Queer necropolitics of forced migration: Cyclical violence in the African context

Abstract

This article seeks to theorize queer necropolitics—the ability for states to decide who lives and who dies—within the context of forced displacement. In doing so, I link the literature on African sexualities, necropolitics, and queer migration and ask the following questions: How do African states engage in necropolitics that fuel forced displacement for queer people? And, how do forcibly displaced queer migrants navigate and survive in heteronormative spaces within the wider context of racialization in Cape Town? I argue that forcibly displaced queer migrants face ongoing forms of displacement based on various dimensions of ‘non-belonging’ from country-of-origin to relocation.

Keywords

African sexuality displacement queer migration race refugees South Africa

Queer urban scholarship has been developed through literature on gay consumption in diverse cities in the global north and south, pointing to the overlap of queer identity in urban space within the context of neoliberalism (Bhagat, 2018; Manalansan, 2015; Oswin, 2015). The queer urban experience is crucial in considering forced displacement due to the relevance of cities upon relocation. The scholarship on queer migration highlights gaining citizenship as a heteronormative process within other issues and processes including labour, gender, and transnational desire within neoliberalism.¹ As Eithne Luibheid (2008) argues, queer migrants become impossible subjects because their histories are un-representable.² A transnational focus within queer studies necessitates a dual historicization based on countries of origin and relocation. That is to say, understanding the violence faced by queer refugees is not only rooted in identity but in ongoing processes of displacement as well. I will show that the violence faced by these migrants in their country of origin follows them upon relocation to Cape Town. This article expands on the notions of queer necropolitics—the politics of who lives, who dies, and who decides (Haritaworn et al., 2014; Mbembe, 2003)—by understanding displacement as an ongoing process.

South Africa—with its LGBTI friendly constitution and its alignment with UNHCR’s Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity (SOGI) document for asylum seekers and refugees (2008)—has made all the required commitments to create a ‘safe haven’ for forcibly displaced queer migrants.³ Despite academic, and policy oriented, scholarship critiquing Cape Town’s position as Africa’s queer capital, many queer asylum seekers still view Cape Town as a ‘queer’ friendly city (Lock-Swarr, 2012; Tucker, 2009; Visser, 2003). Cape Town is mostly queer friendly for white gay men who occupy particular class positions, while other queers, especially those who are poor, are forced outside the city’s safe areas of homonormative consumption. LGBTI asylum seekers face added discrimination due to their nationality and sexuality that others do not face in everyday spaces of violence in the city.

These tensions between race, class, sexuality, and nationhood are the key themes explored in this article. As I have argued elsewhere, seeking asylum in Cape Town has resulted in violence rooted in state-led heteronormativity, from barriers to citizenship to housing and employment discrimination (Bhagat, 2018). I ask the following questions: How do African states engage in necropolitics that fuel forced displacement for queer people? And, how do forcibly displaced queer migrants navigate and survive in heteronormative spaces within the wider context of racialization in Cape Town? Using in-depth interviews with six queer migrants in Cape Town between 2014 and 2015, I argue that forcibly displaced queer migrants face cyclical forms of displacement upon relocation rooted in necropolitics. In this sense, forcibly displaced queer migrants are simultaneously ‘too African’ due to their nationality and ‘un-African’ due to their sexual and/or gender identity, occupying a precarious racial and non-normative identity category upon relocation.

In doing so, this article is outlined as follows: First, I survey the literature on queer migration and shed light on the silence concerning necropolitics within this scholarship. Second, using the insights from queer migration, I further develop queer necropolitics as a theoretical framework. Third, I illustrate the necropolitics of displacement at the country of origin. Fourth, I illustrate the ongoing displacements that occur upon relocation in Cape Town rooted in dynamic processes of racialization and homophobia. The conclusion of this article reviews the arguments and evidence presented and points to avenues for further research.

