Ahmad was sitting in his East Harlem apartment with a journalist who was doing a story about him for a Pakistani media outlet in March 2023. When the journalist began to record the interview, Ahmad turned away from the camera, obscuring his face. He knew that revealing his identity would put his family back home in danger. “I did not want my family to find out I was doing this,” he says now, reflecting on the interview. “It may also [have] put them at risk because being a gay Ahmadi man in Pakistan is one of the most dangerous things.”

A lawyer in his native Pakistan, Ahmad describes the discrimination he experienced back home: classmates who refused to shake his hand, friends who spurned him when a beloved uncle was killed in a terror attack, and family members who unwittingly bullied him for being effeminate—all because he was a member of the Ahmadi religious minority and because he was gay.

For Ahmad, the persecution he endured in his home country was multilayered. He faced hatred and bigotry for his Ahmadi identity, but homosexuality was something even fellow Ahmadis, including his own family, would not tolerate. “If you are a homosexual and an Ahmadi in Pakistan, you are a minority within a minority,” he says.

Despite his fears about sharing his story with a Pakistani media outlet for the first time, Ahmad found the experience both overwhelming and liberating. He had recently been granted asylum in the United States and was still struggling to find his footing, but he felt proud that he had finally found a way to get his message to the world. That is, until he looked at the video online five days after the interview.  

He clicked on the link. “You are an infidel who deserves to be killed!” someone wrote in the comments. “Don’t ever come back to Pakistan,” wrote another. “Why don’t you show your face, a****le?” 

These reactions to his story served as a painful reminder for Ahmad of why he had left Pakistan in the first place.

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For thousands of people fleeing persecution, being granted asylum puts them on the path to permanent residency in the U.S. and ensures that they will not be returned to their home countries where their lives remain in peril. 

Winning asylum in America, however, is like winning the jackpot. For example, of the over 200,000 cases reviewed by the immigration courts in 2023, only 14 percent were granted asylum. Of those who have applied for asylum affirmatively in 2023, only 2.1 percent have been granted asylum, while 91 percent are still pending a decision.

Under the Trump administration, however, this path for asylym seekers appeared to have been shut down. As soon as Donald Trump was sworn in for his second term on January 20, he immediately suspended the U.S. asylum system, with the aim of dismissing asylum claims for potentially hundreds of thousands of migrants in the United States.

But Ahmad’s story reflects the challenges that often remain unspoken—the loneliness, the dislocation, and the fears that sometimes resurface among those allowed to remain in one of the world’s largest democracies. 

“New York is currently a safe space for me, but I don’t feel at home here,” he says. 

“The city is like a shelter that you seek desperately while walking down a street when it starts raining,” he says. “The shelter would save you from getting drenched in the rain, but it is not your home and you cannot stay there for good.” 

Ahmad moved to New York in 2017 after his application to study at a film school in the city was accepted. He used his savings to relocate. But after his two-year course ended in 2019, his visa was going to expire and he needed to find a way to stay in the country. “I did not want to apply for asylum, because I knew my parents and family back home would be disappointed in me,” he says. 

Despite the persecution it faces, Pakistan’s Ahmadi community continues to express a sense of loyalty towards the country, and Ahmad’s family was no different. 

As he sat in a park contemplating his future in 2019, he got a text message from an Ahmadi friend from Pakistan, informing him that Ahmad’s close friend, Usman—whose surname is being withheld to protect his identity—had been arrested and booked for blasphemy. A local extremist cleric had filed a complaint against him over a message allegedly sent in a WhatsApp group for which Usman was an administrator. Three other members of the group were also arrested.

This development was the final nail in the coffin for Ahmad. He made up his mind to seek asylum. “I had seen how blasphemy-accused individuals in Pakistan are made to languish in jail for years. Now it was happening to someone so close to me,” Ahmad says. “It was then that I thought I was done with Pakistan and did not want to go back, even if it meant seeking asylum.”

To apply for asylum, he needed his birth certificate. When he messaged his mother asking her to send the document, she wrote: “Are you applying for asylum? Don’t. It is forbidden for us,” referring to the decrees from community elders about being “loyal” to Pakistan. 

During his forty-minute asylum interview, the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services officer asked Ahmad who in Pakistan he was afraid of. “Everyone,” he responded.  

“I told the officer I am afraid of Pakistan’s parliament that declared Ahmadis non-Muslims, the executive who issued Ordinance XX prohibiting Ahmadis from identifying themselves as Muslims, the country’s Supreme Court that issued a verdict justifying the persecution that Ahmadis face, and my own community that is homophobic and will excommunicate me the moment I talk about my sexual orientation.”

Four years later, in September 2022, Ahmad breathed a sigh of relief when his immigration lawyer told him that his asylum application had been accepted. But then a different kind of emotional struggle set in.

Realizing he might never be able to go back to his country and see his family again caused an anxiety he struggles with to this day. It simmers “even if you have friends and the support you need,’’ he says. “Only a fellow asylee can understand this feeling.”

