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Pedophilia Claim Exposes Rift In The “Pro-Family” Movement

The World Congress of Families closes today amid debate how to continue to oppose same-sex marriage without being anti-LGBT. “Ten years ago people could say, ‘The homosexual movement is coming for America,’ and now you can’t,” one leader told BuzzFeed News.

Posted originally on Buzzfeed News on October 30, 2015, at 4:58 p.m. ET

SALT LAKE CITY — When the father of Republican presidential candidate Ted Cruz said Wednesday that the “next thing [LGBT activists] are going to push [is] to try to legalize pedophiles,” the idea wasn’t new to the organization that was hosting him.

Rafael Cruz, an evangelical pastor, made the remark following a panel at a conference that drew more than 3,000 people from around the world to Salt Lake City called the World Congress of Families. Since the event first grew out of a wonky conversation between American and Russian academics in 1995, it has grown into an event bringing together social conservative activists from every continent and a top target of groups like the Human Rights Campaign (HRC).

Many associated with the organization have raised the specter of pedophilia as part of making the case against greater social and legal acceptance for homosexuality over its 20-year history. That same morning, for example, WCF gave an award to Andrea Minichiello Williams of the British group Christian Concern, who said in a 2013 speech to Jamaican activists fighting repeal of the country’s sodomy law that LGBT advocates “hate the line of homosexuality being linked to pedophilia. They try to cut that off, so you can’t speak about it. So I say to you in Jamaica: Speak about it.”

So even some of the WCF’s participants were surprised when the conference’s lead organizer, Janice Shaw Crouse, issued a statement saying that Cruz’s views “are not those of the World Congress of Families,” which “advocates for life and the natural family in a civil, constructive and transparent way.”

The episode is a sign of growing pains for an organization that still partly sees itself as a rag-tag academic conference at a time when major geopolitical disputes are being fought over LGBT rights. It invited deeper scrutiny from its fiercest critics by bringing the event to the United States, where the media and political context has changed so fast that arguments against homosexuality that were once largely uncontroversial among its participants now threaten the “civil, constructive” image its organizers have tried to project. Navigating this terrain is even more complicated because so many of its participants work in countries that have grown more hostile to LGBT rights at the same time so much of the Americas and Europe have embraced marriage equality.

This has some of the group’s key players wondering if the new reality demands a new approach.

“We’re no longer under the radar — we’re actually smack dab in the middle of a whole bunch of radars,” said the organization’s co-founder and long-time director Allan Carlson, who recently retired. “At some point when you’re being watched closely you have to reign it in.”

“Ten years ago people could say ‘the homosexual movement is coming for America,’ and now you can’t.”

The World Congress of Families “emerged on a frigid night in early 1995 in a modest apartment in Moscow,” according to Carlson, a walrusy academic with a bushy mustache and whose speaking style brings to mind a professor whose lectures college students sleep through.

When he teamed up with a handful of Russian sociologists to plan the first World Congress of Families, held in Prague in 1997, it wasn’t conceived of as a permanent organization. And in reality, it still isn’t much of one today. It maintains only a handful of part-time staff in between its biannual conferences. They’re operate under the auspices of something called the Howard Center for Family, Religion, and Society in Rockford, Illinois, which primarily publishes papers to promote “the natural family.”

But it casts a big shadow because its conferences, have become an important vector for connecting social conservatives from every continent who work on issues ranging from banning abortion to combatting sex-trafficking to morality education for children.

Smaller progressive groups like People for the American Way, the Southern Poverty Law Center, and Political Research Associates have been trying to publicize the anti-LGBT work of WCF affiliates for several years, but it’s only in the past two years that it’s become a major target of the U.S. LGBT movement. That’s thanks in part to a change in the landscape on the left: In 2013, the Human Rights Campaign began turning its formidable media and fundraising machine to international work for the first time. Many of the WFC’s American partner organizations were long-time opponents of HRC at home, making it an ideal early target as the group figured out what its international operation would actually do.

This was made easier by the fact that a WCF conference was planned to be held in 2014 inside the Kremlin in Moscow and its organizers repeatedly defended the country’s “homosexual propaganda ban” in events promoting the conference in the U.S. This was around the time of the Sochi Olympics and the showdown over the Russian law thrust questions about LGBT rights into the heart of geopolitics. (After an American WCF sponsor withdrew from the event after Russia invaded Ukraine WCF reluctantly removed its official imprimatur from the event, which was still held in September under a different name.)