The silence of necropolitics in queer/forced migration

Luibheid’s (2008) article is useful in linking an ‘unruly body of scholarship’ by suggesting that all migrants are assumed to be heterosexual. Following Luibheid’s work, this section contextualizes forced migration as a heteronormative exercise and points to the ways in which the scholarship can be buttressed by insights of queer necropolitics. In the South African context, queer refugees become racialized vis-a-vis xenophobic mindsets against (non-South African) black Africans. In Johannesburg and Cape Town, migrants from Somalia, Nigeria, Zimbabwe, and other countries have faced violence and death due to economic constraints and state-driven ‘othering’ (Mutanda, 2017). Queer refugees embody dual categories of discrimination—foreigner (unwanted ‘other) and ‘queer’ (unwanted sexuality). The survival of queer refugees is further jeopardized because of alienation from their kinship communities upon relocation—due to their sexual orientation—and violence from wider South African society because of their nationalities.

Di Feliciantonio and Gadelha (2016) argue that queer migrants and socioeconomic status are materially tied to the role of the neoliberal state and its ability to influence queer identity and displacement. Although kinship ties exist, some queer migrants come to self-realization of their sexual and gender identity through movement. Neoliberal homonormativity, where the acceptance of sexual orientation is rooted in economic growth and corporate branding, dictates that major world cities are automatic spaces of acceptance—tying notions of modernity to LGBT rights (Oswin, 2015).

There are many geographically specific examples of queer migrant life and the various emotional and physical traumas and violence that are associated with queer displacement. For example, Thomas Winmark (2016) shows the changing nature of kinship ties in Turkey beyond the structure of the homophobic family. Andrew Gorman-Murray (2009) highlights emotional and intimate same-sex desires that shape relocation decisions in Australia.

Indeed, the scholarship does emphasize the various barriers that sexual minorities face in gaining asylum. In Toronto and other parts of Canada, scholars highlight the various contradictions in asylum claims’ adjudication where some claims are considered fraudulent because they do not fit into heteronormative conceptions of queer identities and relationships. That is to say, asylum seekers must prove that they are gay enough to access the state (Murray, 2014; Lewis and Naples, 2014; White, 2013). Another relevant example comes from Shakhsari (2014: 1013), who emphasizes the dual conditions of hetero- and homonormativity deepening the theorization of necropolitics in her examination of Iranaian queer and trans refugees in Turkey.

Despite these considerations, the literature on queer migration remains relatively silent in its exploration of the material conditions and necropolitics of forced displacement. The literature on forced queer displacement also fails to address the politics of survival upon relocation and the resulting ongoing violence. Indeed, adjudication is one aspect of displacement and refugee status; however, it is also important to understand the forces that create displacement and also whether queer migrants will survive upon relocation. The theoretical framework of queer necropolitics seeks to capture the various dimensions of nation, race, class, and sexual and gender identity in determining the survival of forcibly displaced queer migrants.

Queer necropolitics in Africa

Achille Mbembe (2003: 1) outlines necropolitics as ‘the ultimate expression of sovereignty’, where the power and ability to kill and ‘let live’ is held in the hands of state authorities. Mbembe (2003: 12) questions who has the domain over mortality and how societies reproduce themselves by allowing only certain bodies to live. Mbembe’s work on necropolitics is used here for two reasons: First, linking queer identity and blackness further theorizes displaced sexual minorities as ‘impossible subjects’. Second, Mbembe explicitly deals with the African context, providing necessary framing for queer identities in post-colonial African states. For example, colonial occupation is portrayed as a means of altering spatial relations—township space in South Africa represented a nearby flow of migrant labour separated from white urban life, thereby denying citizenship to black people in South Africa (Mbembe, 2003: 25).

Necropolitics illuminates the various tensions surrounding race, sexual identity, and nationhood. Racialization is defined here as a process where migrants occupy racial categories of ‘otherness’—racial meaning is created, and placed, onto social relationships and social practices of particular groups (Gans, 2017; Omi and Winant, 2014). Forcibly displaced queer migrants are contextualized as populations that the state leaves to die (Li, 2009)—their dual positions as queer migrants renders them liminal upon relocation. As Duranti (2008) suggests, queerness is a social taboo in many countries; however, its presence is tacitly accepted by pushing it into the realm of silence.

