When the Los Angeles Blade first reported the story of Jonathan David Muir Burgos, the news centered on a 16-year-old Cuban teenager who had been sent to prison after taking part in a public protest in Morón, Ciego de Ávila. At the time, the facts were straightforward. A minor had lost his freedom, and his case was beginning to attract attention beyond Cuba’s borders.

Today there is another fact that deserves to be recorded with the same rigor.

Jonathan is no longer in prison.

His release, confirmed by multiple news organizations, closes one chapter of a story that, for months, was followed by journalists, human rights organizations, religious communities, and countless individuals who refused to let his name disappear from public view. Each of them became part of a much larger effort to ensure that the imprisonment of a Cuban teenager would not fade into silence as the news cycle moved on.

That collective attention does not explain every decision that ultimately led to Jonathan’s release, and it would be irresponsible to suggest otherwise. Judicial processes are rarely shaped by a single factor. What can be said with certainty is that Jonathan’s story never disappeared. It continued to be documented, discussed and followed long after the initial headlines were published.

Behind every widely reported case there is a family living a reality that rarely appears in the news. In Jonathan’s case, there was a father who also serves as a Protestant pastor and who spent months speaking publicly about his son while asking others not to forget him. There was a mother enduring the uncertainty familiar to any parent separated from a child. There were classmates, friends, and neighbors waiting for the day when Jonathan would no longer be known as the teenager behind bars, but simply as the young man returning home.

The image of a prison gate opening often marks the end of a news story. In reality, it marks the beginning of something far more difficult. A teenager must resume an interrupted education, reconnect with friends, rebuild ordinary routines, and recover a sense of normalcy after months in confinement. Those experiences seldom become headlines, yet they are part of the true cost of imprisonment.

Jonathan’s release is therefore more than an update to a story previously reported. It is a reminder that public attention has value. Journalism matters because it documents. Human rights organizations matter because they investigate. Communities matter because they refuse indifference. Families matter because they continue to wait, even when the waiting becomes unbearable. None of these efforts should be viewed in isolation. Together they ensure that a person’s story does not disappear simply because time has passed.

Many people leave prison after being forgotten.

Jonathan David Muir Burgos walked out of prison knowing that, throughout those months, thousands of people had continued to speak his name, follow his case and hope for the day when this story could be told differently.

Today, that day has arrived.

As we come together this Pride Month to celebrate the progress of our LGBTQ+ communities, it also offers the opportunity to spotlight the health challenges that continue to affect many people across the spectrum of identity and experience. While conversations around equality and representation have advanced, important issues such as substance use disorders, mental health, trauma, and suicide prevention remain areas where more awareness, understanding, and support are vitally needed.

To further comprehend these topics, we spoke with Dr. Gary Mitrevolis, Medical Director of Laguna Treatment Center, an American Addiction Centers facility specializing in the treatment of substance use and co-occurring disorders. In our conversation, Dr. Mitrevolis shares on his insights into the unique factors contributing to substance use disparities within LGBTQ+ communities, the importance of affirming and trauma-informed care, and the powerful role that connection, community, and chosen family play in recovery and well-being.

Pride Month celebrates visibility and progress. What talks regarding LGBTQ+ health and well-being do you feel are in need of more attention right now?

The first would be substance use disorders. These individuals experience higher rates of alcohol, stimulant, tobacco, and other substance use disorders. Greater attention should be on evidence-based prevention and culturally competent treatment.

Second, but just as important, is suicide prevention.  There should be more focus on protective factors such as resilience building, community connectedness, and long-term interventions that reduce risk across the lifespan.  

Lastly, the intersection of trauma and LGBTQ+ health. Many of these individuals have experienced bullying, family rejection, intimate partner violence, homelessness, or other forms of trauma.  Trauma-informed approaches are essential but often overlooked in health discussions.  

Research shows higher rates of substance use disorders (SUDs) within our LGBTQ+ community. What are some of the factors that fuel this disparity?

There are several factors that fuel this disparity. Chronic exposure to stigma, discrimination, prejudice, and fear of rejection creates ongoing psychological stress, which can lead to increased vulnerability to anxiety, depression, PTSD, and substance use as a coping mechanism. Many of these individuals also experience rejection by family, religious communities, or peers. Family rejection is associated with increased rates of depression, suicidality, homelessness, and substance use. 

Historically, bars and clubs served as important safe spaces for LGBTQ+ individuals to gather and find community. While these spaces provided social support, they also normalized alcohol use and, in some cases, recreational drug use. 

Are there common themes or experiences that frequently emerge in the recovery journeys of our queer comrades?

While everyone’s recovery journey is different, several themes commonly emerge among these individuals in recovery. Many of them describe healing from shame. They describe carrying shame related to their identity, their substance use, or both. Recovery often involves separating self-worth from messages they received about being “different” or “unacceptable”.  Addressing internalized stigma can be a major turning point.  

Furthermore, experiences such as bullying, family rejection, discrimination, violence, or social exclusion are frequently reported. Many discover that recovery requires addressing these underlying wounds rather than focusing solely on abstinence. Some work to repair relationships with family members, while others establish boundaries with unsupportive people and cultivate healthier relationships elsewhere.  

Many folks have heard the term “minority stress,” but may not fully understand it. How does minority stress affect mental health and increase the likelihood of use?

Minority stress is the most widely accepted explanation for why LGBTQ+ individuals experience disproportionately higher numbers of mental health conditions and substance use disorders. This model proposes that chronic exposure to stigma, discrimination, prejudice, and fear of rejection creates ongoing psychological stress. This stress can increase rates of anxiety, depression, and PTSD, which can lead to substance use as a way to manage one of these conditions.  

From what you have seen, what role does trauma play in the relationship between LGBTQ+ identity and SUDs?

LGBTQ+ youth report higher rates of bullying, harassment, physical assault, sexual victimization, and other adverse childhood experiences. Trauma is a well-established risk factor for the development of SUDs, since substance use is a common maladaptive coping mechanism. 

What difficulties specific to our community do folks come up against when seeking treatment?

