but for me it has meant something that once seemed impossible: the chance to live with dignity and without hiding. To be able to have a normal life, to love and build a life without feeling that my sexual orientation automatically makes me a problem. Here I can move freely, go wherever I want and be with the person I love without feeling like I have to hide in order to survive.

Today, I still carry many of those experiences with me. But I also carry resilience, creativity and hope. Sharing my story is not about presenting myself as a victim. It is about showing the reality that many LGBTQ+ people still face behind closed doors, often in the name of religion, family or morality.

For years, I learnt to disappear.
Now I am learning to exist without fear.