Connecting queer identity with necropolitics, Jim Haritaworn et al. (2014) in Queer Necropolitics highlight that queer subjects, made invisible through heteronormativity, are left to abandonment and death in everyday space.⁴ Importantly, in the South African context, black masculinity and homosexuality, through the colonial erasure of sexual diversity in the country, are viewed as irreconcilable categories. Forcibly displaced black gay men, for example, are often viewed as abhorrent by the state, despite South Africa’s progressive constitution. Black queer bodies are simultaneously ‘un-African’ due to their sexual and gender identities and ‘too African’ due to their non-South African origins. The erasure of black queer identities in Cape Town is imposed not only by tourism and virtual space that gives primacy to the globalized white gay male, but also within township spaces where queer black bodies face violence and death (Reygan, 2016).

Queer Necropolitics emphasizes the intersection of queer identity with race and class to create political-economic landscapes of abandonment (Povinelli, 2011) where queer people are placed into hegemonic structures that accelerate death (Gilmore, 2007). In this sense, necropolitics refers to the governance of life and death (Haritaworn et al., 2014; cf. Agamben, 1998; Li, 2009). As Povinelli (2011: 167) suggests, violence towards marginalized people ranges from abandonment of certain populations in spaces with a lack of state services, to the extreme opposite, where the state sanctions the expulsion and killing of certain people.

Despite valuable contributions from the literature on death and abandonment, a silence emerges with regard to queer sexuality in the African context. Filling this gap, Sylvia Tamale’s (2011) edited volume explores the various dimensions of African sexuality from colonial linkages to modern day taboos. Starting with the African LGBTI declaration in Kenya (2010)—a framework outlining queer struggle in the pan-African context—the book’s explicit aim is highlighting the systemic oppression, visibility, and social and political recognition necessary in creating the landscape of LGBTI rights in the pan-African context. An important nuance is worth emphasizing—although each African country has various social histories with regard to non-normative sexuality, multitude forms of pan-African solidarity exist. For example, Currier and Migraine-George (2017) point to the histories of lesbian activism, art, and solidarity across the continent. While this exploration of African queer solidarity goes beyond the scope of this article, it is important to note that it exists, and that the visibilities of these networks are expanding.

On one hand, the rigid western categories of sexuality and gender identity impose identity categories in African contexts that were not there before. On the other hand, these categories give voice to previously erased non-normative identities. For example, the spread of anti-homosexuality legislation in Uganda and Nigeria in 2015 has resulted in a counter-movement of transnational advocacy and solidarity networks across the continent (Amnesty International, 2015). LGBTI identity politics—through international norms—works to simultaneously erase African knowledge of sexualities, but also to create new avenues for resistance.

These contradictions regarding the multifarious cultural and societal understandings of sexuality in Africa are made apparent by scholarship concerning sex work in Uganda (Tamale, 2011); Islamic revival and non-normative sexuality in Egypt (Tartoussieh, 2011); reproductive rights in Zambia (Nchito, 2011); sexual morality in Kenya (Meiu, 2011); and the intersections of gender identity and (dis)ability in South Africa (Sait et al., 2011), to name a few. South Africa has the largest amount of queer scholarship, with Milani’s (2013) study of same-sex desire in online spaces and Livermon’s (2014) work on queer life in township spaces.

Despite this literature, the work on queer refugees in the African context is underdeveloped, and these migrants are diametrically opposed to queer tourists as they do not fit into the realm of queer consumption. The queer refugee is left to die within intersecting relations of power vis-a-vis nation and sexuality within neoliberalism.

Heteronormative necropolitics in the country of origin

Recall the central argument of this article that is hinged on cyclical forms of displacement based on ‘non-belonging’ from the country of origin to relocation. Informed by queer migration scholarship, I suggest that ‘non-belonging’ is linked to a variety of intersecting identities (Di Feliciantonio and Gadelha, 2016; Luibheid, 2008). This section explores the asylum claims of six queer black people from Kenya, Zimbabwe, and the DRC. All the participants interviewed during this research are Black African and now live in township areas outside of the ‘gay consumption’ district of De Waterkant—all are unemployed and struggle to survive on a day-to-day basis upon relocation. This section highlights their life histories that led them to flee their countries. All six asylum seekers lodged formal asylum claims and only one has so far received refugee status.

