Mauritius: Justice, between silence and survival
My name is Justice, and this is my story, or rather, two stories exist within one person. One is the story of a boy who tried to be “normal,” andthe other is the story of a gay boy who grew up afraid to be seen. I was born into a small family in Mauritius. My grandmother lived just across from us, and my sister was born with a congenital condition that resulted in an intellectual disability. Because of this, most of my parents’ time and energy went toward her. I grew up feeling like a “glass child”, present, but invisible.
My parents were often distant, overwhelmed, and exhausted. I rarely felt loved, except for the occasional moment from my mother. I don’t blame them entirely, caring for a disabled child is difficult, but loneliness shaped much of my childhood. I often felt like the friend people only kept around when convenient, someone easily discarded.
School life was no easier. As early as three years old, I felt naturally drawn to boys, but quickly learned such feelings were considered “wrong.” So I developed a survival skill many LGBTQ+ people know too well: suppression. Any behaviour deemed “not normal” had to be erased. Even so, I explored femininity in small, innocent ways as a child, trying on certain clothing or playing in ways that didn’t match society’s expectations. But I soon realised I lived in a world with strict gender roles, and suppression returned stronger than ever.
In primary school and adolescence, the teasing grew harsher. A classmate insulted me with a slur long before I even understood what it meant. I tried my best to blend in, but not liking football was enough to mark me as “different.” In a boys’ school, that was dangerous.
At home, I struggled too. My father disciplined me harshly, often physically, and never allowed me to express myself freely. My mother, stuck in a difficult position, didn’t intervene. As I entered high school, I fell behind academically. Instead of receiving encouragement, I was blamed and guilt‑tripped. The pressure grew unbearable at times.
Meanwhile, I watched my peers begin dating, experiencing milestones I could only imagine. I longed for companionship but had no idea how relationships even worked. I hid my attraction to men and withdrew further into myself. By the time I reached university, I finally met other LGBTQ+ students. They encouraged me to accept myself, but coming out to my family, a low‑income, traditional household with a disabled child, felt impossible. Eventually those friends graduated, and like many people in my life, drifted away.
In my twenties, loneliness continued. While others experienced relationships and heartbreaks, I felt stuck in place, invisible. I wanted love too, but fear and secrecy held me back. Eventually, I explored online LGBTQ+ spaces, hoping to find connection. Instead, I encountered a closeted and fractured community filled with fear and mistrust. Many interactions were superficial or hurtful. I made decisions out of desperation for connection and later felt deep guilt and anxiety, especially regarding my health. Thankfully, community health services ensured I received proper testing and reassurance.
The challenges I faced were the same many queer people endure: homophobia, religious rejection, and being labelled “unnatural.” People often weaponise their interpretations of religious texts to condemn identities like mine. Yet I held onto my faith in my own way. As a Hindu, I believe the essence of the faith is acceptance and openness. That belief kept me going when everything else felt heavy.
If I could speak to others going through what I did, I would tell them: do not give up. It’s hard, but your existence is not a mistake. You deserve safety, care, dignity, and love.
My dream is simple:
- for Mauritius to have more legal protections for LGBTQ+ people
- for queer youth to have safe housing and be able to leave unsafe homes
- for more support from immigration pathways to LGBTQ‑friendly countries
- And, on a personal level, to one day meet someone who loves me sincerely, my “prince charming,” as I like to say.
We are not just stories.
We are human beings, and we matter.
