I Was a Sin

I was born a girl in a world where being yourself was a threat. My existence had to follow a line traced by others: obey, be discreet, marry young, give birth, serve. I had no voice. I had no place.

I grew up in a strict Muslim family in Central Africa. At 11 or 12 years old, I realized I was attracted to girls. But in my surroundings, there was no word for a girl who wanted to be with a girl. No books. No movies. No conversations.

I thought I was sick, possessed, or just crazy. I was ashamed. So I stayed silent. I learned to smile, to walk with my head down, to pretend. But at night, alone in my bed, I cried in silence. Not because I was sad to love a girl. But because I knew no one would allow me to exist.

It was on Instagram that I spoke for the first time. I saw a French girl saying that she liked girls. So I wrote to her:

“Is it true? Girls can love girls?”

She replied:

“Yes. It’s a normal thing. It’s something that exists.”

Those words cracked my world open. I started to believe that maybe I wasn’t alone. That maybe, somewhere else, I could be myself.

My Friend, My Secret

Zouleykha was my distant cousin, my childhood friend, and, finally, my secret. She lived nearby, and we grew up together.

One day, when we were 12 or 13, she looked at me differently. And then, I couldn’t look away anymore.

We were often alone at night in my room. She spoke to me softly, laughed with me, and sometimes brushed my hand. And in those silences, there was everything we didn’t dare say.

One time, she whispered: “I often wonder what I feel for you.”

But in the morning, she would talk about her future marriage, as if everything we had lived the night before never existed.

I stayed there, smiling to hide my tears, pretending to be just “the cousin,” while I was dying inside.

When I was 14, my parents started talking seriously about my future. But it wasn’t really my future. It was the one they had decided for me. They started mentioning a man, a friend of my father’s. He was over 60 years old. And he wanted to marry me as his third wife. My parents put me on the table like merchandise.

I said no to my parents. But I didn’t say that I was in love with Zouleykha.

Things were still confusing with her: She never said she was LGBTQ. Sometimes she kissed me. Sometimes she told me she would marry a man. I was lost. But I loved her.

When I refused the arranged marriage, my parents were shocked. All my sisters before me had obeyed. They had been married off, silenced. So my parents locked me in my room for several days. They wanted to “make me think.”

Alone in my room, thinking about the girl I loved more than anything, I felt the invisible power of loving someone of the same sex—something my parents could neither understand nor even imagine.

I couldn’t tell them, for fear of their reaction. And I was also afraid of God. I grew up studying the Quran. When I discovered that I loved girls, I asked myself, “Why did God create me with feelings I shouldn’t have?”

In our world, it was the greatest sin.

Before marrying me off, my parents were going to force me to undergo tahoura (female genital mutilation), like they did to my sisters.

My older sister once confided that it was hard, but she didn’t tell me the details. I knew I wouldn’t survive that. I was already struggling to breathe in that world. I wouldn’t let them take my skin too.

So I started to come up with a plan.

My Escape Plan

I got closer to a kind woman I had known for years and warned her about what was going to happen to me. And she said, “If you want to leave, I’ll help you. But it’s dangerous. For you and for me.”

We started building a plan, in silence, in the shadows. I told her everything. She promised never to betray me.

I sold my belongings in secret. My phone. My jewelry. A necklace my father gave me. My friend also contributed money. She knew people, and she got me a fake passport that said I was an adult, so I could travel without my parents’ permission. She got me a ticket from the nearest airport to Turkey.

Late at night, I paid a smuggler to take me to the airport.

When I arrived at the Turkish airport, I thought the worst was behind me. But the police stopped me and sent me back to my country. I was broken.

At the airport, my parents were waiting. My father stood like a statue. My mother, arms crossed, her eyes full of rage.

They grabbed me. Not a word. Not a tear. Nothing but silence. They brought me home and locked me in a dark room.

“You’re going to tell us everything.”

I couldn’t. If I spoke, the woman would be in danger.

They forced me to kneel for hours. They repeated, “You’re going to learn to obey.”

Trying Again

I didn’t give the name of my friend, and she agreed to help me again. This time, I made a different plan. When my father went to Mecca for his Hajj, I told my mother I would marry the old man. She stopped watching me as closely. And then, four months after my return from Turkey, I went to the taxi station with nothing but a backpack, and hired a car to Cameroon.

This time, I fled by land. From Cameroon, I passed through many countries, including Morocco, Spain, Colombia, El Salvador, Guatemala, and many parts of Mexico.

The same day I entered the U.S., many of us, more than 100, were arrested by men in camouflage uniforms.

Sometimes by foot. Sometimes by car. We were escorted by armed men who we paid money. They never looked anyone in the eyes. We slept and ate very little. We prayed often.

Some of the people I traveled with were arrested and sent back to their countries. But we kept going toward a fragile hope. I traveled with people because I didn’t know how to get to the U.S. myself. 

It took me one month and three days to reach the United States.