Stigma and discrimination remain significant obstacles. Many LGBTQ+ individuals have experienced judgment, rejection, or misunderstanding from healthcare providers, leading to mistrust of the healthcare system and reluctance to seek help. Concerns about being treated differently because of one’s sexual orientation or gender identity may cause a person to delay or avoid treatment altogether. Furthermore, a lack of culturally competent and affirming providers can create additional barriers. Patients may feel misunderstood when providers make assumptions about relationships, identity, or life experiences.  For transgender and gender-diverse individuals, concerns about misgendering, lack of access to gender affirming care, or inadequate provider knowledge can further hinder engagement.  

For someone entering treatment for their first go, what signs indicate that a program is genuinely affirming, inclusive, and ready to adequately support LGBTQ+ clients?

Signs of a genuinely affirming program include staff who consistently use a client’s chosen name and pronouns, intake forms that respectfully recognize diverse identities, and providers who demonstrate knowledge of LGBTQ+ health concerns without making assumptions. Look for visible non-discrimination policies, LGBTQ+ inclusive groups and educational materials, trauma-informed care, and a culture of respect and psychological safety. Ask if staff receive LGBTQ+ competency training and whether the program has experience treating these clients. Most importantly, you should feel welcomed, respected, and able to discuss your identity without fear of judgment.  

How can healthcare providers create environments where LGBTQ+ patients feel safe discussing substance use, mental health concerns, and recovery goals?

Healthcare providers can foster trust by using inclusive, nonjudgmental language, respecting chosen names and pronouns, and demonstrating cultural humility. Creating a welcoming environment, ensuring confidentiality, and acknowledging the impact of stigma, discrimination, and trauma can encourage open discussions. Providers should use trauma-informed, affirming approaches and invite conversations about substance use, mental health, and recovery goals without assumptions, helping patients feel respected, understood, and supported.  

Have you seen a direct correlation between culturally competent or affirming care and significantly improved treatment engagement or recovery results?

Absolutely! At my treatment center, I’ve seen culturally competent, affirming care improve treatment engagement, retention, and patient satisfaction by fostering trust and psychological safety.  When LGBTQ+ patients feel respected and understood, they are more likely to disclose their underlying concerns and recovery challenges. In our program, this has led to more accurate assessments, stronger therapeutic relationships, better adherence to treatment recommendations, and, ultimately, improved mental health and recovery outcomes.  

SUDs often co-occur with anxiety, depression, and other mental health diagnoses. How important is it to address these issues together rather than independently?

It is critical to treat substance use and mental health disorders concurrently. These conditions are often reciprocally co-aggravating, meaning each can worsen the other. Failure to adequately address one condition may undermine recovery and lead to worsening symptoms, relapse, impaired functioning, and poor overall outcomes.  

How do community and chosen family impact folks overcoming addiction?

Community and chosen family can be powerful protective factors in recovery. They provide acceptance, connection, accountability, emotional support, and help to reduce isolation and shame. Strong social support is associated with improved treatment engagement, lower relapse risk, greater resilience, and more sustained long-term recovery. It is important that they also support sobriety, as substance-using family and social networks can increase relapse risk and trigger cravings.  

What advice would you give to family members or friends who want to support an LGBTQ+ loved one who is dealing with substance use but isn’t ready to or sure where to begin?

Start by listening without judgment and expressing concern with compassion rather than criticism.  Encourage professional help, offer practical support, and, most importantly, remain patient. Recovery is often a process, and feeling loved, accepted, and supported can make it easier for someone to take the first step toward treatment. Learn both about addiction and  LGBTQ+ experiences since understanding and acceptance can be powerful factors in helping someone get the help they need.  

For someone who is hesitant to seek help because they’ve had past negative healthcare experiences, what would you want them to know?

Past negative experiences are real and can make seeking help more difficult. Know that many providers and treatment programs today are affirming, trauma-informed, and committed to respectful care. You deserve to be treated with dignity, and finding the right provider can make a meaningful difference in your recovery journey.  

What policy changes could make the most significant difference in reducing addiction rates within LGBTQ+ populations?

Policies that reduce discrimination, improve access to affordable mental health and substance use treatment, expand LGBTQ+ affirming healthcare, and strengthen anti-bullying and anti-harassment protections could significantly reduce addiction risk. Increasing housing stability, family support services, and access to culturally competent care can help address many of the underlying social and emotional factors that contribute to substance use disorders.  

As we celebrate Pride Month, what’s the most important message you’d like LGBTQ+ folks in recovery to hear?

Recovery does not require you to change who you are. It allows you to become more fully yourself.  Your identity is not a barrier to recovery; it is a source of strength. You deserve love, belonging, and support exactly as you are. No matter how difficult the journey has been, there is hope and a life of purpose, connection, and authenticity waiting for you.  

Dr. Gary Mitrevolis is the Medical Director of Laguna Treatment Center, an American Addiction Centers facility specializing in the treatment of substance use and co-occurring disorders.

by Karen Ocamb and Trudy King

Puffed-up reality TV star Donald J. Trump is losing in his presidential approval ratings. The tacky, amoral 80-year-old billionaire whose “epic corruption in plain sight” is the mainstay for bestselling books comparing him to a mafia don – is becoming the grifter even snarky followers are starting to question and despise.

Trump is okay with Iran keeping ballistic missiles? “They have to have some, because other people have some. You got to have some…” Trump explained at a Group of Seven (G7) press conference on Wednesday, June 17, in France.

Trump told CNBC that negotiations with Iran were starting to “get very boring.” He “professed indifference about a range of issues that carry deep political consequences for him, including the midterm elections and the financial situation that Americans are facing,” the New York Times reported.

After the G7 meeting, Trump insulted the Italian Prime Minister, saying she “begged” for a photo with him. She publicly called him a liar and cancelled a state visit.

Trump declared victory and signed a thin Memo of Understanding at the historically stained palace at Versailles to free up the blocked Straits of Hormuz, though no Iranians attended the signing. His war of choice “cost the lives of 13 U.S. service members and more than 3,300 Iranians,” NPR reported. “Another 3,826 have been killed in Lebanon, nearly 60 in Israel, and dozens across Gulf states.”