K, the first participant from the DRC, arrived in Cape Town in April of 2009. The following excerpt describes the situation in which he was forced to flee:

… there is homophobia in the DRC, but I was born this way. My father was a partner for international forests multinational corporation and I was raised Catholic … Since sixteen I have had feelings for men … I had my first relationship when I was twenty years old with a boy named E. E’s father was in the police … a friend of ours told E’s parents about us and E thought he was going to be prosecuted … my boyfriend killed himself. (K, interview, 2014)

Displacement, from Kinshasa, DRC, in K’s case, rested on a few contributing factors. First, there was no recognition, at least in the time K was discovering his sexual identity, of same-sex desire in the country. Second, K was born into an upper-middle class family, making it difficult for him to be open about his sexuality due to his father’s high-profile job—indicating that even higher-class positions are unable to protect queer people from violence. The primary reason for K’s decision to flee was fear of death. Indeed, the social pressures of heteronormativity, buttressed by class and religious positions, resulted in the suicide of K’s partner. This particular expulsion was rooted in homophobia at a young age, with same-sex desire viewed as a transgressive act deserving of a fatal state-society driven punishment. Upon relocation, K lost much of his support system as his sexuality was no longer a secret. His friends and immediate family cut off contact in order to maintain their social stature.

C’s account is similar to K’s. C also lived in the closet for much of his adolescence until finding his first boyfriend during college in Mombasa, Kenya. C eventually worked up the courage to reveal his sexuality to his parents. While his siblings were encouraging and comforting, his mother was indifferent and his father reacted with disdain and physical violence. However, C suggested that his parents eventually accepted his sexuality when he and his partner decided they wanted to get married. While there are no legal provisions for gay marriage in Kenya, the ceremony was symbolic—friends and family were invited to bestow their blessings. At this point, C said, “my life turned into a nightmare” (C, interview, 2014).

The following excerpt describes the conditions forcing C to flee Kenya:

We decided to take our relationship to the next level and invited a few friends to our engagement ceremony. Our so-called friends came with a mob … they made homophobic slurs … started throwing stones … someone threw a glass bottle that caught on fire. Our house caught on fire and we ran for our lives … (C, interview, 2014)

After the incident at C’s engagement ceremony, his boyfriend was attacked while C was at work. C described his boyfriend as having stab wounds and a badly bruised face. His family suggested that he move to Cape Town in order to be safe. C even noted, “Cape Town is the safest city for black gay people!”. C decided to leave after his mother was threatened, as the community grew increasingly intolerant of C’s overt same-sex relationship. C indicated that he had trusted his friends and had not been afraid to be ‘out’, and did not realize that the consequences would be so harsh. C’s story indicates the intensity and complexity of homophobia in Kenya—even in a large city such as Mombasa. The overt nature of C’s relationship seems to have breached a societal norm.

Another interesting facet revealed by this interview is Cape Town as an imagined destination for gay rights. For refugees, Cape Town is a more economically viable option for queer minorities, as Europe or North America present legal, temporal, and financial constraints. An important caveat, with regard to C’s narrative, is that C embodies a particular class position, indicated through university education and the ownership of his own home, which allowed him to move to a different country within two weeks—this is not a viable option for working-class queer people. Regardless, homophobia operates in a way which makes private relationships public and forces queer individuals to lead a life where public humiliation and constant threats of violence and death are commonplace—a key facet of queer necropolitics expanded upon in this article.