As a whole, he said, the group isn’t “anti” anybody; it is “pro”: “We are for the family as the natural fundamental unit of society.”

WCF is perhaps kind of global brand more than an organization, an entity that allows a wide variety of activists to fly under its flag but has nothing approaching a clear governing body. It partners with some of the world’s most established social conservative organizations — like the Family Research Council and the National Organization for Marriage — and confers honors on activists in places with less mature “pro-family” movements in order to raise their stature at home and abroad. This also gives the World Congress of Families the appearance of direct influence on conservative victories abroad — like passage of Russia’s “homosexual propaganda” ban in 2012 or the 2014 anti-LGBT law in Nigeria — where foreigners have played only a peripheral role.

“This is a loose confederation … but the WCF never endorses all the views of any particular individual or organization,” said the group’s interim director E. Douglas Clark in an interview with BuzzFeed News. He said Cruz’s remarks linking homosexuality and pedophilia “offends my sensibilities.” As a whole, he said, the group isn’t “anti” anybody; it is “pro”: “We are for the family as the natural fundamental unit of society.”

And there were several harsh comments made about transgender people, frequently at the expense of Caitlyn Jenner, whose name brought boos from the audience.

Sex reassignment is a “mass delusion that is destructive and dangerous,” said Miriam Grossman, whose website bills her as “100 percent MD, 0 percent PC. “We are fighting a war. Hard science is a weapon of mass destruction. Let’s use it.”

A sign of the pressure the group feels it is under is that the “Questions and Answers” section of the conference’s website is actually a lengthy rebuttal to an HRC document that calls the WCF “one of the most influential American organizations involved in the export of hate.” WCF’s response states that “these activist organizations are taking statements out of context and extrapolating conclusions, as well as attempting to hold WCF accountable for pronouncements made by individuals who have no official relationship with the organization.”

Brian Brown of the National Organization for Marriage, one of the sponsors of this year’s event, said it was unfair for LGBT groups to demand that groups like his repudiate positions of its international allies. These questions will continue to confront NOM, which on Monday held the latest in a series of meetings over the past three years to explore the creation of an International Organization for Marriage, according to multiple people invited to attend.

Though Brown and other organizers of the conference say they oppose laws that criminalize homosexuality, the WCF named as 2015’s “Woman of the Year,” Theresa Okafor, a Nigerian activist who supported a 2014 “Anti-Same Sex Marriage Law” that went far beyond defining marriage as a man as a woman. With sentences up to 14 years, it also criminalizes promoting LGBT rights or even public displays of affection.

When asked whether that was a conflict for NOM, Brown said, “I don’t understand why there’s any problem … One can oppose [extended prison sentences for homosexual acts] and still work with folks around the world who agree on the issue of marriage.”

But to the WCF’s critics, this posture simply allows the group to distance itself when some of their affiliates’ work or comments play badly in U.S. or European media.

“That’s the issue with the World Congress: They will never take responsibility for the havoc and damage their participants do all over the world,” said Troy Williams of the LGBT rights group Equality Utah, an organizer of events that countered the WCF program in Salt Lake City. “You can’t invite a rabid homophobe like Rafael Cruz to the stage and claim that you’re not responsible for the things that they’ve said.”

The case of Andrea Minichiello Williams — the WCF awardee who urged Jamaicans to “speak about” a link between homosexuality and pedophilia in 2013 — does give the appearance that the group sanctions saying different things to different audiences. When asked for comment for this story, Williams said in a phone call that BuzzFeed News had misquoted and distorted her remarks in Jamaica when it first reported them.

After BuzzFeed News provided her with a recording of her comments, she sent a comment by email, “I am at the World Congress of Families to push back against the elitist sexual agenda and celebrate the beauty and hope that is found in the natural family as defined in the bible and by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. We have heard repeated, undeniable evidence of how children do best when raised by their mother and father.”

“It comes as no surprise that the veneer broke and the true anti-LGBT animus that’s lurking right below the surface was exposed for all to see,” said Kerry Brody of the Human Rights Campaign on Wednesday afternoon. “The World Congress of Families has tried very hard this week to hide its and its affiliates’ positions, actions, and advocacy behind a wall of sunshine-and-rainbows sounding rhetoric … These aren’t examples of one of two people going ‘off message.’ They’re saying what they think is true, and are spewing vitriol and venom to a cheering crowd who likely agrees with them.”