NPR adds: “Moody’s Analytics estimates the war has cost U.S. consumers and taxpayers about $132 billion so far, and the meter is still running.”

War-watchers were apoplectic. Israel sees Trump’s MOU as a “catastrophic capitulation” to the Islamic Republic.

“This is a jaw-dropping, horrific surrender document complete with hundreds of billions in reparations,” former national security adviser Susan Rice posted Thursday on X.

“This will go down as a tremendous foreign policy blunder,” Sen. Bill Cassidy (R-La.) posted on X.

Trump doesn’t seem to care. Despite the obvious 9/11-level national security concerns, he installed totally inexperienced loyalist Bill Pulte as acting Director of National Intelligence (DNI) to use reams of intelligence data to investigate Trump’s enemies.

On Sunday, June 14, Trump threw himself an emoluments-busting corporate-sponsored UFC cage match birthday party on the South Lawn of the White House, using military heroes as props and racially smearing Michelle Obama.

Two days later, the Washington Post revealed that taxpayers will be charged $300 million of Trump’s now-$600 million vanity ballroom project. Meanwhile, Trump’s $14.2 million no-bid contract attempt to fix the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool left it with green algae and peeling blue paint and scores of social media memes.

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Constituents still ask about the unreleased 2.5 million documents in the Justice Department’s Epstein files and if Trump will keep pushing his $1.8 billion “Anti-Weaponization Fund” (“slush fund”) for pardoned Jan-6ers with its get-out-of-jail settlement freeing Trump and his family from any current and future enforcement of tax issues.

Meanwhile, there’s administration-fueled election interference, from killing the Voting Rights Act, to sending ICE to polling places and pushing for the SAVE Act (Safeguard American Voter Eligibility Act) that would require Americans to show documentary proof of U.S. citizenship to register to vote in federal elections.

“Republicans know that they’re losing. They know people are upset about what our economy looks like now, what our country looks like now. And instead of trying to win fair and square, they’re trying to pass bills like the SAVE Act to cheat,” says San Diego Rep. Sara Jacobs (D- CA-51^st), an LGBTQ+ ally with a trans brother.

Trump’s obsessions have “nothing to do with America,” says out Mary L. Trump about her uncle Donald on her Substack, The Good in Us. “He is a deeply psychologically disordered human being who had very severe developmental issues and grew up in a family run by an authoritarian, patriarchal sociopath, my grandfather, who valued nothing but money.

“When you grow up in a family in which money is literally the only currency, it stands in for everything else. It stands in for love, respect, and affection,” Mary Trump said on Tuesday, June 16th, 2026.

Two days later, on the eve of Juneteenth, at the sunshine-filled grand opening of the new Obama Presidential Center on the South Side of Chicago, regular people got to feel the laughter and joy of sharing new hope together.

Michelle Obama was elegant and accessible, moving her husband to tears as she publicly praised him for his service.

“How absurd it is to imagine that you might have done anything but make our family and this entire country proud. No, you were too busy doing the people’s work,” she said.

“Failing to see the humanity in all people puts us all on a slippery slope. And once that slide starts, there’s no telling where it stops. A dangerous precedent that flies in the very face of our faith. And of the founding promise of this democracy that all of us, all of us are created equal, that each of us is a child of God with inherent value,” she continued. “And no one, and I mean no one, has the right to sit in judgment of who’s American enough.”

Barack Obama shared his history with Chicago and his appreciation for an evolving American history.

“In forming our union, the founders fell terribly short of the declarations promised, leaving slavery intact, allowing states to restrict the franchise to white men who owned property,” Barack Obama said. “But in drafting a constitution and a Bill of Rights, they did have the foresight, the genius, to provide us with a framework that allows each generation to make our union more perfect.”

“It is our greatest inheritance,” he continued. “The story of America at its best, because it reflects a basic faith in the decency of our fellow citizens and the possibility that, despite all of our differences, we can see each other and understand one another and make common cause together.”

The celebration on Chicago’s South Side was the other side of America’s split screen, beaming a new hope for America. It is a vision many LGBTQ+ people have already put into action.

“We have seen more candidates apply for our candidate trainings and endorsements than we ever have before,” said Evan Low, president and CEO of the LGBTQ+ Victory Fund. “When there is hostility, we run toward the front lines.”

Victory Fund has endorsed 230 Democratic candidates for local, state, and federal office so far in the 2026 election cycle, and that number is expected to grow. The organization backs candidates who are both out and viable, are committed to advancing LGBTQ+ equality, and have taken supportive positions on key issues, such as transgender rights and reproductive freedom. In 2024, Victory Fund ended up endorsing nearly 500 candidates.

Low is excited about candidates at all levels, he said. At the federal level, he sees LGBTQ+ candidates as key to keeping current Democratic seats and winning new ones.

For the U.S. Senate, Victory Fund has endorsed Angie Craig of Minnesota and Chris Pappas of New Hampshire, both current members of the House who are running for the Senate seats being vacated by Tina Smith and Jeanne Shaheen, respectively. If they win, they would join the only other out U.S. senator, lesbian Tammy Baldwin of Wisconsin, who was elected in 2024 to a third six-year term.

“It’s a lonely task to be one out of 100,” Low said of Baldwin.

Craig, a lesbian, flipped her House seat from Republican to Democrat in 2019. In the upcoming primary, her major competitor is Lt. Gov. Peggy Flanagan, who leads in most polls. Flanagan has been endorsed by Smith and several prominent progressive senators, including Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren. Craig’s endorsement list is impressive, as well – including Baldwin, out House colleagues Sarah McBride and Mark Takano, House Democratic leader Hakeem Jeffries, Speaker Emerita Nancy Pelosi, and out former Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg.

Craig’s campaign has also raised more money than Flanagan’s, according to a recent article in The Minnesota Star Tribune. Donors and political action committees consider Craig “more moderate” and “better positioned to ensure the seat remains blue come November,” the paper reported.

The primary is August 11, but early voting begins June 26. The leading candidate among Republicans is Michele Tafoya, a conservative commentator.