The following story also indicates the intersections between class and sexual orientation in the forced displacement of queer refugees. J, a gender-fluid migrant from Kinshasa, DRC, affirms K’s account of intense homophobia in the country. J's account is acceptable “people cannot be gay in the DRC … to them I am a demon … these negative attitudes towards LGBTIs include physical and verbal abuse, attacks, and rejection from their families”. It is important to note that J is a trained lawyer and had the aptitude to argue and negotiate their asylum status with the Department of Home Affairs (DHA) and support from the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). J’s account reveals success in gaining refugee status in a severely backlogged refugee adjudication system in South Africa. Despite J’s education and financial flexibility, they continued to face intense violence even after receiving status.

The primary reason for fleeing was family violence. J’s mother, a pastor, tried to kill J when she grew suspicious and discovered J’s sexuality. Although J tried to cope with their mother’s homophobic slurs and constant abuse, the day she threatened to kill J was, in J’s words, “the last straw” (J, interview, 2014). J further said:

My sexuality placed my mother’s reputation as a pastor on the line … in every country they have LGBTIs and leaders knew this. My mother at a young age said “they [sexual minorities] must be killed”. Changes must come from the church, but the church condones the attacks … they say, “it is wrong” they are doing an abomination. We must realize that acceptance in Africa existed! Homophobia is a product of Western imperialism it is a return to colonization! (J, interview, 2014)

When asked why J fled to South Africa, they suggested that it was the only affordable option, even though they had been financially sponsored by a gay couple in Toronto—the costs of moving to North America are excessive even with private sponsorship. J’s account indicates the violent dimensions of heteronormativity in its ability to destroy familial connections and alienate the queer subject. While J is lucky enough to be granted refugee status by the UNHCR, many other queer asylum seekers are not so lucky.

A, a transgender HIV+ sex-worker from Harare, Zimbabwe, further illustrates the violence of necropolitics. She said, “In Zimbabwe there is an idea that you are a demon. I grew up loving God but had the idea of feeling different. They took me to a witch doctor to heal me and I prayed everyday, but I was still the same” (A, interview, 2014). A’s decision to flee rested on police violence in Harare. A and her friend were dressed in drag going to a party when the police stopped them and accused them of being gay. They took both of them into custody when A said, “yes we are moffies [gay] so what?” (A, interview, 2014). A, crying through the interview, said that the police tortured her through waterboarding and other forms of physical violence. After being demeaned and de-humanized, the police decided to let her go, telling her, “do not be moffies again” (A, interview, 2014).

Indeed, the central issue in A’s case of police brutality and persecution is the notion that non-heteronormativity is ‘un-African’ and ‘un-Zimbabwean’. Sexual difference is seen as something that can be stamped out by the state. Homosexuality is thus viewed as a further unwanted colonial imposition by the West. South Africa’s constitutional acceptance of LGBTQI rights is seen as a remnant of the white government—an aspect picked up in the next section.

Underwritten by class, P, another gay male from Kinshasa, highlighted that his sexuality was the main reason he decided to flee. P’s account challenges the other accounts in this article because P admits that he never faced any homophobic attacks or any form of violence in the DRC. He simply said, “I am here because I am gay” (P, interview, 2015). He suggests that his class privilege allowed him to claim asylum and afford life in Cape Town. Another crucial aspect in P’s case is that he was not read as ‘gay’, unlike in the other narratives detailed in this section. P, fearing police persecution due to his inaccurate asylum claim, remained closed-off during the interview, though he did note that his family continues to support him financially while in South Africa. P’s claim was inaccurate because he never told Home Affairs the truth about fleeing his country due to his sexuality. He also lied to Home Affairs and claimed he was a victim of conflict when he was actually quite safe as a cis-straight passing male. He also knew that his claim would most likely face rejection if made on the basis of sexuality. Here, the assumption of hetero-masculinity eases the process of the claim. P never needed to ‘come out’, as his parents remain under the impression that P was looking for better work and education opportunities in South Africa. Despite this privilege, the necessity to hide one’s sexuality and remove oneself from one’s own community and family indicates the emotional violence of heteronormativity in the African context.

