Queering Welcome: Brazil’s Approach to LGBTQ+ Rights and Refugees

Brazil has some of the world’s strongest legal protections for queer and trans people. Since 2013, same-sex couples have had equal rights to marriage and adoption as heterosexual couples. Trans citizens can change their government identity card to reflect their lived gender identity, and do not have to vote under their dead name. These protections translate to greater visibility for queer and trans people: for example, in 2024, more than 3,000 openly LGBTQ+ candidates ran for office in the country. As a result, queer and trans people from neighboring countries and overseas have sought refuge in Brazil.

To understand the experience of LBGTQ+ refugees in Brazil, USCRI policy analyst Alexia Gardner interviewed María Botero at Rede MILBI+, an organization that supports LGBTQ+ migrants in Brazil. The interview has been edited for clarity and for length.

Alexia: Could you give me a little bit of backstory on the LBGTQ+ rights movement in Brazil, and how this has shaped migrant experiences in the country?

María: After the fall of the military dictatorship, Brazil had a very interesting redemocratization process. While protecting LGBTQ+ individuals wasn’t a top priority at the time, it became part of the broader process of rebuilding rights and the social fabric after the dictatorship.

Migration has always been part of Brazil’s history. But in recent decades, we’ve started to see more migration from the Global South. So now two fronts are intersecting: on one side, there’s a political framework that increasingly sees LGBTQ people as rights-holders, with growing protections. On the other, there’s a shift in how migrants are seen. Migrants are no longer legally defined as a security problem. In fact, the language in the law changed, from referring to “foreigners” to “migrants.” That’s a big shift.

Now we start seeing and acknowledging LGBTQ+ migrants and refugees. It’s not that they didn’t exist before, but they weren’t visible. Neither were women migrants. Migration was seen as something homogeneous and male, and driven by economic motivations. Now, other dimensions are being recognized and made visible.

A: I wrote a piece recently about how Colombia has strong legal protections for LGBTQ+ people, but the reality is that there are still so many people dying due to homophobic and transphobic violence. And it seems to me that the situation is similar in Brazil: Brazil has the highest recorded homicide rate for LGBTQ+ people in South America. There are strong protective laws, but in practice, many people are still in danger. What factors drive this gap between law and practice in Brazil?

M: It would be too simplistic to say that violence stems from just one issue. There are many factors involved. Especially when it comes to migrants. There is this question of who is considered a “good migrant” and who is “undesirable.” For example, let’s say someone is gay, but they’re a white, European man. They pass anywhere, especially if they perform masculinity. Intersectionality really determines how these dynamics of violence unfold. It’s not just one factor.

A: How does violence against queer and trans people vary across the country? Are there regions where violence is more intense?

M: Queer and trans experiences of violence depend hugely on where someone lives in Brazil. If you’re in a city like São Paulo, Rio de Janeiro, or Brasília, you may not experience certain forms of violence directly, or you may experience them differently, depending on your race, gender, language ability, or other identities.

Brazil has enormous strength, potential, and resistance. But it’s also a very violent country. I wouldn’t say it’s the most violent in the world, but it’s still a country that kills trans people, that continues to harm anyone who isn’t heterosexual. That’s the reality.

A: Here [in the United States] too, LGBTQ+ people continue to be the target of violence motivated by hate. Half of the fatal violence against LGBTQ+ people kills Black trans women specifically. There seem to be parallels between this experience and that of trans women in Brazil: as I was preparing for this interview, I read that Brazil has a strong anti-transphobia law, yet the average life expectancy for a trans woman is 35 years old. Could you talk a little bit more about this dichotomy?

M: It [the law] works to a certain extent. I believe it has an impact, because some people think twice before committing transphobic violence. But the problem is in defining what counts as violence and how far it goes, how the law interprets it. That’s difficult.

But on the other hand, having visible trans people in politics—people like Erika Hilton—creating laws is also a powerful sign that the system works, in some way. It sends a message: “Look, there are trans people holding public office. There are trans people in daily life who deserve respect. And the law says so.”

It’s a kind of visibility. But we need more than just a law to eliminate transphobia in Brazil. Because transphobia is everywhere. And many trans people don’t even have access to the information that such a law exists. They don’t know that a law protects their bodies, their existence.