Pappas, who is far ahead of his Democratic rival Karishna Manzur in most polls, would be the first out gay man in the Senate. He’s been in the House since 2019. Their primary is September 8. The front-runner on the Republican side is John Sununu, a former one-term U.S. senator.

In 2024, one of Pappas’ votes angered supporters of trans rights. He joined a bipartisan group that voted for a defense spending bill that barred the military’s insurance plan from covering gender-affirming care for trans minors, affecting the children of service members. He was the only out member of Congress supporting the bill, which was eventually signed into law by President Joe Biden. Pappas said he strongly opposed that provision but that his vote represented his support for the military.

Asked about Pappas’ vote, Low said the electorate will judge him on his overall record that includes mostly perfect 100 scores on the Human Rights Campaign’s Congressional Scorecard, though his defense bill vote dropped him to 95 in that session. He has the HRC PAC’s endorsement in this election, along with Victory Fund and Equality PAC.

In California, out State Senator Scott Wiener is running for the San Francisco-based House seat that Pelosi has held since 1987; she’s retiring. He advanced in the June 2 jungle primary with 41 percent of the vote; fellow Democrat Connie Chan, who had Pelosi’s endorsement, had 30 percent. Wiener would be the first out congressmember from the Bay Area.

“He is not just a member of our community but a champion,” said Low, who served in the California legislature with Wiener. They worked together on a ballot measure to repeal the anti–marriage equality Proposition 8, which was unenforceable since the 2013 Supreme Court ruling but remained on the books. The repeal was successful.

Farther south, bisexual Marni von Wilpert, a San Diego City Council member, advanced in her primary in California’s 48^th Congressional District and will face Republican Jim Desmond, who’s on the San Diego County Board, in the general election. The district is currently represented by Republican Darrell Issa, who’s retiring, so if Von Wilpert wins, it will be a pickup for the Democrats.

In Florida, Shevrin Jones, a Black gay state senator, recently declared his candidacy in the safely Democratic Miami-area 24^th Congressional District, seeking to succeed Frederica Wilson, who’s retiring. Jones is one of four Dems in the August 18 primary. If he wins, he would be the only out U.S. House member from the South. That distinction is now held by Julie Johnson of Texas, but she’ll be leaving, having lost her primary to Colin Allred after her district was redrawn.

Around the country, there are chances to gain Democratic power on the state level, as well, Low noted. Greta Neubauer, a queer woman, is the minority leader in the Wisconsin Assembly. But if the Dems pick up five seats, she’s in line to be speaker—the first woman and first queer person in that post. Likewise, out Arizona House Minority Leader Oscar de los Santos stands to be the speaker if the Democrats flip a few seats.

There are also significant numbers of trans candidates stepping up. “It can be perceived that members of the trans community are liabilities—we think they are great assets,” Low said.

The LGBTQ+ Victory Institute, a sibling organization of Victory Fund, held a training session for aspiring trans candidates last year, along with Advocates for Trans Equality. There were 15 slots available and 80 applicants, Low said.

“This is where we have great momentum and great energy,” Low said of the trans community.

Among the trans candidates Victory Fund has endorsed this year are Bentley Hudgins for the Georgia House of Representatives, who would be the first out trans and nonbinary legislator in the Deep South; Kim Coco Iwamoto, for reelection to the Hawaii House; Aime Wichtendahl, for reelection to the Iowa House; Precious Brady-Davis, for reelection to the Metropolitan Water Reclamation District of Greater Chicago Board of Commissioners; and Josie Caballero, running for the Montgomery County Council, who would be the first out trans official in Maryland.

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Low emphasized that state and local elections are important not only to shape policy at those levels but also to provide a pipeline of experienced officials to run for Congress—and perhaps beyond.

“We’re going all in, and the path back to the White House is through the rainbow,” Low said.

This is a cross-post from Karen’s LGBTQ+ Freedom Fighters Substack.

At the moment, some religious and political leaders in Africa are pushing for a charter on family values, lobbying lawmakers, African state institutions, and the African Union to formally adopt it. In the past number of years, they have been holding conferences across Africa with the support and funding of Western religious donors who, in their own countries, are definitely perceived as racist, hateful, and against women. Most recently, they convened the African Regional Interparliamentary Conference on Family Values and Sovereignty in Accra, Ghana. All this raises critical questions about foreign influence and agendas. At this critical time, when Africa faces so many problems, why do people insist on pushing an agenda that is neither ours nor relevant to our prosperity?

The African leaders who claim to protect African family values and sovereignty, unsurprisingly, exhibit traits similar to those of the historical enslavers and similar collaborators. Contrary to what they claim as “pushing back against foreign influence on the African family” and the infamous sovereignty claims, it has been proven that these leaders are directly linked and backed by the conservative “foreign” groups, including the U.S.-based hate organization, Family Watch International, which is closely linked to the anti-rights authors of Trump’s Project 2025, Heritage Foundation; and the Netherlands-based Christian nationalist organization, Christian Council International, another group closely linked to organizations supporting the Trump administration and its continued hate-based policies and atrocities. One might even argue that they serve these groups, their mandates, and their Western agenda, instead of what they want African people to believe: that they are doing this for the good and prosperity of Africa and its sovereignty. The truth, however, is that their so-called African values, culture, traditions, etcetera, could not be further removed from true African cultural values but instead mimic those outlined in America’s Project 2025. Meanwhile, the very same people who are pushing for these family values under Project 2025 are the very same people pushing for the exploitation of Africa’s natural resources, without any care for the impact their actions have on African people and their livelihoods. Adopting their policies verbatim in Africa and claiming them as our own could easily be seen as counterintuitive and self-betrayal.