At the same time WCF has been hammered by groups like the Human Rights Campaign in the months surrounding the event, it also is getting criticized on the right by activists who claim that it is “sacrificing principle” in its efforts to be seen as “pro-natural family” rather than anti-LGBT.

This charge was laid bare in an 11-hour conference held in Salt Lake City just before WCF kicked off, titled, “Understanding Homosexuality – The Politically Incorrect Truth,” organized by the anti-LGBT group MassResistance. Its organizers billed it as “possibly the most powerful conference to date dealing with the radical LGBT agenda,” and included Mat Staver of Liberty Counsel, the lawyer for the Kentucky clerk jailed for refusing to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples, Kim Davis.

“I think there is a place for being insulting and degrading, and I think I can back that up by scripture,” said MassResistance’s director, Brian Camenker, in a video posted online by People for the American Way. “I think we have to look at this as a war, not as, you know, a church service.”

Camenker, who is Jewish, said later in the program that scripture lays out a separate set of rules for people “who want to tear down the moral structure of society,” asserting that “God says those people who want to do that must be destroyed.” (Camenker declined a BuzzFeed News request for an interview.)

It appeared what Camenker’s group described as “shameful cowardice” had invaded even his own conference — he made his remarks after other speakers, including some activists who were also appearing at the WCF, had argued that their work against homosexuality was motivated by love rather than hate. (This includes Peter Sprigg of the Family Research Council, author of a 2010 pamphlet that asserts gay men are disproportionately likely to be child molesters. He also declined an interview request.)

This tension is a sign of a real strategic disagreement among advocates who oppose LGBT rights about how to continue their work in an era where comments that can be construed as homophobic provoke a media storm, said Austin Ruse of C-Fam, also known as the Center for Family & Human Rights, who was on the organizing committee for the Salt Lake City conference.

“One of the leitmotifs in the planning for this [was] not wanting to be overt” about criticizing homosexuality per se, said Ruse, who sent an email about the conference to his group’s supporters on Thursday in which he said, “One of the more monstrous lies of our time is that same-sex desire is normal and natural.”

This is an especially delicate question given that the conference is being held in Salt Lake City, the seat of the Mormon Church, which worked with LGBT activists to get a bill — known as the “Utah Compromise” and aimed at barring discrimination in housing and employment — through Utah’s Republican legislature. The bill had substantial exceptions that Mormon leaders said were necessary to protect religious liberty, and it was criticized by both religious conservatives and LGBT activists. But the détente between LGBT activists and Mormon leaders was still remarkable, especially since so much ill will had formed among LGBT people for the church because of its support in 2008 for California’s Proposition 8, which blocked same-sex marriage there until courts struck it down.

One of the most controversial speeches inside the conference was arguably its opening keynote, delivered by Mormon Elder M. Russell Ballard, who used his remarks to highlight the Utah compromise.

“We can love one another without compromising personal divine ideas,” he said. “We can speak about those ideals without marginalizing others.”

Ballard concluded his remarks by calling “upon responsible citizens and officers of government everywhere to promote these measures designed to maintain and strengthen the family as the fundamental unit of society,” and he got enthusiastic applause, but the principle of the Utah compromise was rejected out of hand by many of the WCF’s key players.

C-Fam’s Ruse voiced the sentiments of many in an interview with BuzzFeed News.

“The Mormons think that they can sign a treaty of nonaggression with the LGBTs, and I just think it’s lunacy,” Ruse said.

This conference is more careful than most previous years’ events have been, Ruse said, because the context has shifted so much.

“Ten years ago people could say, ‘The homosexual movement is coming for America,’ and now you can’t,” Ruse said. Some in the movement now count it as “a great victory” when “one of our opponents don’t see us as evil,” paraphrasing comments by an anti-same-sex marriage activist.

But, Ruse said, “A lot of us think that’s not a victory at all.”

CORRECTION

Austin Ruse works for C-Fam, which is also known as the Center for Family & Human Rights. A previous version of this story misstated the organization’s name.