The final claimant, Y, an asylum seeker who fled from Kenya, shared a very brief story of displacement. He said he had fled Kenya because he had ruffled too many feathers as a gay rights activist. He notes that being queer in Nairobi was okay as long as you did not do anything in public. Feeling constrained at the lack of LGBTI recognition in Kenya, Y felt that he had to do something to better the situation of queer people in the country. Due to the political nature of his activism, he was forced to flee or face arrest and potential torture, so he made a formal claim to asylum upon arriving in South Africa on a tourist visa—a strategy employed by many asylum seekers the world over.

The accounts show how queer migrants navigate various categories of identity that illustrate the necropolitics of heteronormativity. Though underwritten by gendered and classed dimensions of persecution, sexual minorities are pushed out of their countries of origin due to their sexual orientation and/or gender identity. As this section has showed, extreme violence is part and parcel of the life experiences of queer refugees. While P is able to claim asylum outside of sexual identity, even he fears the perceived threat of violence upon discovery. A central theme undercutting all six accounts is the irreconcilability of ‘blackness’ or ‘African-ness’ with same-sex desire. At times, there are instances of familial support and encouragement; however, these instances also turn violent when the sexual identity is revealed to the wider community. Queer asylum seekers are forced to leave everything behind, creating physical and emotional trauma through losing support systems and kinship ties. They face total disconnect from family and friends due to their sexual or gender identity. The following section examines their lives upon relocation and the cyclical forms of displacement and violence that ensue.

Ongoing displacement and racialized violence

Racialization is a process where arbitrary identities or characteristics are ascribed to a group of people, resulting in precarious labour, incarceration, combat, or, in the case of refugees, expulsion (Cowen and Siciliano, 2011). As indicated above, queer refugees occupy the category of ‘racialized migrant’ upon relocation to South Africa. As Akanle et al. (2016) note, afro-phobia within the context of economic scarcity and xenophobia have resulted in racialized violence in the country. More, issues of land redistribution, and apartheid’s hangover of racial hierarchy, serve to racialize non-South African Africans as ‘backwards’, ‘job-stealing’ others. Involuntary migrants are portrayed as breaking the law and embody racialized positions such as ‘drug dealers’, ‘child-traffickers’, and ‘squatters’ (Alfaro-Velcamp and Shaw, 2016). This is the context within which queer migrants attempt to access citizenship; however, the overlapping identity of sexual orientation creates a dual structure of discrimination—heteronormative and racialized necropolitics. Indeed, forcibly displaced sexual minorities become ‘raced’ upon relocation to Cape Town, an aspect that is missing in analyses that solely focus on push factors of displacement within the country of origin. Identities in the country of origin also change upon relocation. Queer migrants are simultaneously ‘too African’—taking valuable resources from South African citizens—and ‘un-African’ due to their sexual or gender identities. This shows a nuanced way in which race-class and sexuality intersect. In this section, I trace the stories of relocation with each of the six participants introduced in the section above.

K, being from DRC, had a smooth process in receiving an asylum permit at the DHA. K did not have to disclose his sexual identity and, as he noted, he was always able to hide his sexuality. While ‘coming-out’ is not necessarily the end goal of many queer people, the inability to ‘remain in the closet’ actually has grave consequences, resulting in violence and death even upon relocation to Cape Town. This is the case for officials in the DHA who do not view queer identities as a cause for asylum. Indeed, an expert interview with Lawyers for Human Rights revealed that many asylum seekers are refused refugee status because of this change in narrative. The DHA questions why, all of a sudden, they decide to disclose their sexuality, therefore assuming that the claimant, as is true in other sexual minority-based asylum claims in the global north, is an ‘inauthentic’ sexual minority (LHR, interview, 2014).