Africa’s rich history of family, diversity, womanhood, and matriarchy is too beautiful to erase. Africans, especially women and girls, deserve to know about the likes of Queen Modjadji of the Balobedu people, a fierce leader who is traditionally believed to have rainmaking abilities and notably a distinctively matriarchal dynasty where the reign is passed down from woman to woman, from mother to daughter; or Queen Nzinga of modern-day Angola, who led an army that resisted and fought against the Portuguese colonizers. Queer folks and African spiritualists alike deserve to know how women and gender diverse persons held some of the highest spiritual positions in society, like Mbuya Nehanda of Zimbabwe, who was a deeply respected spirit medium and a leader of the resistance against early colonial rule in Zimbabwe, and the transgender priests, the respected agule and okule, female-to-male and male-to-female shamans of the Lugbara, now the Democratic Republic of Congo and Uganda, who led spiritual ceremonies. Even though the mudoko dako of the Langi people in Uganda were known to have been assigned male at birth, they were recognized as a distinct gender that was allowed to marry men. Africans must also know about woman-to-woman marriages that existed in pre-colonial Africa, which, according to research and oral histories, were recognised and served various purposes, from economic and social functions to lineage preservation. Similar practices include those from the Bapedi and Balobedu cultures, ngwetsi ya lapa, which still exists today, where a woman is married into a family or household to raise an heir for the family or to continue the family name, not necessarily the lineage. 

As well-intentioned as it may appear, evidence suggests that the African leaders’ draft charter, because of its existing ties to Western ultraconservative partnerships, is neither original nor in good faith. The pace at which they have been moving and their true subsequent agenda should indisputably be questioned and criticised. Regardless of the inclusion of desirable language and terms such as minerals sovereignty and the Ubuntu philosophy, beneath the surface, the charter does not truly reflect these concepts. The charter, instead, does a disservice to African people by misrepresenting Africa’s diversity and disregarding its history as it relates to the diversity of families. The West has no business drafting or helping draft African legislation, especially if the whole of Africa is at risk of their negative impact. One would think the common goal would be to address bread-and-butter issues, such as poverty, unemployment, diseases, and health, to name but a few, instead of pushing the distractive agenda of those responsible for robbing Africa in the first place. No single group is the sole custodian of African knowledge. Africa belongs to all of us, with our diverse families and values, which cannot be defined through a single, narrow lens and are instead very individual issues that will differ from family to family. 

Daniel Digashu is a consultant at the Southern Africa Litigation Center (SALC). SALC promotes and advances human rights and the rule of law in Southern Africa, primarily through strategic litigation and capacity-strengthening support to lawyers and grassroots organizations.

I have spent the past eight years leading programs at Rainbow Railroad that support LGBTQI+ people fleeing persecution and violence. What began as a small, volunteer-led effort has grown over the past two decades into an international organization that has supported more than 50,000 people around the world. That growth reflects what is possible when communities choose solidarity in the face of rising hate. 

Yet the forces that make Rainbow Railroad’s work necessary have not diminished. In many places, they are accelerating, including in countries like the United States that have historically been viewed as places of refuge for LGBTQI+ people. 

In 2025, Rainbow Railroad received a record 20,215 requests for help from people around the world. Over 30 percent of these requests came from people living in the U.S., making it the top country of origin for LGBTQI+ people seeking assistance for the second year in a row. It’s a trend that began following the 2024 presidential election, when 1,177 people reached out for support the day after the results were finalized. That single day generated more than twice the number of requests for help we had received from across the United States during the previous 10 months combined. 

The fears reflected in the requests for help we received during those first hours were well-founded. With the stroke of a pen, on his first day in office, the president suspended the US Refugee Admissions Program (USRAP), upending the lives of refugees who were already processed and approved for resettlement in the U.S. Many of these individuals remain in limbo. 

Months later, the president authorized a cap of just 7,500 refugees to resettle in the U.S. for fiscal year 2026 and ordered a review of refugees admitted under former President Joe Biden. At the same time, he cut asylum-related services and legal support, making it even harder for vulnerable migrants to navigate an increasingly complex system. 

Despite these barriers and increasing hostility, LGBTQI+ individuals continue to seek safety in the United States, often relying on their own resources and determination to flee to the pockets of safety in cities and states that protect their rights. 

It is in that spirit that I’ve witnessed the community stepping up to support LGBTQI+ migrants. 

Following the collapse of federal programs such as Welcome Corps, which allowed Americans to sponsor refugees looking to resettle in the U.S. Rainbow Railroad launched Communities of Care, a volunteer-driven ecosystem of post-relocation services for LGBTQI+ migrants. Across 

the country, volunteers are helping newcomers navigate unfamiliar systems, build social connections, and begin rebuilding their lives.

While volunteers’ commitment has been extraordinary, community-led efforts cannot replace the infrastructure governments have dismantled. Volunteers can offer community, guidance and practical support, but they cannot replace refugee resettlement programs, legal services, or a functioning asylum system. As need grows and public support shrinks, the gap between what communities can provide and what governments should provide continues to widen. 

I think often about the LGBTQI+ people Rainbow Railroad helped reach safety in the U.S. over the years. For many, the United States represented possibility, a place where they could finally live openly and without fear. To now see the U.S. become the country generating more requests for help than any other is profoundly alarming. 

The question on my mind this Pride month is whether we will collectively meet this moment with the urgency it demands. Governments must restore and strengthen refugee and asylum protections. Volunteers must step up to provide connections to care and community. Donors must support organizations in filling critical gaps. And all of us must recognize that welcoming LGBTQI+ people seeking safety is a responsibility we all share. 

Devon Matthews is the chief programs officer for Rainbow Railroad.

I am chaotic enough to choose a controversial headline, but only to underline the importance of this pretty existential question. It’s Pride Month, and as we combat shame with pride, it does beg the question: Do we need more?

Does the average queer person have hope? It’s less a question of whether there is hope for us as a community but more in their day-to-day life as they navigate the modern political hellscape, stressful economy, petty problems, dating, and a post-AI world … Does the average queer person have hope?

I look at the people in my life. We persevere. We hustle. Some of my friends keep their heads down and live heteronormative lives with jobs, weekend brunches, and manageable lives. I have other friends who think life is happening to or at them. One crisis or drama after the other. 

I also have friends who want to make change, whether it’s healing people, inspiring joy, or creating community. 

