I’m from Pakistan — a place where the word “bisexual” doesn’t even exist in most conversations. Growing up as a girl, I was always told how to behave: don’t speak to boys, don’t question elders, and one day, marry the man your parents choose for you. But what nobody knew was that while I was told to fear boys, I was quietly developing feelings for girls. I didn’t have a name for it. I just knew I felt something different when I hugged a close friend, or when I imagined a future — it wasn’t always with a man.
In my culture, talking about sexuality is like lighting a fire in a dry field — it burns everything. So I stayed quiet. I obeyed. And eventually, I was married off in an arranged marriage. I met my husband for the first time after the wedding. There was no connection. There was no love. Only expectations, and soon after, violence. I told him once, half-joking, that I sometimes had feelings for women. He laughed it off. But when I moved to the UK later and began studying, I met LGBTQ+ groups for the first time — people who lived freely and loved openly. For the first time in my life, I started to understand myself. I learned the word “bisexual,” and more importantly, I finally accepted myself.
That’s when everything began to unravel.
When I told my husband again — this time seriously — he became aggressive. He told me it was sinful, disgusting, a disgrace to his family. The emotional abuse became physical. When he assaulted me, I went to the police. I had finally found the courage to speak out. But I didn’t know that reporting him would lead him to expose me to my family in Pakistan. From that point, the threats became real. My family told me I had no shame. That a woman like me shouldn’t be allowed to raise a daughter. That I would bring dishonour on them all. They said if I returned to Pakistan, I would be dealt with — for them, that meant punishment, even death, to “make an example.”
At that moment, I knew I couldn’t go back. Not for myself, and not for my child.
In my culture, talking about sexuality is like lighting a fire in a dry field.
I applied for asylum in the UK as a bisexual woman in 2022, after trying to manage everything quietly for so long. I didn’t know at first that I could claim asylum based on my sexuality — it wasn’t something people talk about. I was scared, ashamed, and alone. But eventually I found out through others, and I began the process. My interviews took time — months of waiting, preparing, and trying to stay emotionally strong. The process itself was heavy. In my main interview, I had to talk about parts of my life I had buried deep. I had to explain trauma, abuse, and fear to strangers — and try to stay composed, because I knew they were watching closely to see if I was “credible enough.”
Being a person seeking asylum is not easy. Emotionally, it’s isolating. Financially, I have worked hard, starting from a team member job to now becoming an assistant manager. I pay taxes. I never took benefits. I’m doing my best, not just to survive, but to give my child a normal, peaceful life — something I never had. But mentally, the weight is always there: will they believe me? Will they send me back?
I live every day knowing that if I were forced to return, I could lose my child — or worse. That fear never leaves.
Rainbow Migration came into my life like a quiet light. I was referred to them by someone I met through a support circle. I reached out nervously, unsure if anyone would care or understand. But from the beginning, they were kind, welcoming, and respectful. They helped me understand the asylum process, offered emotional support, and gave me a sense of community I hadn’t felt in years. Without Rainbow Migration, I would have felt truly alone in this journey. They reminded me that I’m not the only one — and that my life, my voice, and my truth matter.
I haven’t been detained, but I’ve heard stories from others, and I live with the constant anxiety that something could go wrong. For women like me — bisexual, South Asian, single mothers — the fear is always layered: fear of violence, of judgment, of being forgotten.
But I’m still here. I’m still standing. And I want others to know that no matter how broken you feel, no matter how unsafe the world has made you feel — you are not wrong for being who you are.
I used to hide everything about myself, even from myself. Now, even in fear, I choose to live truthfully. Not just for me, but for my child — to grow up in a world where there my child never has to hide who they are.
The original post is written by a Rainbow Migration UK user and published in DIVA magazine.
Read the original article on Rainbow Migration UK site here
Read the original article on DIVA magazine site here