Categories
Human Rights LGBTQ Refugee Rights

This Is What It’s Like To Be An LGBT Syrian Fleeing For Your Life

LGBT refugees from across the Middle East flock to Turkey, escaping Islamist militias, sexual assault, and death threats. But what they find there leaves many in despair. J. Lester Feder reports for BuzzFeed News

Posted originally on Buzzfeed News on October 22, 2015, at 1:22 p.m. ET

ISTANBUL — M was standing at a bus stop on the outskirts of Damascus when a group of armed men pulled up in a car and ordered her to get in.

M wears thick-framed glasses and her black hair cut just above the ear. She stood out in a largely devout neighborhood where most women wore headscarves, making her a target that day in July 2014.

“You are not covered — and why is your hair short?” she remembered her captors asking, slapping her across the face and striking her on the back of her head. They demanded she recite a verse from the Qur’an to prove she was a Muslim, and she was lucky they picked one that she had learned as a child.

“Why are you imitating men?” they demanded. “All this entitles you to execution.”

They held her blindfolded for two days; she kept time by counting the calls to prayer from a nearby mosque.

The 46-year-old M lived in an area that was a battleground that summer as government forces attempted to push the rebels back from the Syrian capital, and many of her neighbors had been wounded when the area was under siege. She practiced alternative medicine for a living, caring for the wounded regardless of which side they supported, without accepting payment.

This charity is what ultimately saved her life. At the end of the second day, a leader who her captors called “the sheikh” said an order had been issued for her execution for being a “mistarjili” — literally, a woman who acts like a man. But, she said he told her: “Listen, I will not impose the ruling … I asked all the people in the area and they told us that you are a person who helps all people.”

The group released her with nothing but her ID card and a warning that the reprieve was only temporary.

“At any moment you might be killed,” the sheikh warned her. “You should leave the area immediately.”

“Why are you imitating men?”

Her neighborhood was being shelled, so she never went back to the small home where she lived for 15 years. Instead, M borrowed money from a friend and headed to Turkey later that summer as soon as she could get a passport.

For seven months, she was barely scraping by working a series of black-market jobs that required her to work 12-hour days. But she felt a surge of hope in April when she learned that she was eligible to be considered for resettlement to someplace like the United States or Europe by the local office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). She went to an office of the NGO that takes new cases, told them about what had happened to her in Syria, and waited for someone to call her with good news.

Six months passed. The phone never rang.

“My dream was to live in a country that respects a queer woman like me as a human being,” she told BuzzFeed News in Istanbul last month. “I felt that finally my problems will be solved … but it turned out to be an illusion.”

If she had the money, she would do what her roommate did earlier this summer: hire a smuggler to carry her to Europe on a boat. But that costs about $2,500, more money than she can even dream about. In Istanbul she hasn’t been able to find work for several months even washing dishes. She is on the verge of being thrown out of her tiny room, which smells of sewage and has drug dealers conducting business just outside her window.

The people who met her when she arrived say her time here has aged her at least a decade. Deep worry lines cut into her sunken face, and her clothes sagged off her withered frame.

Finally, she decided to do something she describes as a way to commit suicide: She bought a ticket back to Syria.

“I’m returning to my death, but what choice do I have?” M said.

M’s account could not be independently verified because getting reliable accounts from inside rebel-held areas is nearly impossible. M also asked that her name and the name of where she lived be withheld to protect her safety. But her story is far from unique. In September and October, BuzzFeed News interviewed more than 15 LGBT refugees in Turkey from several nearby countries who had fled everything from Islamist militias to sexual assault to death threats from family members. Many had been pushed out of more than one country, caught up in anti-LGBT crackdowns that have rippled across the Middle East in recent years. M’s disappointment in the resettlement system overseen by UNHCR was nearly universal.

UNHCR actually fast-tracks LGBT refugees for resettlement because it considers them especially vulnerable. But the process still leaves many in despair, showing that the system wasn’t really built to rescue large numbers of people in immediate danger. The fates of refugees who are desperately seeking security are in the hands of a bureaucracy that spans multiple governments, agencies, and NGOs. These institutions generally don’t have nearly enough staff to keep up with the workload created by the influx of Syrians since the war began.

LGBT refugees will usually have to wait about two years for a ticket out of Turkey, said Selin Unal, spokesman for UNHCR’s Turkey office: one year for UNHCR to decide if they’re eligible and a second for another country to grant them a visa and fly them over.

