By Nana Davis Mac‑Iyalla

Across West Africa, many LGBTIQ people are not only fighting for their human rights—they are fighting for their spiritual survival. As an activist, a ceremonial leader, and someone shaped by both African tradition and global faith communities, I have witnessed how deeply spiritual violence wounds our people. It is a form of harm that is often invisible, yet its impact is profound and lasting.

Spiritual violence happens when religion, culture, or sacred authority is used to shame, silence, or erase LGBTIQ identities. It appears in sermons that condemn us, in families who pray for us to “change,” in traditional leaders who deny our place in ancestral narratives, and in laws justified by distorted interpretations of scripture. It is the quiet violence of exclusion, the loud violence of public humiliation, and the structural violence of institutions that refuse to see our humanity.

What makes spiritual violence particularly painful is that it strikes at the core of who we are. In West Africa, spirituality is not a separate part of life—it is woven into our birth, our names, our families, our communities, and our understanding of purpose. When someone tells an LGBTIQ person that they are “not of God,” they are not simply expressing an opinion; they are attempting to sever that person from their cultural and spiritual roots.

Yet the truth—our truth—is older and deeper than these harmful narratives.

Long before colonial laws and imported doctrines, African societies held diverse understandings of gender and sexuality. Our ancestors honoured people with unique spiritual gifts, including those whose identities did not fit rigid categories. Many LGBTIQ people today continue to carry that same spiritual depth, resilience, and calling. We are not outsiders to African spirituality; we are part of its living history.

As Executive Director of the Interfaith Diversity Network of West Africa (IDNOWA), I have seen how reclaiming our spiritual dignity transforms lives. When LGBTIQ people hear affirming messages from faith leaders, when they encounter rituals that honour their existence, when they learn that their identity is not a curse but a gift—something shifts. Hope returns. Healing begins.

But healing cannot happen without truth‑telling.

We must name spiritual violence for what it is: a misuse of sacred power. No scripture, no tradition, and no deity calls us to harm one another. The weaponisation of religion against LGBTIQ people is not faith—it is fear. And fear thrives where knowledge is absent.

This is why our work is urgent. We must continue to educate, to challenge harmful narratives, and to create spaces where LGBTIQ people can reconnect with their spirituality without shame. We must support faith leaders who are courageous enough to stand for inclusion, even when it is unpopular. And we must remind our communities that human dignity is not negotiable.

As we approach IDNOWA’s 10‑year anniversary and our Human Rights Conference this August, I am reminded of how far we have come—and how far we still must go. Our movement is growing. Our voices are stronger. Our stories are being told. But the struggle continues, and we cannot do it alone.

Spiritual violence may be powerful, but so is our resilience. So is our truth. So is our collective determination to build a West Africa where every person—regardless of sexuality, gender identity, or faith—can live with dignity, safety, and spiritual belonging.

Our liberation is not a question of if, but when. And together, we are bringing that “when” closer.

Nana Davis Mac‑Iyalla