A lot of people are living with shitty attitudes and a chip on their shoulder, and others are galvanized to make the world a better place. The question arises…does the core wound, whether it’s bullying, abandonment from our family, or even just that prevailing feeling of being “different,” rob us of hope?

I can’t not address the elephant in office, and that the current cultural and political climate does feel like a bad Care Bears movie where our hope is being sucked away to power a machine that eats rainbows or sucks the love from the planet. I question if, just like Pride, is this one of the things we have to reclaim?

I’ll be honest, I never saw myself making it to 30, let alone turning 30 for another 11 years. When you add to all of life’s problems the questionable way queers treat each other, it’s not surprising there’s a bit of hope deficiency. 

But if you stop and think about it, do you have hope? Whether you are celebrating Pride because you love color and joy, or in spite of homophobes, or because you love day drinking while we have reclaimed Pride, I think we need to start reclaiming other things like love, joy, and hope. 

As Christian nationalism perverts the beliefs that their own book preaches, as queer people, we are confronted with a unique opportunity. This is not to say we should convert or even turn the other cheek, but what if we take more accountability for the world we live in? We can start by having a little bit more hope in the future that it can be better. Hope in ourselves that we can help make it better, and hope in our fellow queer brethren that they are doing the best they can. 

When I see the pressure put on members of our community. We are supposed to have no problematic ties, endorse all the right politics, and never say the wrong thing. But where is not being an asshole?

I think if we have more hope in our community, it automatically brings more grace, patience, and respect. If we have hope in our own future, we can come up with solid ideas and strategies to tackle the world we’re in. If we have more hope in ourselves, we can shake off the harmful narratives and toxic strategies we had to develop to survive, to be the best we can be. A bit of a meditation on hope for the future, and thinking about how much we can inspire each other. 

Now, I will admit I do think the queer community will always have hope. We are survivors. We experience the world from a different perspective, which gives us a different angle, more empathy, and a natural jumping-off point for improvement. I just hope that we can all do our part to reclaim hope as much as we do Pride, because then maybe we can all feel as free as the hottie in the thong dancing on a float or that baby gay at their first Pride. The potential of our future is all contingent on the hope that we feed it with.

Each year when Juneteenth comes around, I find myself thinking about what exactly people are objecting to when they criticize and devalue why we celebrate this day. When you strip away the political talking points and culture war rhetoric, Juneteenth commemorates the widespread emancipation of people who were literally owned by other people. People who were bought, sold, beaten, raped, separated from their families, denied their humanity, and treated as property. If you cannot get behind celebrating the end of that system, then what exactly are you defending? 

To me, there is something far too revealing about the resistance to Juneteenth. When someone cannot celebrate the liberation of a people who were treated like animals, that in and of itself is animalistic behavior. It is savage, and it speaks to a moral failure that should concern all of us.

As a first-generation Nigerian American and a Black queer man, Juneteenth carries a particular weight for me. I did not descend directly from enslaved African Americans, but I live every day with the reality that American society does not stop to distinguish between our different histories before making assumptions about us. Society sees Blackness first, and the consequences of that perception are far too real.

I feel it in the way Black people are scrutinized more heavily than others. I feel it in professional spaces where certain behaviors are criticized when they come from us, but celebrated when they come from our white counterparts. I feel it when our competence is questioned, our motives are doubted, or our presence is treated as conditional. And I certainly feel it when conversations about race arise.

One of the most exhausting aspects of living as a Black person in the United States is not overt racism. It is the endless gaslighting. It is the constant devil’s advocacy. It is being told that what you experienced did not happen the way you know it happened. We point out disparities and are told we are imagining them. We identify discrimination and are told to consider another perspective. We speak about systemic racism and are met with lectures about personal responsibility. The burden somehow always falls on us to prove that what we are experiencing is real.

Yet systemic racism remains embedded in policies, laws, institutional practices, and social norms. It may not always look like the racism of past decades or generations, but that does not make it any less consequential. History does not disappear simply because it becomes less convenient to acknowledge. 

This is part of why I worry about the future of Juneteenth. I am honestly surprised the current administration has not yet targeted it more aggressively, but I do not assume it is safe. We are living at a time when African American history is increasingly treated as something controversial rather than foundational to understanding the United States. Across the country, efforts to erase, sanitize, or dismantle honest conversations about race and history carry on under the guise of neutrality.

When people attack the teaching of Black history, they often claim they are trying to move beyond division. In reality, they are often trying to move beyond accountability. You cannot learn from a history you refuse to confront. You cannot heal wounds you insist never existed. And you cannot build solidarity while erasing the experiences of the people who need it most.

For me, Juneteenth is also about those moments of personal disappointment that so many Black people know intimately. The friend who says something hurtful and genuinely has no idea why it is offensive. The colleague who dismisses your concerns while insisting they support equality. The person who prides themselves on being progressive but remains blissfully unaware of the racial biases and microaggressions they commit time and time again. Those moments hurt because they reveal a dichotomy between how people see themselves and how they actually move through the world.

Many of us spend an enormous amount of energy navigating those situations carefully. We soften our language. We lower our voices. We package our concerns in the most delicate terms possible. We anticipate defensiveness before it arrives. We work overtime to protect white fragility and white ego from discomfort. And still, we are often accused of having the wrong tone.

What people rarely acknowledge is how often we stay silent instead. How many times we convince ourselves it is not worth the argument. How many slights we absorb because challenging them feels more exhausting than enduring them. Juneteenth reminds me that silence has never been the engine of progress. Progress has always come from people demanding to be seen as fully human.

Juneteenth is not a declaration that the work is finished. It is a celebration of a momentous step forward in a centuries-long battle for freedom, dignity, and equality. It acknowledges a historic victory while recognizing that the journey is far from finished.

This is why Juneteenth is important. It is much more than the lives and experiences of Black Americans. Juneteenth is about the kind of society we want to and should be. A society built for white people and against Black people is not a just society. It cannot be called equal. And it for damn sure cannot be called free.

Juneteenth asks us to confront this reality honestly. It asks us to remember that freedom delayed is freedom denied. It asks us to recognize that solidarity must be active. Juneteenth dares us to acknowledge and celebrate the people who kept fighting for liberation even when the nation repeatedly told them they were less than human. 

