On a bustling street in Dakar, K. blends seamlessly into the crowd. He walks briskly, phone in hand, greeting acquaintances along the way. Nothing about him stands out—yet everything feels calculated. “Here, you have to know how to protect yourself,” he admits.
A French citizen in his thirties, residing in Dakar, was arrested on February 14 during a wave of crackdowns targeting homosexuals. The arrest, though recently disclosed, has sent shockwaves through the community.
The charges include “unnatural acts,” criminal association, money laundering, and attempted transmission of HIV. This crackdown coincides with parliamentary discussions on a new law passed in early March, which now imposes prison sentences of five to ten years for same-sex relations.
Since the law’s adoption, reports indicate a surge in arrests, with dozens of individuals detained daily. France has responded by reaffirming its commitment to universal decriminalization of homosexuality, expressing support for those impacted by Senegal’s new legislation. Diplomatic sources confirm that the French Embassy in Dakar is closely monitoring the situation, with consular officials visiting the detained national.
K. is gay. In a country where deep-seated homophobia persists, simply living an authentic life is far from straightforward.
In Senegal, resistance doesn’t always manifest in protests or public declarations. Often, it unfolds in subtle ways—in unspoken gestures, in what is said and, crucially, what is left unsaid.
In his neighborhood, K. has learned to read between the lines—the silences, the sideways glances, the veiled hints. “You quickly learn what you can and cannot say.” Like many others, he adapts, compartmentalizing his life. One existence here, another elsewhere. Homosexuality remains heavily stigmatized, and the consequences are all too real.
In a discreet apartment in Dakar, M. speaks in hushed tones, instinctively glancing at the door. “You always have to be careful,” he explains. His story is unremarkable—and that’s precisely the issue. His daily routine is a series of precautions: avoiding certain topics at work, playing a role at family gatherings. “I know what I can say and to whom.” This careful navigation has become second nature.
Yet, in safer spaces, voices find their way. Small groups gather to share experiences, discuss rights, justice, and dignity—not always openly, but enough to keep hope alive. For M., resistance isn’t about grand gestures. It’s a quiet refusal to accept that his life is illegitimate.
Awa, a nurse, isn’t directly affected, but she refuses to pass judgment. “I’ve seen patients who stopped coming,” she says. Some arrive too late. Others hide critical details, complicating their care. She adapts by listening carefully, choosing her words with caution. Though she doesn’t see herself as an activist, her actions carry weight in this climate of fear.
In another district, I. recalls a neighbor accused of homosexuality. Rumors spread like wildfire, followed by violence—insults, threats, social ostracization.
“I realized it could happen to anyone.”Since then, he’s grown more cautious but also more attentive, occasionally intervening with a remark or a question—small acts, but meaningful ones.
Resistance in the shadows
Aminata, a university student, isn’t personally affected, but she refuses to stay silent. One day, she calmly challenged a hateful remark: “I told them everyone deserves to live their own life.” The stunned silence that followed lingered with her. “It unsettled them.” Such moments don’t change everything, but they crack the surface.
Writer Fatou Diome often reminds us that societies are never static—they evolve, sometimes imperceptibly. Thinking for oneself, she argues, is its own form of courage.
Novelist Mohamed Mbougar Sarr, winner of the 2021 Goncourt Prize, sees literature as a space of liberation—a place where dominant narratives can be questioned and certainties shaken.
Resistance here isn’t always organized. It thrives in the margins—in professional practices, friendships, and even silences. Some choose not to amplify hatred. Others protect, listen, and support. These actions may seem small, but they open fragile yet tangible spaces. The unspoken truth? Every individual deserves dignity and respect. It’s simple in theory, but far from guaranteed in practice.
K., M., Awa, Aminata, I., and many others aren’t self-proclaimed activists. Yet their choices matter. Slowly, they shift boundaries. Courage in Senegal isn’t about spectacle. It’s quiet, it’s daily, and often, it’s invisible.