“We are trying our best to shorten waiting periods,” Unal said, but given the numbers seeking resettlement, “this period is not really too long.”

Those who “have been resettled are probably very grateful to UNHCR for having helped them and given a chance to build their life in a new environment,” she added. “We acknowledge the difficulties of a daily life for refugees during a waiting period … [and] we do not spare any efforts in order to support and assist [them].”

The two-year wait is far shorter than the one faced by refugees not considered vulnerable — advocates who work with other categories of refugees report that UNHCR is telling their clients they won’t even have their first meeting with an agency caseworker until 2022 or 2023.

But to an individual, those two years can feel like an eternity. Refugees are generally barred from working and often survive doing back-breaking black-market labor or sex work. One sign of how at risk they feel is that all of those who spoke to BuzzFeed News for this story asked to be identified by their first names or nicknames. Many — especially trans people who stand out on the street — will be victims of hate crimes from Turks or other refugees who come from the very countries they are fleeing, according to the Organization for Refuge, Asylum and Migration (ORAM), which advocates on behalf of LGBT people.

UNHCR-Turkey now reports 700 LGBT people in its system, but ORAM believes there are many more who don’t know they can seek asylum on the basis of their sexual orientation or gender identity or are too afraid to out themselves. In 2014, UNHCR asked the governments that resettle refugees from Turkey to consider the cases of 227 LGBT people, most of whom were from Iran.

The process for resettlement is well known to Iranian LGBT people because most have friends who have gone through it in the past several years. But it’s newer for Syrians, who just began to seek asylum in large numbers since the start of the war. Before the conflict began, the Assad regime was brutal with political opponents, but it was secular and didn’t seek out LGBT people for harassment the way authorities do in places like Iran. What primarily makes Syria dangerous for the LGBT people now arriving in Turkey is Assad’s loss of control in much of the country to the Islamist rebels trying to overthrow him.

LGBT Syrians arrive along with millions of other Syrians — from both sides — fleeing the fighting. Their vulnerability gives LGBT refugees a path to resettlement that most other Syrians won’t be able to access, but they must go through a process that often feels incomprehensible and capricious.

Refugees bound for the U.S. — which takes the lion’s share of refugees resettled from Turkey — will generally pass through five different stages each requiring a new interview. Months can pass between each step without word on the real status of their cases, and there is little support if they can’t find somewhere to sleep, face a medical emergency, or are assaulted. There are precious few resettlement slots: The U.S. resettled just 5,162 refugees from Turkey in the last year. (Fewer than 100 of all refugees resettled in the U.S. in that period identified themselves as LGBT.)

Many advocates who work on LGBT asylum issues say they believe UNHCR’s staff is genuinely committed to getting these refugees out as fast as possible. But, said ORAM’s Neil Grungras, the system itself is “bureaucratic and inefficient from the get-go” — and now the agency’s 330 staff members in the country are completely overwhelmed as the total numbers seeking asylum in Turkey climb past 2 million.

“The system is failing them,” Grungras said. “The people who are truly vulnerable aren’t being whisked out of harm’s way soon enough.”

This is what that failure looks like.

Istanbul has become an increasingly important safe haven in recent years as other cities — like Cairo and Beirut — have become ever more dangerous for LGBT people.

Back in June, Nader, a bushy-bearded 26-year-old Syrian, helped organize about 100 Arab refugees to turn out for the city’s 13th annual pride march, exhilarated at the chance to celebrate with tens of thousands of people. They carried signs like “Stop the persecution of gays in the Arab world” and “Your life isn’t worth more than mine.”

So it felt like a deep betrayal when local officials banned the march at the last minute and police turned tear gas, plastic bullets, and water cannons on participants. (Turkish LGBT activists are not sure why the event was shut down after years without incident, but it fell during the Muslim holy month of Ramadan and came in the wake of a defeat at the ballot box for the party of Turkey’s Islamist President Recep Tayyip Erdogan.)

“I thought we were safe, but the police were attacking us and the people just watching,” said Nader. “That was my last straw with being here.”

Nader had worked hard to build a life in Istanbul since arriving in June 2014. He had started a weekly support group for Arabic-speaking LGBT refugees called Tea and Talk, drawing people from as far apart as Morocco to Iraq. He had also fallen in love with a sweet-faced 21-year-old from Damascus named Omar, moving in with him a couple months after they first met in one of Istanbul’s best-known gay clubs in December. They set up house just before Valentine’s Day.