A: Right. And sometimes violence sends a message.

M: What do you mean?

A: For example, when a trans person is attacked, the attackers are sending a message to others: “This is what happens when you’re visibly trans.” So it’s not just about one individual, it’s symbolic, a warning to others about the costs of not conforming to patriarchal gender norms.

M: Exactly. Violence sends a message, particularly when it’s enacted on non-heterosexual bodies. It’s not just about disliking a person; it’s violence against an entire population, against every form of existence that deviates from the norm. So yes, violence sends a clear message. But so does visibility. When trans people are seen and represented, it sends a counter-message.

Brazil is the country with the highest number of trans murders in the world. But at the same time, Brazil has trans women in its Congress. The trans movement is gaining visibility, not only among trans women, but also among trans men.

A: You hint at a good point about data, and one that matters for queer and trans people seeking asylum from Brazil. Brazil records deaths against LBGTQ+ people: in many places, these statistics do not exist, or vastly undercount. The act of collecting data on violence against LGBTQ+ is an of itself an act of resistance, a way of making harm visible.

But still, while these statistics can help make the case for LGBTQ+ Brazilians who need asylum, the laws on the books can make it hard for queer and trans people to seek asylum outside of Brazil, because laws make it look like the state is protecting them.

M: Yes, that’s an interesting point, because you’re bringing the perspective of people trying to leave Brazil. I work in the opposite direction: I work with people trying to come into Brazil.

Actually, we’ve noticed since last year—or maybe the last two years—a phenomenon where trans people, mostly trans men, are requesting asylum in Brazil from Arab countries like Morocco, Tunisia, and Turkey. We support them in getting their documentation, help them enroll in Portuguese classes, and guide them through the process of integrating into a new country. And the common thread among all these cases is this: Brazil is considered a safe country for trans people.

So, the perspective shifts depending on where you’re coming from. In legal terms, Brazil does offer protections. These people arrive and say, “I’m being threatened for being trans.” And CONARE (Brazil’s National Committee for Refugees, responsible for analyzing and deciding refugee status applications) has simplified the asylum process for LGBTQIA+ individuals by recognizing that, because they are criminalized in their countries of origin, they require faster processing. As a result, procedures like the credible fear interview are no longer necessary.

Now, I have heard of people wanting to leave Brazil, of course, but it is also important to remember that for many refugees, Brazil really is considered a safer place. In fact, many people originally intended to go to Europe, but stayed because Brazil opened its doors and allowed them to request asylum due to the threat of transphobic violence.

A: What does the process of seeking asylum in Brazil look like? Say someone arrives in Brazil from Tunisia, where do they begin? Is there a legal framework specifically for LGBTQ+ people seeking asylum?

M: First, there’s a specific process for Venezuelan migration. The Brazilian government created a response called “Operação Acolhida” (Operation Welcome). This operation sets up reception posts near the borders to simplify documentation and offer refugee status quickly to Venezuelans.

That process set a precedent: simplifying access to Brazil for people who are fleeing violence, which, in recent years, has expanded to include other asylum seekers as well.

For trans asylum seekers, the process of being recognized on government documents by their lived name is often complicated. In Brazil, trans people have a right to have their lived name appear on government documents. Even in your asylum application, you can use your chosen name. But there’s still issues. For instance, the ID card they give you—the Registro Nacional Migratório (National Migrant Registry)—lists your lived name on the front, but your deadname on the back. So we’re currently advocating for the elimination of that deadname on the ID card. But it is complicated, because the Brazilian government often asks for an updated birth certificate. For asylum seekers, this can pose huge barriers.

But Brazil also has strong social programs available to migrants. With a few exceptions, such as the right to vote, migrants and refugees in Brazil have the exact same right to access social assistance programs as Brazilian citizens. For example, in São Paulo, there are municipal programs that offer scholarships specifically for trans people. One of them is called “Transcidadania.” It offers scholarships to approximately 1,500 trans individuals so they can go back to school or complete their studies.

So Brazil offers, maybe not guarantees, but possibilities. This is to say: I don’t want to overly romanticize Brazil and the protections it afford LBGTQ+ people. But I also don’t want to deny the possibilities it offers compared to other countries.