That is what Juneteenth means to me. A commitment to truth over comfort. A commitment to solidarity over indifference. A commitment to refusing complacency in the face of injustice and to standing with those whose freedom and humanity remain under attack. So Happy Juneteenth to all. And to those who attempt to negate this day, fuck off.

Uncertainty caused by executive orders, closures of programs in hospitals, and the heightened transphobia occurring in everyday life make the future of gender-affirming care (GAC) feel in doubt. GAC isn’t just hormone replacement therapy (HRT); it includes access to affirming health spaces where identities are respected and cared for, mental health support, substance/addiction treatment, puberty blockers, voice therapy, resources for social transitioning, and much more. We, as trans people, understand how life-saving it is to have access to all these services. The Williams Institute found that a majority of GAC providers are cisgender, which can create a wall of separation between these doctors and their patients. There need to be more ways to support more transgender people to enter this line of work to alleviate the disconnect. Closing this gap will improve outcomes for transgender patients, as transgender and non-binary GAC providers can see themselves in the care they provide.  

Research shows that Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC) patients are more comfortable with BIPOC doctors compared to white doctors. This ease is created through engaging in higher-quality communication and focusing on patient engagement and their needs. Having the comfort of a shared identity extends to transgender and non-binary patients when their provider is another transgender person. This can be due to transgender providers not asking uncomfortable (and many times blatantly transphobic) questions, better engaging with the patient to meet their healthcare goals, and thoroughly explaining treatment plans. From my own experience, it makes a big difference to have a trans provider when starting GAC. They are more likely to take the time to explain each available path, provide tips and tricks for medication, readily write appropriate referrals, and ease the worries about the process.

As part of a volunteer clinic team, I unfortunately saw a doctor insistently ask unnecessary questions and order tests that cause extreme discomfort and dysphoria. As our team debriefed about it later, I realized that it would take me, as a transgender person advocating for another transgender person, to find resources that would prevent this situation from happening again. This experience, so early in my career, reinforced how meaningful it can be for a transgender patient to have a transgender person on their care team. 

There are barriers outside of the clinic and politics that are not often highlighted. These barriers include housing status, navigating insurance approvals/denials, access to a phone, and substance use. Substance use, tobacco use specifically, is a disqualifier for getting access to top and bottom surgery due to smoking inhibiting blood flow, making it harder for the body to heal, and risking complications to the surgery. This barrier can be devastating after putting in the work to find a provider, just to be told you can’t access it while smoking. Therefore, having a provider acutely aware of the barriers trans people face when receiving care is important, as they will guide patients through different LGBTQ+ competent resources and how to navigate the different barriers.

At a time when GAC is being limited in every direction–clinics scaling back or shutting down services, providers leaving the practice out of fear, and critical research being defunded–we have to think intentionally about the future of this care and who will be there to provide it. We have to think about closing the gap between transgender people who want to serve the community and the medical system providing GAC. That includes making real investments in the people entering medicine now and creating pathways for transgender people looking to serve our communities through gender-affirming care. This can look like providing more scholarships for the transgender community to pursue higher education, creating mentorship programs between transgender providers and those looking to get into GAC, safe spaces where providers can debrief and share resources, and paid opportunities (like companions, scribes, medical assistants) to start their work in the field.

As we look toward the future of gender-affirming care, we need providers who are equipped to care for every patient with dignity and respect, regardless of identity. We also need to make space for transgender people who feel called to this work. For those of us who want to enter the field of GAC, that path should be protected, supported, and expanded. Because the future of this care depends not only on preserving access but also on ensuring the people providing it understand what is at stake and are informed about what affirming care truly means. 

Bio

River Wu (they/he) is an Asian transmasc person studying Human Biology at UCLA. They plan to attend medical school to specialize in gender-affirming care. River is currently interning with We Breathe, a program of the California LGBTQ Health and Human Services Network, hoping to uplift queer voices, especially those from the TGI (Transgender, Gender Non-Conforming, Intersex) community, to emphasize that we are not alone in our struggles and we will stand together in solidarity, no matter the circumstances.

It can be tempting to feel somber this Pride. In 2025 and 2026, the United States dismantled much of the LGBTQ+ rights infrastructure it had spent decades building — eliminating the Global Equality Fund, defunding local LGBTQ+ organizations, and banning the rainbow flag from federal buildings and embassies. India unexpectedly rolled back transgender rights in March, stripping away the hard-won right to self-identify. Senegal passed an abhorrent anti-LGBTQ+ law in April, and a similar one just cleared parliament in Ghana.

But this is only part of the story. 2026 is also the year Rob Jetten — a proud gay man — became prime minister of the Netherlands, the youngest in the country’s history. It is the year Thailand celebrated the first anniversary of legalizing same-sex marriage, a historic first for Southeast Asia that is already influencing debates across the region. It is also the year “Heated Rivalry” became one of the most-watched shows on HBO, a global phenomenon.

In fact, LGBTQ+ people have never been more numerous, more visible, or more politically consequential than we are today. The question is not whether we have power. The question is whether we are using it to adapt to the emerging new world order.

Three geopolitical forces are redrawing the terrain. Borders and sovereignty are under renewed strain — this year showed us that the rules-based international order can no longer be taken for granted. Power politics is back at the center of global affairs, and when nations turn inward and militarize, those at the margins often pay the price first. And the institutions our movement has relied on most — governments, multilateral bodies, and multinational corporations — are proving unreliable allies.

The conclusion is that LGBTQ+ people cannot tie their future solely to the fortunes of liberal democracies. We need to come into our own power, and this turbulent moment may offer an opportunity to do so.

This requires a change in strategy. The LGBTQ+ movement has largely understood itself as a national movement in the business of changing hearts and minds one country at a time: win the courts, shift public opinion, and trust that progress would spread from north to south. That model delivered real victories on decriminalization, anti-discrimination protections, military service, and marriage equality. But it is showing diminishing returns. Today, political movements, financial flows, cultural narratives, and AI models increasingly operate globally outside of normative frameworks. Our movement has not kept pace.

