Namibian Supreme Court hears three LGBTQ rights cases

The Supreme Court of Namibia will soon issue rulings in three pivotal cases involving LGBTQ and intersex people that will set a precedent for the recognition of same-sex marriages and spousal immigration rights for non-Namibian partners.

Furthermore, a case is soon to be heard in the country’s high court that will challenge the southern African nation’s antiquated sodomy law.

These cases have incited public debate around LGBTQ and intersex rights in a country where homosexuality is a controversial and polarizing subject.

This is the first time since 2001 that Namibia’s highest court will hear cases regarding same-sex relationships. It is also the first time the high court will hear arguments regarding the sodomy law.

The first hearing, which took place on March 3, was the joint cases of Digashu and Seiler-Lilles versus the government.

The applicants — both foreign nationals married to Namibian citizens — in both cases are seeking recognition of their marriages concluded outside Namibia in order to access spousal immigration rights such as permanent residence and employment authorization.

The second hearing, which took place on March 6, was in the case of a Namibian man married to a Mexican man seeking citizenship by descent for their children born via surrogate. The government has demanded DNA testing to prove that the Namibian national is the biological father to the children.

In the last case, a gay Namibian man is not only challenging the constitutionality of the country’s sodomy law but also the prohibition of “unnatural sexual offenses.”

While the cases represent a crucial moment for the country’s LGBTQ and intersex community and their rights, individual people and families fighting a fight bigger than they had foreseen are at the center of these cases.

South African citizen Daniel Digashu married Namibian national Johann Potgieter in South Africa in 2015. The couple and their son moved to Namibia in 2017.

While the move was favorable for the family, the law around same-sex marriage was not.

Digashu’s first encounter with the Home Affairs and Immigration Ministry was not to have them officially recognize his marriage. He was applying for a permit allowing him to work in the country in the company that he jointly started with his husband.

“We’ve always had a dream to live on a farm and run this tourism company. We registered the company first, about six months before we officially moved,” Digashu said.

He said the ministry advised him against applying for permanent residency because the country does not recognize his marriage. Officials instead told him to seek a work permit.

Despite assurances from the ministry’s personnel, the application was denied. Digashu filed an appeal, and that was denied too.

From this moment to today, Digashu has lived a life in limbo.

Due to the ongoing court cases, he is able to renew his visitor’s visa every few months. This, he said, comes with exhausting administrative costs that legal fees exacerbate.

Digashu said the process has put psychological, emotional and financial strain on his family.

“Prior to finding funding it had been quite difficult financially. It is not something that a lot of people would afford. I don’t think we even could afford it. That’s why we sought out and looked for funding and luckily we found that,” he said.

As they await the judgment of their hearing, everything remains the same for Digashu and his family: His husband remains the sole breadwinner as Digashu himself still cannot work.

Namibian citizen Anette Seiler and her German wife Anita Seiler-Lilles face the same dilemma.

Neither expected to become cornerstones of the advocacy around marriage equality and LGBTQ and intersex rights in Namibia.

“We didn’t plan to come to Namibia in the early 2000s,” said Seiler. “We thought we might want to come back when Anita didn’t have to work anymore, and that would be many years later. So, we didn’t think so much in terms of gay rights in Namibia at that time.”

“It was a very personal thing for us to get married. We were not active in Namibia or Germany in the gay community,” she added.

Both couples have received copious amounts of support from the local LGBTQ and intersex community and civil society as they fight to be afforded the same spousal rights that would be granted to opposite-sex couples.

As Namibia grapples with the recognition of same-sex marriages, the right to family and protections of them is another matter that has come under scrutiny.

Namibian citizen Phillip Lühl and his husband, Mexican national Guillermo Delgado, are fighting for their children born via surrogacy to be granted Namibian citizenship by descent.

Delgado and Lühl say they are fighting for their children’s birthright.

While both fathers are listed on the children’s South African birth certificates, the Namibian government has demanded DNA proof that Lühl is the biological parent of the children.

“The fact is that any other South African birth certificate is accepted but in our case it’s not because we’re of the same sex. In the case of a heterosexual couple, nobody will ever ask for any proof or dispute the validity of the document, but in our case it is,” Lühl said.

ARLANA SHIKONGO

When I was growing up, people like me, who were disabled, were usually met with scorn, pity and exclusion.

On March 4, Judith (Judy) Heumann, a founder of the disability rights movement, died at 75 in Washington, D.C.