The same day I entered the U.S., many of us, more than 100, were arrested by men in camouflage uniforms. We were taken to a prison before being sent to a large detention center where they hold undocumented immigrants.

I was registered as an adult because of the information on my passport. After almost 24 hours, they released us with a document called an “A-File.”

I was sent to a refugee shelter on Randall’s Island in New York City, where I met a gentle woman who spoke French.

One day, I confided in her. I told her, “I’m still a minor.”

She looked at me kindly, without fear or suspicion. She said, “If you have proof, tell the truth. It’s your best chance.”

I thought about it for days. Then, after a week or so, I pulled out my birth certificate. It was my only real document.

They transferred me from the shelter to a youth center with other teens. A few weeks later, I was sent to a foster family.

The woman who took me in claimed to be religious. She said she was Muslim, but there was little love, no real practice—to me, it felt like she used religion just to gain my trust.

We were three foster girls in a tiny, hot, uncomfortable room.

I knew almost nothing about cooking, but on the second day, she asked me to prepare my own meals. So I made eggs and cereal, morning and night, to avoid going hungry. 

I had dreamed of freedom. But that house was cold. I felt like a stranger. People looked at me like I was a mistake. I didn’t understand English. Each word hit me like a slap. Each rule suffocated me a bit more.

I didn’t want to be there anymore. I wanted to be home — but not with my parents. I dreamed of a place where I could breathe, be seen, be loved. Not a house where they kept talking about danger, about the poverty of the Bronx, where every gesture felt calculated, like the help I was given was a debt.

I just needed someone to tell me I was safe. That I had the right to exist. But nothing came.

And one day, everything collapsed. I couldn’t control anything anymore. My emotions were overflowing. A voice in my head whispered: “Let’s just end it.”

I went to the kitchen. I took a knife. I went back to my bed and sat down. And I thought, “Should I do it? Should I leave for good?”

I googled “How to kill myself,” and 911 appeared on my screen. I called, and the police came and took me to the hospital. I stayed six days without seeing the sun. Six days of silence. Six days of emptiness…but still alive.

A Door Opens

Then, they placed me in another home. A shared room, like before, but with more care. One day, the new foster mom told me, “You don’t have to prove anything. You’ve already survived so much.”

That night, I cried. Not from pain, but from relief. I felt believed. Loved. Heard.

I started school in New York in 9th grade, even though I was supposed to be in 11th. It wasn’t because I had failed. It was simply because I didn’t speak enough English yet. I enrolled at a school that welcomes students like me, who just arrived in the U.S.

Even though I had to start over, I saw it as an opportunity, not a punishment. I wasn’t going backward. I was just learning to move forward in a new language, in a new country.

One day, I heard students say that Ms. F, my teacher, was married to a woman. She runs the school’s LGBTQ club and also teaches guitar, which I play.

Hearing that intrigued me. It gave me courage.

I stayed after class. The room was slowly emptying, but I felt like my legs were planted in the ground. Ms. F turned to me, surprised but warm:

“Are you OK? You wanted to talk to me?”

I nodded, not really knowing where to begin. My hands trembled a little. I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to say without sounding weird, without her thinking I was invading her privacy.

 “I… I heard about the club you lead. The LGBTQ club.”

She smiled, gently. “Yes, I’m the advisor here at school. It’s a safe space for students who need it. Are you curious? Would you like to know more?”

I took a deep breath. “I think… I think it concerns me. But I’ve never had the chance to talk about it.”

I lowered my eyes a bit. “In my country, this kind of thing… is forbidden. You can’t even say it out loud.”

She pulled up a chair and sat next to me, without rushing me. Her voice was calm, steady:

“What you’re telling me is already very brave, you know,” she said.

“I think I’ve been… like this. Forever. But I learned to hide. To be afraid.” I looked up. “It’s silly, but… when I realized you were married to a woman, I felt like… a door opened. A permission to exist.”

Her eyes filled with a little emotion, but she smiled. “That’s not silly at all. It’s probably the truest thing you could have told me.”

A soft silence settled. A silence without fear.

“You’re safe here. And if one day you want to come to the club, just to listen or talk, you’re welcome. Always.”

I couldn’t answer right away. But in my heart, I felt like I wasn’t alone anymore.

I Choose

Today, I’m 16. I’ve started a new life. I’m learning English. I go to school. I play soccer. I wrote a movie that was made at my school and I was in it. Two months ago, I stopped wearing the hijab and I cut my hair. I wear ties and loose shorts, and I finally feel like myself.

I am still a Muslim, and I may return to wearing the hijab. But I am young now, and I want to try new things.

I dream of becoming a lawyer and building an orphanage. I want to help girls like me. All the girls the world wants to lock into a role, a religion, a cage. I want to tell this truth. Not to make people cry, but to say:

We can make it.

I think of my brothers and sisters in Africa. I wonder if they’ll forget me one day? I often feel alone. I cry sometimes.

The U.S. is not, in 2025, safe for a refugee, but it is safer than my home country for LGBTQ people. So for now, I can love who I want. I can say NO. I can choose my life.