Istanbul was the last stop for Nader on a four-year exodus since he left his native city of Homs, Syria, for good in August 2011, five months after the uprising against Assad began. He grew up in a Sunni family in the Bab al-Sibah neighborhood, which was the frontline in sectarian fighting with members of the city’s Alawite community before the conflict became a full-fledged civil war. The city was wracked by a cycle of killings between the two communities, and many of Nader’s childhood friends gravitated to Sunni militias.

One day, a close friend took Nader to see a house in Homs where a massacre had taken place and showed him the remains of a group of Alawites. “We’re taking our revenge,” he said. Horrified at what his friends were becoming, and scared they would come for him because of his sexuality, Nader moved to Damascus immediately.

 “I used to have a wild sex life in our neighborhood.”

Nader had actually fooled around with some of those friends now fighting with groups morphing into the Islamist rebel group Jabhat al-Nusra. “I used to have a wild sex life in our neighborhood,” he said, and he never really hid that he was gay as he became an adult.

Once behind the lines of President Assad’s forces in Damascus, he even told an old hookup buddy turned rebel fighter on the phone that he was “gay for sure.” A few days later he learned that the friend reported the conversation to his group’s imam, who proclaimed it debauchery and said “the Islamic rule for it is throw him from off of the high building.”

So when anti-Assad fighters successfully attacked the Al-Midan neighborhood in the heart of the Damascus in January 2012, Nader made plans to go to Cairo.

But Cairo proved not to be very welcoming either, and he said he was twice beaten up in the streets during his year there, caught up in the unrest amid mass protests that gripped the city during the one-year presidency of the Muslim Brotherhood’s Mohammed Morsi. Next he tried Amman, Jordan, but discovered the city was awash in Syrian rebels fleeing Assad’s forces, including some who looked familiar from Homs.

In June 2014, one of them recognized him and tried to grab him on a street in the city center.

“You are the faggot — we captured you!” Nader remembered the man shouting. “You escaped from Syria so you think you are safe right now. [But] we will fuck you, we will kill you!”

The yelling drew a crowd, and Nader managed to shake him off in the commotion. Two days later he bought a ticket to Istanbul, and went to the NGO registering new cases for resettlement to North America or Europe, the Association for Solidarity with Asylum-Seekers and Migrants (ASAM).

Earlier this month, Nader finally got a call from UNHCR that Norway had agreed to take him. He will probably be moving within six months. There was only one problem: It would mean leaving his boyfriend almost entirely alone.

Omar’s resettlement petition appeared to have gotten stuck in a personnel shake-up at ASAM. Though he’d registered in June, he had to essentially re-do his first interview with a caseworker three months later because the official he spoke to the first time had left the job without forwarding his paperwork to UNHCR. (ASAM did not respond to messages seeking comment for this story.)

The pair spoke to BuzzFeed News hours after they learned Nader would be going to Norway, and Omar’s eyes were visibly red from crying. They had thought about sending Omar on the boats but they were afraid he would be detained by authorities before reaching Norway. They even had a long-shot idea about going to Brazil — the only country they said they had found that performs same-sex marriages and grants visas to Syrians — to get married in order to enable Nader to bring Omar as a spouse.

“He’s leaving and we don’t know when we will meet again,” Omar said.

They were basically considering anything they could think of so they wouldn’t have to rely on UNHCR.

“I don’t trust them,” Nader said.

Follow the process of applying for resettlement in Turkey

This is the bureaucratic maze that generally awaits refugees seeking resettlement from Turkey — if they don’t run into any problems:

Most start by giving a basic outline of their story to ASAM. They’re also supposed to register with the Turkish government, which will assign those in UNHCR’s resettlement process to remote “satellite cities” where they must regularly appear at a police station to prove they haven’t left. (Generally only Syrians, to whom the Turkish government have given special status, can choose to live in large cities like Istanbul.)

ASAM refers eligible cases to UNHCR, and refugees can wait months or years to be summoned for a “pre-interview,” where they’ll give the in-depth version of their stories and submit any corroborating documents: medical records of assault, threatening messages from family members, arrest records. Next they have the UNHCR “interview,” where they tell their story in yet more detail — the appointment can take a full day or require a second interview.

