Mehedi faced death threats from his family. We supported him.
Mehedi is from Bangladesh, a Commonwealth country with strict laws criminalising homosexuality. Penal Code 1860, criminalises acts of ‘carnal knowledge against the order of nature’. This provision carries a maximum penalty of life imprisonment. Only men are criminalised under this law. We have been supporting Mehedi on his journey to seek asylum.
London, UK – 31st July 2026
This is Mehedi’s story in his own words:
I was born and raised in Bangladesh, a South Asian country where Islam shapes not only faith but also every aspect of daily life. I grew up in a strict Muslim family and was told love could exist only between a man and a woman. I never questioned it as a child. I simply followed the rules, went to school, and did what was expected of me.
But as I grew older, I began to notice something. Something I couldn’t quite explain at the time. While my friends eagerly talked about girls, their looks, and their crushes, I found myself completely detached from those conversations. I wasn’t interested. I didn’t know why. I just knew I felt different. I had no words to explain how I was feeling. I have never met anyone who is gay.
In 2014, a new student joined our school. His name was Rafi. I still remember the first day he walked into the classroom. He had long hair, a beautiful smile, and a calm, kind energy that instantly drew me towards him. He sat beside me that day, and soon, we became.
We shared a lot of time together, saved seats for each other, and spent hours talking after school. He lived about twenty minutes away, and we often met to play games, visit local parks, or just talk. I didn’t understand it then, but Rafi made me feel something I had never felt before.
During our winter holidays in 2016, Rafi stayed at my house for a night while his parents were away. That evening changed everything. We played games, watched TV, had dinner with my family, and talked late into the night. We went to bed and tried to sleep. Lying beside me, he touched my neck, and I looked at him. He asked why I never talked about girls like the other boys did and why I did not have a girlfriend like our other classmates. I laughed awkwardly and said Those conversations just don’t interest me. I preferred spending time with him.
He smiled and teased me, “So, are you saying you’re into guys, not girls?”
I just laughed, but inside, I felt my heart racing. Then, Rafi quietly admitted that he felt the same, that he, too, was drawn to guys. He found himself paying more attention to men. That night, for the first time, I realised there was a term for people like us called gay. But along with that realisation came fear. Fear was born from the news we found that same night about Xulhaz Mannan and Mahbub Rabbi Tonoy, two men who were brutally murdered for being gay in Bangladesh. It was in the news everywhere. Xulhaz and Tonoy were LGBT+ activists who were hacked to pieces by Islamist extremists. We agreed not to let anyone know of our secret. It was too dangerous.
From that night on, our bond deepened. Rafi gave me confidence and joy. He made life brighter. When he got his first motorbike in 2019, we rode through city roads late into the night. Our parents thought we were just friends. It was our secret world of just Rafi and me. But beneath that happiness was a constant fear. Fear that if anyone found out, our love could cost us our lives. We knew what society would do to people like us. It’s strictly prohibited in our religion.
In 2021, Rafi’s family forced him to move to the United States with them. I begged him not to go, but he had no choice. Before he left, we promised to stay in touch. For a while, we did. But slowly, his messages stopped. Maybe he was trying to move on, I will never know. I was broken.
After completing my higher secondary studies, I began working as a hospital support worker in Sylhet. My family, unaware of my truth, began pressuring me to marry. I resisted, as long as I could, but I was forced into a marriage. A loveless marriage built on lies. All the time, it felt like I was in a cage. My wife tried to connect with me, but I could never return her affection. I was never interested in women. It was hard to live this double life. I never dared to reveal my identity to her for fear of her reaction and that of her family. In a society where so-called “honour killing” is rife, letting go of my secret could have been a fatal mistake.
Eventually, I found an opportunity to move to the United Kingdom for work. A chance to finally breathe before going back to Bangladesh. But my family insisted that my wife accompany me; there was no way out. However, in the UK, I reached a breaking point and walked away. For the first time in my life, I chose myself. I felt free.
In London, I discovered a world I had only dreamt of. Where love wasn’t a crime. I made gay friends, visited LGBT+ venues, and began embracing who I truly was. I felt happiness and peace. I was no longer hiding and I was no longer feeling ashamed of having same-sex feelings.
But that little interlude of peace was shattered in 2024. My father called me, furious and enraged. Someone from my hometown told my dad that I was gay. They sent him photos of me around Ku Bar in the gay village in London, kissing a friend of mine.
My own father called me an abomination and disowned me. It was hard. In fact, my uncles, who saw me grow up, who were always kind and supportive of me, now sent me death threats. The hate and the language that exploded led to many sleepless nights. They said that they will kill me if I ever returned. My father, a government officer, said I had brought shame to his name and to the community and that I should never set foot in Bangladesh. He said if I were to ever return, he would avenge the dishonour with my blood. I was terrified. I was a totally broken person when I heard these words. For a long time, I could not make sense of what was happening to me. I never cried so much in my life. I felt at a complete loss. I did not know what to do.
Then one of my friends told me I could consider applying for asylum. It was not an easy decision. It was almost erasing a part of me, knowing that I could not get back to Bangladesh. I had nowhere else to go. But on my journey, I found some LGBT+ organisations that helped people like me. I started engaging with them, such as Say it Loud, Let Voice be Heard and the Peter Tatchell Foundation. They have always been there for me to support! All I want today is the right to live and to exist without hiding, to live a life where I am not condemned for simply existing. I dream of becoming an Electrician if I am ever granted refugee status in the UK.