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PROFILE
Waiting to exhale
ith his generous smile and warm
dark eyes, it’s easy to fall in love
with Sven Gomez.
W
And the trappings don’t end
there. His words, laced with the
thick accent of his native Colombia, ring with
poetry as mellow crooning flows from the CD
player in his scant but cozy apartment—what he
innocently coins his “flat”—nestled on an unas
suming Northwest Portland street.
At this peaceful moment, it’s hard to envision
this 40-year-old South American as a man forced
to run, fearing for his personal well-being and that
of his family.
But that is, he says, exactly who he is.
“I came to the United States to save my life,”
says Gomez. “I fear what could happen to me if 1
went back to Colombia.”
For nearly seven years, Gomez, who describes
himself as an “outspoken gay writer and activist
for human rights for gays and others considered
‘abnormal’ in Colombia,” has lived in the United
States. He has not returned to his homeland—a
place where his parents and sister reside.
“I miss them so much, but they are in my mind
and heart,” he says. “I can feel my family with
me.” Tears, nevertheless, well in his eyes when he
speaks of them.
He yearns to visit them, he says, but dares not
if he wishes to stay safe and alive.
Gomez is one of many gay men and lesbians
from other countries who are in the United States
seeking asylum because they fear persecution
based on their sexual orientation.
Gomez Firmly believes his “membership in
the social group of gays” as well as his public
criticism of “the Colombian government’s viola
tion of human rights against gays, transvestites,
[and] the homeless” would place him at enormous
jeopardy
if he were
to return.
is fears,
say many
human rights activists,
are warranted.
A Colombian gay man crosses his fingers
as U.S. functionaries ponder his plea for asylum
▼
by Inga Sorensen
omez traces his involvement in gay rights
back to 1980, when he was part of a small
group of gay men who gathered socially.
“However, when gays started being murdered,
eight of us organized ourselves better and founded
the Gay Liberation Movement,” he says via a
statement he submitted supporting his applica
tion for political asylum.
Gomez says he handled public relations for the
fledgling group, one of whose activities was to
contact Spartacus, an international European gay
magazine, asking that letters be sent to the Colom
bian president protesting the murder of gay men.
Gomez says in the mid-1980s “the Gay Lib
eration Movement came out of the closet politi
cally in order to denounce the assassinations of
gays, transvestites...and to raise the awareness
that gays did exist in Colombia and had the same
rights as heterosexuals.”
G
murdered and mutilated without anything being
done to stop it, they understandably were suspi
cious of anything that seemed to their beneFit.”
From 1986 to 1989 Gomez says he also wrote
for El Ambiente, a gay newspaper.
According to his statement, Gomez spent most
of his time in 1989 at his mother’s farm in
Guateque, Boyaca, outside of Bogotá, due to
continuing threats.
That spring during a visit to Bogotá, Gomez
says he was detained by the National Security
Police, and had his identity papers confiscated.
Gomez says police often conducted roundups
in the gay areas, “physically and verbally abusing
the drag queens, kicking their clothing and wigs,
and making everyone flee the area without look
ing back.”
In early 1990 on another visit to Bogotá,
Gomez says he “noticed four or Five armed men
H
According to a 1995 joint report of the
Colombian Human Rights Committee, the Inter
national Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Com
mission, and Project Dignity for Human Rights in
Colombia (the latter formed in 1994 to investi
gate, document and help end the epidemic of
“social cleansing” directed toward those deemed
“disposable,” including sexual minorities), vio
lence permeates Colombian society: “Innocent,
often defenseless people are assassinated each
day in Colombia, whether for political or nonpo
litical reasons.... Still more are tortured, ‘disap
peared,’ threatened, beaten or in other ways sub
jected to violations of basic rights.”
According to the report, “it is not uncommon
for gay bars to be closed, and patrons are continu
ally harassed by the police and army. Police raids
are not unusual.... There have even been mass
killings, such as a massacre in a town called
Evigado in the outskirts of Medellin on June 6,
1992. Five gay men were taken from a gay bar, El
Camel, and killed by a group of men Firing 9-
millimeter Uzi submachine guns.”
Juan Pablo Ordonez, author of the report,
perhaps best captures the depth and prevalence of
anti-gay attitudes by sharing bits of an interview
he conducted in September 1994 with Henriquez
Linero, a human rights ombudsman for the dis
trict of Barranquilla.
Ordonez asks, “What are your views on the
human rights of gays and lesbians?”
Linero, the person legally responsible for de
fending the constitutional rights of all segments of
the population, reportedly answered: “Two fag
gots could get married for one hundred years and
they’ll never have a child; from that standpoint
they’ll never guarantee survival of the species.”
Later in the interview Linero says, “The mo
ment a faggot begins hanging around my house,
human rights are over. I won’t accept that, no
way.... Woman was made for man and man for
woman. That is. I’d rather have a daughter who’s
a whore than a faggot son.”
landing in Portland.
"When came to Portland I had two small boxes
of books, a suitcase, and I guess about $ 17 in my
pocket,” he says.
When asked whether he was scared of an
unknown culture, he answers: "It’s like when you
go to the edge of a cliff and decide you are going
tojump, and you say ‘one, two, three— ’ ” he snaps
his Fingers, and Finishes, “and then you go.”