If UNHCR decides to grant them refugee status and refer them for resettlement, the agency will have a short conversation with each of them about where they want to be resettled, though the decision depends almost entirely on which countries have open slots at the time and not on their preference.

Most will go to the U.S., so they will next be interviewed by the International Catholic Migration Commission, the contractor processing refugee cases for the U.S. Then they are interviewed again by a “circuit rider” from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security on one of their periodic visits to Istanbul — that person goes over their story again from beginning to end primarily to check that they are eligible to be resettled under U.S. law. Then their personal information is sent to other U.S. security agencies to look for red flags like service in a hostile military or support for blacklisted groups, which would disqualify them for a visa. Advocates say cases can wind up on long holds even if relatively minor questions about their record are raised.

If they get final approval, they wait for an agency in the U.S. to agree to handle their resettlement and wait to be given a spot on flights purchased by the International Organization for Migration. They are forbidden from flying on their own if they find an earlier flight, and are required to start repaying the full fare in installments six months after arriving in the U.S. Before their flight date, they also must secure an exit permit from the Turkish government.

“It is truly a challenge,” said Veysel Essiz, senior program officer at Refugee Rights Turkey. “You flee your own country to find at least some safety, but the feeling that the overwhelming majority of refugees in Turkey have is that they will be in limbo for eternity.”

The wait in Turkey can be dangerous, especially for those who don’t manage to learn Turkish and so wind up more dependent on other refugees to share housing and navigate day-to-day life. And those who are visibly queer often worry about being assaulted.

Reza, a 34-year-old gay Iranian who wears makeup and has feminine mannerisms, told BuzzFeed News he was head-butted by a man on the street in the southeastern Turkish city of Denizli where he is living while waiting for resettlement. He said he came to Turkey after being beaten, sexually assaulted, and detained by police on several occasions, and now is too afraid to leave his apartment in Turkey alone.

“He beat me because I had red lipstick on,” he said of the December 2014 attack.

Refugees who find themselves living in enclaves with others from their home country — often the only way they can find housing — regularly find the same kind of threats they fled have followed them.

But even those who could pass as straight put themselves in danger when they try to live a relatively normal life. Ahmad, a slight, 23-year-old Syrian who wears a fedora and smokes a Sherlock Holmes pipe, told BuzzFeed News he was forced to share an apartment with Syrians who had fought for al-Nusra and would make jokes about ISIS executing gays — a situation several gay Syrians in Istanbul have encountered.

He arrived in Istanbul in April and said he was assaulted for the first time in June. He got jumped by a group of Syrians outside his apartment building — they had apparently seen him hanging out with some gay friends in the central shopping district.

“You gays put us all to shame.”

“Did you finish hooking up with your friend?” he remembered them saying before they jumped on him. “You gays put us all to shame.” Photos from the incident, which he submitted to ASAM to demonstrate the danger he is in in Istanbul, show his face purple and swollen.

He was attacked again about a month later — this time by a friend of a friend he thought he was meeting for a date — and he said that if it happens again, it would be “the next level” and he would be killed. If he had the money, he would be on a boat to Europe despite the risk of drowning and rumors he’s heard about smugglers killing refugees and selling their organs.

“It is dangerous, but it’s better than me staying here,” he said.

It’s been six months since he registered and he’s heard nothing from UNHCR. He is also worried that he’ll be sent to the U.S. while he is desperate to get to Germany.

That’s where he believes he will “find the first love of my life,” a man named Mohammed.

They had dated for four months in Damascus six years ago, when Ahmad was around 17. Ahmad came to Turkey carrying dried flowers — which now have withered to just a stick and bundle of grass — that Mohammed had given him on the day they first had sex. But not long after, Ahmad lost his cell phone when he was mugged, and he hadn’t memorized Mohammed’s phone number nor even knew his last name — it was not uncommon for people who were afraid of being outed to keep their family names secret from each other when they began dating.

“After that, I didn’t know anything about Mohammed,” Ahmad said.

But he knew Mohammed had a brother in Germany, and they had fantasized about traveling there at a time “when there was no war or anything called a refugee.”

“My inner feeling is that [Mohammed] is in Germany, and I’m going to find him,” Ahmad said.

Ezeddin Fadel contributed to this report.