Although K was able to receive an initial asylum permit, his life upon relocation was not easy. Not only was he violently abused for his foreign background (despite hiding his sexuality), but he was also ostracized within his own Congolese micro-community. K ended up revealing his relationship with a Congolese man to his landlord in Cape Town, who constantly asked for higher rents, citing that she would ‘out’ him to his friends if he did not comply. Tragically, one evening, while K and his boyfriend were on a date in an affluent suburb of Cape Town, they encountered a Congolese shopkeeper who asked, “why are you being gays?”. This started a fight in the shop, and K and his boyfriend were chased and beaten in the street, resulting in the death of his boyfriend. When K asked the police for assistance, they said, “we do not get involved in matters of foreigners … you are mkwerekwere”⁵ (K2, interview, 2015). K was forced to move out of his apartment and, upon hearing about his boyfriend’s death, members within the Congolese community threatened to kill K too. They stole his things, leaving K virtually homeless.

There are many facets of necropolitics at play here. Although K’s sexuality is masked by normative conceptions of gender in South African society, his sexuality, upon discovery, continues to place him and the ones he loves in jeopardy. Regardless of South Africa’s constitution and Cape Town’s position as a ‘gay-friendly’ city, sexual diversity remains a social taboo punishable by death. More, the police do nothing because of K’s racialized migrant status, further dehumanizing K’s existence in the city. These intersections of race and sexuality make necropolitics for queer asylum seekers an everyday reality with grave consequences.

C’s initial encounter with refugee adjudication was also smooth; however, upon missing one interview the arbitrary decision making in the DHA based on race and sexuality-based discrimination becomes apparent. C returned to the DHA, after missing his appointment, with a doctor’s note from the clinic Health 4 Men.⁶ Upon seeing the logo, the officials at the DHA asked, “why would he become a gay?”. The official laughed and called upon her colleagues who also belittled C and called him a mkwerekwere. They placed a heavy fine on him and denied his permit for re-application. C further suggests that the xenophobia he faced at the DHA follows him in his township home in Delft, where his neighbours constantly attack him and tell him to leave their neighbourhood—revealing the intersecting state and societal scales in which necropolitics operate.

J’s training as a lawyer allowed them to navigate the asylum apparatus in South Africa with more ease. Despite state officials telling them that they were ‘abnormal’ and that they should abandon their ‘gay lifestyle’, J’s knowledge of South Africa’s international commitments allowed her to claim asylum based on sexuality. The DHA pushed back, suggesting that J had no claims to asylum; however, because of J’s connections with the UNHCR, involving international pressure, her asylum application was passed and resulted in eventual refugee status. Upon relocation, they were offered shelter assistance by a lesbian couple in Khayelitsha. This arrangement worked well until the couple discovered J’s Congolese origins and threatened to kill J due to their foreign status. This was due to increased xenophobia in township spaces where migrants were continually blamed for economic woes and ‘job-stealing’. While the couple likely knew that J was a foreigner when they took them in, the increasing xenophobia in everyday spaces likely led to the couple kicking J out and threatening to kill them if they did not leave. J was forced to leave and was homeless until they were able to afford rent in another, nearby township.

This cyclical displacement is apparent in A’s account as well. While waiting in line at the DHA, A was told that “this is not the line for the gays”, resulting in A being sent back to Zimbabwe. Although A was eventually allowed to return, the DHA pressed A with comments such as “Mugabe says there are no gays in Zimbabwe”. On the societal scale, A’s position as a transgender sex-worker made it difficult for her to negotiate safe-sex, leading to an eventual HIV diagnosis. A’s partner, upon discovering A’s foreign origin, slit A’s throat in the middle of the night, leaving her to die. A survived, and wears her neck scar as a badge of courage and strength. Once again, necropolitics—as the politics of death—operates on intersecting scales. The DHA official could have sentenced A to her death, as Harare was no longer a safe space for her. Even after being given a temporary asylum permit, A was unable to live a life without violence due to her foreign status. She further notes that the men who teased her and called her homophobic slurs in the mini-taxis would end up at her door step, drunk and begging for sex at night. Even her partner, a person she placed trust in, tried to kill her due to her foreign status. For queer forced migrants, the violence of racialization and homophobia are inseparable.

