If you hear the word “gay”, what kind image appears in your mind? Is it possible that it isn’t a Muslim man with a background from the Middle East?
To have stereotypes may seem subtle and innocent to some, but for some of us it can have very serious consequences. The everyday consequences of this stereotype may vary greatly. For example, there are many gay men from the Middle East who say that they are denied entry to queer nightclubs because they are not read as queer by the doormen, something which can be both annoying and stressful in everyday life. Exclusion from social meeting places is a serious issue, but what happens when the authorities have the same understanding of being queer as the doormen? The consequences can then be life-threatening.
Adjudicating sexuality and ‘credibility’
In 2012, there was a turning point for queer asylum seekers in Norway. A Supreme Court decision ruled that Norway could no longer deport queer asylum seekers with the justification that they should hide their sexual orientation upon return:
The UDI (Norwegian Directorate of Immigration) can no longer expect, demand or assume that LGBTI applicants will adapt to social, cultural and statutory norms in the public sphere or hide their sexual identity after return to avoid persecution.
Prior to this verdict, several queer asylum seekers had their asylum applications rejected, despite being recognised as queer by the authorities. They risked deportation to countries with anti-gay legislation, because the authorities did not consider it dangerous if they "showed discretion" upon return (Gustavsson 2016).
Thus, activists saw the verdict as an important victory. However, it soon became clear that the ruling would not necessarily give queer asylum seekers the protection we had thought it would provide. In several post-2012 rulings, there was a shift in the official rhetoric and grounds for rejection, centring the question of “credibility” in the rationale for determining protection:
From the outset it is the applicant who must prove affiliation with a specific social group, or whether they are interpreted as belonging to a specific sexual identity in their home country. The assessment of credibility must be concrete, comprehensive and individual. (Eggebø, Stubberud & Karlstrøm 2018).
This shift led to several of those who had applied for residence in Norway, on the basis of sexual orientation, no longer being recognised as queer by the authorities. For example, in this comprehensive assessment, if family information is omitted, or conflicting information is given about the escape route, it will weaken the person's overall credibility – also with regard to the “truth” of their sexual orientation. Yet, many people who come from countries with homophobic legislation and who seek asylum in Norway will find it necessary to lie about family relationships and escape routes for their own safety.
Reza’s story
To illustrate the possible consequences of this, I will highlight a story about a queer asylum seeker I know. "Reza" is gay and risked the death penalty in his home country if his sexual orientation was revealed. To me, he described life before he came to Norway as “like risking death every time he followed his heart”.
Reza had his asylum application rejected, despite the fact that he had a same-sex lover in Norway, based on his weakened “credibility” as queer due to providing conflicting explanations about his escape route to Norway. He appealed the refusal, but in the meantime, was considered ‘undocumented’. One night, Reza was out with his boyfriend and was severely beaten by strangers while they shouted homophobic slurs at him. At the same time as the authorities did not believe that he was queer, he was read as queer by society. I never asked him what he experienced as more violent – the rejection from the Norwegian authorities or the physical violence from the strangers.
We – a group of queer people of Muslim background – encouraged Reza to report the violent assault. We argued that it is important for the police to include this in the statistics on hate crime – just as the police have encouraged us to. He was scared but listened to us. He went to the police station and gave his statement. The police received it, then they detained him for deportation.
We, who had encouraged him to report it, felt betrayed. We didn’t notice the little asterisk attached to the encouragement by the police to the report, and that behind the encouragement lurked a life-threatening exception – the undocumented do not have the right to protection.
In the aftermath of this episode, we never recommend that undocumented people report the crimes they are subjected to, and will not do so until the police give us a guarantee that the undocumented will have the same legal rights as those of us with residence.
The ‘truth’ about sexual orientation?
The official rationale betrays a fear that people will lie about their sexual orientation in order to get residence in Norway, despite the fact that Norwegian asylum policy allows for status to be revoked retroactively if it turns out that an applicant has lied. More broadly, this policy raises questions about what it means to lie about one's sexual orientation. For example, I came to Norway when I was an infant. My family was granted residence because my parents had been political prisoners in Iran. This legal basis of residency means that I’m not limited to only being with women. There are no restrictions on how I can live out my sexual orientation or what legal gender my partners can have. Yet, my friends who have sought asylum and protection because they can’t live as queer in their country of origin do not have that freedom. This posits sexual orientation as an unambiguous truth about the self; subsequently meeting new people and experiencing other forms of love than those stated in the asylum interview is read as a sign that you lied.