With his ever-upbeat persona, Gomez appears
to have hit ground like a feather. He has estab
lished close friendships in the Rose City, and
supports himself through various means (from
interpreting to housecleaning). He enjoys assist
ing those living with HIV/AIDS, and has volun
teered for various causes.
All along, he has kept in touch with his native
land.
“I have found out that in September 1990, an
other founding member of the movement, using the
pseudonym ‘Adrian,’ was killed,” he writes in his
statement. “He was crossing Independence Park on
his way to his apartment when he was assassinated
by three shots from a revolver by agents of the
[police].... Independence Park was the meeting
place of militant gays. Adrian’s body was found in
the morgue by his family three days later.”
Gomez says another gay activist—a univer
sity professor— was abducted and his body later
found in the morgue pocked with bullet holes.
According to Gomez, the university said the
man had died of AIDS complications.
And still another gay comrade disappeared.
“I now believe that I am the only survivor of
the original founders of the gay movement in
Colombia,” he says, adding that he cannot reside
safely anywhere in Colombia because of his high-
profile status.
“I knew that to remain in Colombia meant that
I would have to live like a prisoner and under
constant stress of being killed,” he says.
ince 1994, U.S. judges in an estimated 60
cases have granted asylum to refugees fleeing
persecution based on their sexual orientation.
New restrictive immigration legislation, how
ever, could halt the slow, small gains. The Illegal
Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibil
ity Act of 1996, in part, prohibits aliens who have
lived in the United States for more than a year
from applying for asylum.
While Gomez has already requested asylum,
he could get sunk in the sea of anti-immigrant
fervor washing over this country.
This past March, the federal Immigration and
Naturalization Service Asylum OfFice sent Gomez
a letter saying it had not granted his request.
It maintained Gomez has, thus far, failed to
establish that he is a refugee due to past persecu
tion—or establish that there is a “reasonable pos
sibility” he would suffer persecution in the future.
The missive further states Gomez’s claim was
not deemed credible in part because his testimony
about the gay rights movement in Colombia “is
completely inconsistent with reports from other
sources.” The letter did not specify what the other
sources were.
The letter is not a denial of Gomez’s asylum
application, and states his application will be
considered when he appears before an immigra
tion judge during a hearing scheduled for mid-
September.
For his part, Gomez says he’s gathering docu
mentation, as he and his Oakland attorney prepare
for the proceedings.
“I am trying to enjoy my life,” he says, “and I
know all my life I’ve had good luck. I have to be
optimistic.”
S
Sven Gomez
In late 1986, he says, group members led a
march of 50,000 unionists, sex workers, indig
enous people, farmworkers and others, in Bogotá.
The march was named Sí á la Vida, or Yes to Life,
and made its way to the Plaza Bolivár, where the
Presidential Palace is located.
According to Gomez, a month later threaten
ing calls began to pour into the home he shared
with his sister and parents in Bogotá.
‘The First call came in the afternoon,” he says.
“I answered the phone and heard sounds and then
someone said, ‘Ah, you are the head of those
faggots that go to the streets asking for rights. We
are going to show you what rights you have.”
Another caller purportedly warned: “Hey fag
got. You better watch your ass.”
He says later calls threatened death.
‘They said that they would give me the same
justice they gave Lorca, a gay Spanish writer who
was murdered with three shots to his buttocks,”
Gomez writes.
Despite the threats, he remained out and ac
tive. He says in March 1987 he became the First
openly gay person in Colombia to get tested for
HIV—on national television no less.
He says the purpose of the program was to
encourage people to get tested. According to
Gomez, gay men in Colombia were not getting
tested “because of their fear that it was one way for
the government to infect the gay population with
HIV.... Since gays saw more and more [men]
sitting in a dark-colored Jeep watching my bed
room window. I fled my home by the back door
and cut through a neighbor’s home to avoid detec
tion by these men.”
That same year, fellow gay rights advocate
Luis Eduardo disappeared.
“Once that happened I was even more afraid
and started spending even more time at my
mother’s farm and going in to Bogotá only once
a month to take care of business,” he says. "Luis
Eduardo’s disappearance made me realize just
how serious the situation was.”
In an effort to alleviate stress. Gomez says he
took a short trip to Canada to visit friends.
“I felt strange being out of my country and also
felt that I had abandoned my fellow gay activists
and family,” he says. “For these reasons I decided
to accept my fate and return to Colombia, despite
my great fear of living there.”
Within a week, Gomez says he received a call
from someone threatening to kill the person he was
closest to if he did not leave the country for good.
“I knew then I was being watched, since these
people knew that I had returned,” he says. “I knew
that I had no choice but to flee the country for
good this time.”
With little money or time to say goodbye,
Gomez caught the next plane out, which landed
him in Los Angeles. That was June 1990.
He gradually made his way north to San
Francisco, where he lived for a time, eventually
Those wishing to file an asylum claim or
receive a referral may contact the International
Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Commission at
(415) 255-8680 or asylum@iglhrc.org.
Also available from IGLHRC is a guide entitled
“Asylum Based on Sexual Orientation: A
Resource Guide. "