For decades, Heumann, who contracted polio when she was 18 months old, was a leader of a civil rights movement that changed the lives of millions of folks like me.

Judy (so many of us, whether we knew or not, connected with her on a first-name basis), was known as the “mother” of the disability rights movement. She was the Harvey Milk of our struggle.

You might think: why should LGBTQ people care about the passing of a disability rights leader?

Here’s why: Nearly, 20 percent of people in this country have a disability, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. This includes LGBTQ+ people. An estimated three to five million people are queer and disabled.

Studies, including a study by the Map Advancement Project, reveal that queer people are more likely than non-queer people to become disabled. We face the double-whammy of anti-queer and disability-based discrimination. The MAP study reported that of the more than 26,000 transgender people surveyed, 39 percent reported having a disability.

If you’re queer and have a disability (blindness, epilepsy, cerebral palsy, psychiatric disorder, etc.), you’ve likely run up against employers who don’t want to hire you or restaurants who don’t care to serve you. If you’re a queer parent of a disabled child, you’ve probably had to fight to get your kid the education they need.

These battles are hard. But, thanks to Heumann and the movement she led, there are ways — from the Americans with Disabilities Act to working the media — to fight this injustice.

Heumann, who at 29 led a month-long protest that was the Stonewall of the disability rights movement, and in her 70s was the star of the fab, Oscar-nominated documentary “Crip Camp,” was a powerhouse of energy, discipline, hard work and humor. She was a quintessential bad ass who worked for justice 24/7, and kicked your butt if you didn’t.

“Kathi, get your self together!” commanded the voice over the phone, “or you won’t get anything done.”

It was 1987, and I was writing my first news story. I was interviewing Heumann about an historic protest that she’d led a decade earlier. It was the 10th anniversary of what is believed to be the longest non-violent sit-in a federal building.

In April 1977, more than 100 disabled people took over the (then) Health, Education and Welfare building in San Francisco. President Richard Nixon had signed the Rehabilitation Act into law in 1973. But, regulations, known as “504,” a section of the Act that prohibited discrimination against disabled people by institutions (schools, hospitals, etc.) receiving federal funding, hadn’t been signed. After protesting in the San Francisco building for a month and in Washington, D.C. (including at then President Jimmy Carter’s church), the “504” regulations were signed.

Heumann, who was an official in the Clinton administration and a special adviser in the Obama State Department, was tough, kind, and proud of herself and the movement that she founded.

For Heumann, who is survived by her husband and brothers, disability was a normal part of life, not a tragedy.

“I never wished I didn’t have a disability,” Heumann wrote in her memoirs “Being Heumann: An Unrepentant Memoir of a Disability Rights Activist.”

When Heumann was a child, disabled children were often institutionalized. Like being queer, being disabled wasn’t considered to be normal then.

Doctors advised Heumann’s parents to send Judy to an institution when she was a child. But her parents, who were Jewish and had fled Nazi Germany, refused. This experience turned her mother and father against institutionalizing her, Heumann wrote in her memoir.

“If I’d been born just 10 years earlier and become disabled in Germany, it is almost certain the German doctor would also have advised that I be institutionalized,” Heumann wrote, “The difference is that instead of growing up being fed by nurses in a small room with white walls and a roommate, I would have been taken to a special clinic, and at that special clinic, I would have been killed.”

Just as it is if you’re queer, if you’re disabled, if you want to respect yourself, you need to be out and proud.

Judy more than anyone I’ve ever known, helped so many of us with disabilities to be out and proud. She taught us that being disabled isn’t something to be ashamed of. That it’s an important aspect of who we are.

Her disability, Judy often said, is, “Like the color of my eyes or the color of my hair, it is a part of who I am.”

I knew Judy only from interviewing her over the years and being on an episode of her podcast “The Heumann Perspective.” But Judy, whether you’d known for decades or just a few months, made you feel like you were a friend. She’d advise you, cheer you on and challenge you over the phone, in texts and on Zoom.

She almost got me, a non-make-up wearing lesbian, to wear lipstick (so I wouldn’t look like a ghost on her podcast). Earlier this winter, Judy wondered why I didn’t put my disability on my resume. Being nervous could be good, she said, when I was scared of reading at a poetry festival.

“If you don’t respect yourself and if you don’t demand what you believe in for yourself, you’re not going to get it,” Judy said.

Thank you, Judy for teaching us to respect ourselves and to demand our rights! R.I.P., Judy!

Volume 07 Issue 11

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