Most queer asylum seekers do not dare to state their sexual orientation, and very many do not get residence on those grounds. There are many reasons why people do not dare to tell the authorities that they are queer. Young people from countries with homophobic and transphobic legislation have no grounds for believing that it is safe to say that they are queer. Many people have no idea, and cannot imagine in their wildest imagination, that it can be an advantage to state that you are queer in the asylum process:
Those we have spoken to did not apply for asylum on the grounds of sexual orientation or gender identity. They had fled due to war and conflict in their home country and received protection on a similar ground as other asylum seekers from the same country. Several said that they had not experienced it as safe to tell about their sexual orientation in the asylum interview. (Eggebø, Stubberud & Karlstrøm 2018)
One informant said this: “I came as a refugee. I did not apply as a queer person. No no no. […] With an interpreter [from the same country] I could not speak freely”. Another informant said that it was impossible to be open about sexual orientation in the asylum interview due to fear that it would become known to their family. Most newcomers attend an introduction programme after they are granted a residence permit in Norway. The aim is to learn Norwegian and that way quickly get a job or an education. Queer newcomers who have attended the introductory programme in recent years have experienced it as an unsafe place. (ibid).
Therefore, it is not only during the asylum process that queer newcomers experience barriers by virtue of their queerness. For many newcomers, the introduction programme functions as an important social arena, and this becomes especially important as one is often dependent on a network to be able to navigate life in a new country. When one experiences harassment and bullying so stressful to the extent that it is detrimental to concentration, it is natural to assume that this will also affect the language development of the students.
Trust in institutions?
School is at least as important for learning Norwegian, which we know is crucial for most employees in Norway, and for the possibility of permanent residence. Reduced language skills have major consequences as Norway introduced, in 2017, language and knowledge requirements for attaining citizenship. The purpose was to "make it less attractive to seek asylum in Norway". That is, the purpose was exclusion, and exclusion was also the consequence. The number of new citizens was halved, from 2017 before the requirements were introduced, to 2018, when the requirements were introduced. One in three fails the knowledge test. Now the government plans to raise the language requirements again and it will be even more difficult to meet the requirements.
During the determination process, it is also the case that young people do not trust that those who work in reception centres can protect them. They experience bullying and harassment at the reception centres. This also applies to care centres for unaccompanied minors but is worse for those who are over 16 and live in regular reception centres. In a report on the experiences of queer unaccompanied minor asylum seekers (Stubberud 2018), we can read this story about a boy who was harassed because he is queer:
EMA: That's where the rumour started in a way, yes, "he's gay", you see. That's where it started. At this time, I was very unsure, and I knew it in a way, but I had never told anyone before. And at this reception centre there were many who did not get residence, it was completely surprising that I, who had lived in Norway for such a short time, got residence, so everyone was just, "oh my god, he must be gay". I think it would have helped if I had gotten to talk to someone, but I started saying, "no, I'm not gay", I had to show other boys all my papers, interviews, to show that there was nothing about my sexuality.
Deniz: But why do you think the rumour started?
EMA: I can be a little like that … girly and such.
Deniz: Was it uncomfortable to stay at the reception centre?
EMA: Yes, I would have liked to leave this reception centre, ... but they asked me to wait.
This youth had to change reception centre and residence several times, over several years, but it continued. He felt trapped in a settlement system that did not allow him to escape, and he developed serious psychological problems; in the same interview, he confided that he had tried to take his own life.
Previously, he realised that the only way out was to escape – to escape from the Norwegian state, which was supposed to protect him. This young man got a better life when he got away from the Norwegian authorities – even though he had to give up his rights to move away.
Stubberud E. et al. (2019) write that this story points to how the Norwegian authorities do not protect queer youths from persecution, but in fact ensure that many experience that the persecution continues while they are under so-called protection from the Norwegian state.
For the young person I have talked about here, the possibility of rescue was a queer community in Oslo. An example of such a community is Salam, an organisation for and by queer people with a Muslim background.