LGBTQ+ people globally constitute a population larger than that of the United States. Our collective economic power approaches $4 trillion. We shape culture disproportionately in film, fashion, technology, and the arts. We are no longer a niche constituency petitioning for tolerance. We are a global community with growing economic, cultural, and political influence.

Realizing that potential requires three things. The first is unity — not uniformity, but the strategic coherence that allows a dispersed global community to act with shared purpose. The second is infrastructure: organizations and networks capable of operating across borders, pooling resources, and articulating a vision people want to be a part of. The third is abandoning a Western-centric mindset: building deeper roots in emerging economies will be essential.

There is a broader point. LGBTQ+ people should not be reduced to merely enduring or surviving this moment. We are entering a turbulent period in which humanity faces serious challenges — armed conflict, climate disruption, and technologies advancing faster than governance. LGBTQ+ people have often had to imagine a different future before it existed — and build the communities to sustain it across borders, generations, and class lines. That experience gives us a comparative advantage in this global context.

Pride, at its best, has always been a declaration of existence and a demand for dignity. In 2026, it should become something more: a reckoning with how much power our community has accumulated — and how seriously we intend to wield it to shape what comes next.

Fabrice Houdart is a former World Bank and United Nations staff member. He has taught at Georgetown University and Columbia University, and chairs the Institute of Current World Affairs in D.C.

I’ve only shared this secret once – in January 1994 with gay Jungian psychologist Don Kilhefner, who offered to help when he found me trembling and confused outside an AA meeting at Fairfax and Fountain in West Hollywood.

I was falling apart. My friend Michael Callen had just died a few weeks earlier, and now, with the Northridge earthquake, I’d lost my balance. I couldn’t trust the ground I stood on. I literally concentrated on taking every step.

I blurted out how I felt like I’d failed Michael. He lived down the street from me, was a fellow writer for Genre Magazine, and, having become friends, I was one of his care providers.

On a trip back home from a doctor’s appointment, he asked me if I would help him die. We’d talked about death before, so I wasn’t surprised. And because I felt guilty about refusing to help an AA buddy get drunk before he died, I said yes.

We made a plan. Over the AIDS years, many of us had learned when and how to “punch the bolo” – slang for pressing the button on a pain pump that delivered morphine into a patient’s blood system. Michael would organize a Christmas party in his room at Midway Hospital, and when he was ready, he’d say goodbye, ask people to leave, and I’d punch the bolo.

And that’s what we did. Michael nodded to me, said he was ready, and I punched the bolo – and nothing happened.

We were shocked. Michael had a pained “Oh, NO!” look on his face. He was ready! It was time! Eight months earlier, with KS in his lungs, he sang “Love Don’t Need a Reason” at the 1993 March on Washington and proudly held that last note longer than Barbra Streisand. Recently, with KS turning his right leg into a cement pound of purple flesh, we’d written his goodbye to the community for Genre. He was done.

I punched again. Nothing. Panicked, I ran to the nurse’s office and said told a nurse the morphine wasn’t coming through. She came and checked the pump. It had already dispensed the medication and was on a timer. But we can’t wait, I said, with Michael nodding in his bed. She turned and left.

I clutched Michael’s arm as Dr. Robbie Jenkins came into the room. He was a gay, well-liked AIDS doctor. We trusted him. He flicked the tube and checked everything as I pleaded with him – Michael was ready and wanted to die. Robbie – whom I knew through author Paul Monette – pulled me aside and explained that assisted suicide was illegal, and while he understood, Michael was too famous for him to let that happen here, now.

Robbie apologized, then left. He’d get in trouble and maybe even lose his license if anyone even knew he was having this conversation with me.

Michael was devastated. But for some reason, he seemed to surrender and breathe and decided he was going to die when he was going to die. Meanwhile, let’s get back to Christmas.

I was devastated, too, apologizing, apologizing, apologizing. Michael told me to let it go. It was alright. It wasn’t, and I never forgot.

Michael died two days later. I helped him reconcile with this family in Hamilton, Ohio, before he died. That caused some controversy – but I didn’t care.

He stirred out of his coma when I put the phone to his ear as he listened to his brother Barry, his father Clifford, and his mother, Barbara, say goodbye. A tear rolled down the right side of his cheek as he managed to say, “I love you, too,” to his mother. He was done and fell back into a coma, letting go about two hours later. He was 38.

Michael Callen was famous. And important. And he saved a lot of lives through his AIDS self-empowerment messages, his book Surviving AIDS, and originating “safer sex” through How to Have Sex in an Epidemic: One Approach with Richard Berkowitz and their doctor and mentor, Dr. Joseph Sonnabend.

And Michael was a singer. And a feminist. And a friend. And that’s the heartbreak for so many of us who find ourselves longing for the love we shared, for triumphing over the challenges to our humanity, to the spiritual vanguard we became.

“Living with AIDS is like living in wartime, only in the twilight zone,” Michael once said in a speech. “A majority of your fellow citizens don’t seem to realize there’s a war going on, don’t hear the bombs dropping, the shells whizzing past your head, don’t have to step over the dead bodies of friends and loved ones.”

But we knew. Sometimes in the pain and darkness, a hand will clasp another hand and squeeze for a moment. Life. Recognition. Dignity. And a self-empowering choice we honored with love.

On February 10, 1993, I introduced Michael to the remarkable and kind Daniel P. Warner, founder of LA Shanti, the first AIDS organization in LA. Michael was there to accept an award during LA Shanti’s Peter Allen Memorial Tribute Concert at UCLA. Among the many stars there that night was Miss America 1993, Leanza Cornett, who served as Danny’s date. Danny died on his 38^th birthday on June 14, 1993.

I may have failed Michael when he expected and needed my help. But I also promised to never forget him – and I haven’t. And that memory is evidence of our shared humanity.

The night of the tribute, Michael sang “Love Don’t Need a Reason,” which he co-wrote with Peter Allen and Marsha Malamet. It still rings true today.

This is a cross-post from Karen’s LGBTQ+ Freedom Fighters Substack.