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Across East Africa, American aid is a lifeline.
Every year, the region receives billions of dollars in funding that delivers food in Sudan, supplies malaria treatment in Kenya and supports communities caught at the nexus of conflict and climate change in Somalia and Ethiopia. So when President Trump announced in January a freeze on American assistance, I reached out to one of the communities that quickly felt the dire effects of these cuts: Uganda’s L.G.B.T.Q. people.
As the East Africa correspondent for The New York Times, I have closely covered the plight of this population over the past two years, particularly in the wake of the passing of Uganda’s draconian anti-gay law. It prescribes the death penalty in some cases, and calls for life imprisonment for anyone who engages in same-sex relations.
In the months before and after the law took effect in 2023, gay Ugandans reported a surge in violent attacks and state-sanctioned persecution. I received calls and messages from tearful Ugandans afraid to leave their homes. I interviewed a gay rights activist who was stabbed in a homophobic attack. At a safe house in Kenya, I spent time with L.G.B.T.Q. Ugandans who fled after facing threats.
But one constant remained: American leaders, including President Biden, defended gay Ugandans. Aid flowed from the United States to help them stay healthy and safe. And the Ugandan government — despite enshrining L.G.B.T.Q. discrimination into law — ensured they had access to lifesaving medication, including H.I.V. treatment, because it contributed to controlling the spread of diseases.
By the time I arrived in Uganda’s capital, Kampala, in February, the situation had shifted dramatically. Officials with the U.S. Embassy in Uganda and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, who were always eager to speak on record or on background, demurred. Many of them said they were reluctant to talk or even meet in private for fear they would be fired.
Ugandan activists were in distress, too. Offices that once held dozens of staff were now almost empty. Clinics offering critical medication were locked. And the few activists and counselors still working were deluged with frantic requests for assistance from all across this verdant nation.
So one sweltering afternoon in Kampala, I waded through gridlocked traffic and past bustling street vendors to meet Andrea Minaj Casablanca. Her name had come up in conversations with various sources I had approached for the story.
Despite her petite frame, Ms. Casablanca, a 25-year-old trans woman, exuded confidence and stands as a vital pillar of support for gay Ugandans who turn to her for help. Rejected by her family, she said she had faced relentless persecution like many other L.G.B.T.Q. people, including torture and imprisonment at the hands of the police and other state agencies.
Before we sat down for the interview, it became clear Ms. Casablanca was shouldering an immense burden. She was fielding calls from all across Kampala and its suburbs in the wake of U.S. foreign aid cuts. One caller spoke about feeling suicidal and helpless. Another, a male sex worker, wondered how he would access lubricants and condoms. A third person, she said, was worried about running out of H.I.V. medication and didn’t know where to get a prescription refill.
Ms. Casablanca shouldered these questions and struggles with a solemn strength. She admitted — only toward the end of the interview — that she was worried about her own life. She had lost her job, funded by the U.S. Agency for International Development, which the Trump administration dismantled. She didn’t know where the rent for the small apartment she shared with two friends would come from next. For stretches of time during the interview, she went quiet.
But through it all, one thing was clear to her: She would continue searching for solutions for those in need.
“We love our community,” she said. “We shall be serving the community voluntarily.”
Over the next few days, I spoke with activists and rights groups who emphasized the severe challenges facing L.G.B.T.Q. Ugandans, including the closure of the safe houses that had protected them. I then left Uganda for Kenya, where I am based, and began writing the article.
In the hours and days after the article’s publication, I received emails from L.G.B.T.Q. Ugandans who told me how the cuts upended their lives. I also heard from Americans who supported President Trump’s decision to suspend the aid. But most of all, I heard from people eager to offer donations to specific individuals and also do fund-raising for affected organizations — both gestures of hope at a time of immense hardship.