While the above accounts reveal the state- and society-based violence of necropolitics, P’s story reveals the ways in which heteronormativity allows certain asylum seekers to claim status without question. As mentioned above, P did not disclose his sexuality and instead claimed asylum based on his Congolese origins; however, in order to even get his claim heard, P bribed the translator at the DHA—further pointing to his class privilege. Despite not facing xenophobia or homophobia at the DHA, P noted that the system itself was poorly run, inefficient, and costly for claimants. It costs R2000 (about £110) every time his asylum permit needs to be renewed. With the closure of Cape Town’s processing centre, asylum seekers are forced back to their port of entry to process asylum renewals which allow migrants to work while they wait—often indefinitely—for their hearing date. This creates instability for their employers and results in financial burden for asylum claimants. It also points to the cyclical ways in which the asylum process continues to displace and expel people from Cape Town specifically, and from within South Africa in general.

Y’s account further illustrates this backlog and bureaucratic inefficiency. He notes not only that Durban is more racist and homophobic than Cape Town, but also that fellow refugees make comments suggesting that they do not want to interact with gay people in line at the DHA. As Y indicated, “Home Affairs simply does not know the laws. For me they pulled out the bible and said, ‘don’t you know it is wrong to be gay in the bible’ … they are very homophobic”. He says that the DHA only gave him a six-month permit, forcing him to return to Durban for renewal at his own cost. He prefers to reside in Cape Town due to employment and LGBTQI community connections; however, the costs associated with traveling back and forth are crippling.

Claiming asylum in South Africa is fraught with tensions surrounding race, class, nationality, and sexuality. These dimensions of necropolitics create constant cycles of displacement and violence. Indeed, migration to South Africa is not an end-point—blackness and queerness are still portrayed as incongruent identities furthering xenophobic and homophobic violence. The two spheres—afrophobia and homophobia—are, in actuality, not discrete categories of discrimination. As the above accounts illustrate, they are placed in constant tension and are overlapping features of necropolitics in Cape Town.

Conclusion

Cape Town, for racialized forcibly displaced sexual minorities, is far from a safe haven of queer consumption, as the literature has shown. This article has emphasized the ways in which sexual minorities in the African context are forced out of their countries due to the logics of necropolitics. The notion of pan-African identity is questioned when considering queer migration. On one hand, systemic xenophobia has led to ongoing violence towards African migrants in South Africa. On the other hand, claiming asylum based on sexuality is rendered ‘un-African’ by the DHA. Queer migrants are simultaneously ‘too African' and ‘un-African' upon relocation. Queer asylum seekers have faced emotional and physical trauma, causing them to flee their countries due to intense fear of violence or death. Often losing loved ones, and almost always jeopardizing kinship ties, ultimately queer forced displacement is an isolating experience. Queer necropolitics—rooted in heteronormativity—disables community and familial connections, forcing migrants to choose between life and death based on sexuality. Once in Cape Town, heteronormativity, as illustrated through the adjudication decisions of the DHA, operates at the state level, rendering sexual minorities unwanted.

In this sense, queer refugees occupy a tricky racial and sexual identity category upon relocation to ‘gay-friendly’ Cape Town. They are simultaneously racialized due to their ‘African’ identity and rendered ‘un-African’ due to their sexual or gender identity. The queer migrant thus brings together various forms of violence based on race, sexuality, and nationality within the wider context of ongoing economic crises of inequality within neoliberalism in South Africa. Despite Cape Town’s image as a safe city for queer migrants, the empirical evidence shows that asylum seekers face violence from their home communities upon relocation. Importantly, the migrants discussed in this article face violence in myriad forms, often due to the intersecting identities of nationality, sexuality, and socio-economic status that are constantly overlapping in everyday space.

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada for their funding support in the completion of this MA thesis project at McGill University. I would also like to thank Dr Natalie Oswin and Dr Rex Brynen for their early feedback and framing of this project, and two anonymous reviewers for their extensive and detailed comments.

Notes

Ali Bhagat is a PhD candidate at Queen’s University, Canada, and holds the WC Good Memorial Fellowship in International Relations. He is also the recipient of the IDRC Doctoral Research Award (2018–2019) and broadly works on urban refugees in cities in the global north and south.

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