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New York–based lawyer Rachel Einbund, who assists asylum-seekers and refugees and represented Ahmad for his asylum application, says the process to apply for asylum in the U.S. is “extremely emotional, stressful, and for many, overwhelming and scary.” 

“The asylum officers are trained in working with victims of trauma and persecution, but the system itself tends to treat people less than human,” she explains.

According to the American Psychiatric Association, about one out of three asylum seekers and refugees in the U.S. experience high rates of depression, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress disorders (PTSD). For many, recounting their traumatic experiences before asylum authorities can be triggering. 

“As an asylum-seeker, you cannot get over your painful past even if you want to, because you have to convince the authorities that your life is actually in danger if you return to your home country,” says Ahmad.

When asked if Ahmad’s experiences are similar to other clients she works with, Einbund says those coming from Asia, including Pakistan and South Asia, tend to “fall into a few categories—specifically, and mainly, LGBTQ.”

“The lack of queer visibility or gay rights in that part of the world leads many folks to seek asylum in the U.S. Also, religious refugees—coming from Muslim-majority countries, anyone who practices another religion—are usually afforded less to no protection,” she says. “It depends on the country, but yes, many cases seem to reflect a similar issue—lack of rights.”

While Ahmad now has a community of friends who understand his challenges and support him, New York was not always easy. 

In 2019, Ahmad’s partner, whom he had met through a dating app, broke up with him. 

As soon as he found out that Ahmad’s visa was going to expire and that he could no longer legally stay in the U.S. unless he applied for asylum or married an American citizen, Ahmad’s partner said they could no longer be together because he did not want to get involved in “all this mess.” Ahmad says, “We were together for over a year, and I thought he truly understood me.”

Ahmad was heartbroken because it was the first time he had encountered this kind of harsh reality: those facing uncertainty about their immigration status may be seen as a liability.

“What he did to me reminded me of my childhood trauma when the people I looked up to never stood up for me in the face of bigotry and persecution,” he says.

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On May 28, 2010, two Ahmadi mosques in the central Pakistani city of Lahore were attacked with bullets, grenades, and suicide bombs. Ninety-four people were killed and more than a hundred were wounded in the attack. The Punjabi Taliban claimed responsibility for both attacks. Ahmad’s uncle was one of those killed in the attacks.

“His death was painful,” Ahmad says. “But what made it worse was that my friends, who knew I was Ahmadi and that I could have been in one of the mosques at the time of the attack, never reached out to me. That’s when it occurred to me that I had no true friends in this country.”

Human rights activists often refer to Pakistan’s treatment of minorities like the Ahmadi community as a litmus test for the country’s progress. The persecution faced by the community is particularly harsh because the government supports it and has even legalized it.

Hina Jilani, a veteran lawyer and human rights activist based in Pakistan, states that journalists and activists who do not conform to the mainstream state narrative that denounces Ahmadis often face persecution and violence. “They are abducted, tortured, and in some cases even killed,” she says. “Under such conditions, what option do they have other than fleeing Pakistan to save their lives?” She adds that it is all the more difficult for members of the Ahmadi community, given that the state enables their persecution.

After the Lahore attacks in 2010, Ahmad realized, like many members of his community, that he could no longer live in Pakistan. Since he had a law degree, he began looking for jobs abroad.

A year later, he flew to Oman, as he had some friends there, along with job prospects. He found a job at a law firm within a few months.

Two months after moving to Oman, Ahmad began contemplating how he could use his newfound “liberty” to raise his voice against rising extremism in Pakistan from afar. He launched an advocacy campaign called Repeal the Second, which derives its name from the 1974 second amendment to Pakistan’s constitution that declares Ahmadis to be non-Muslims. He started reaching out to potential allies. Although it was an informal initiative launched through social media, Ahmad managed to bring together like-minded friends. While their activities were limited to posting coordinated tweets against the persecution of the community and creating hashtags for the campaign, Ahmad envisioned it as a platform for mobilizing support for the cause and striving to bring about real change.

“I wanted to bring together activists, politicians, lawyers, and students to discuss how this part of the constitution paves the way for violence and discrimination against the Ahmadi community, and what can be done to raise a voice against it,” he says.

In Pakistan, even voicing disagreement with the decision to declare Ahmadis non-Muslims can land individuals in trouble, as they could be accused of blasphemy and potentially killed by a mob. The type of discussion he wanted to have seemed impossible to his friends. Nevertheless, he was determined to make it happen. He decided to travel to Pakistan for a few weeks so that he could publicly present his initiative.

He reached out to Sabeen Mahmud, a Karachi-based social worker and the founder of a progressive community space, the Second Floor (T2F), seeking her help in organizing the event. “To my surprise, she was quick to respond,” he says. “Let’s do it,” Mahmud replied to Ahmad’s message.

In September 2014, on the 40th anniversary of the second amendment, Ahmad hosted a seminar at Mahmud’s community center, featuring prominent activists, lawyers, and students. 

“The kind of conversation we managed to have that day was unreal,” he says. “If it hadn’t been for Sabeen and the space she provided, it wouldn’t have been possible.” 

Seven months later, in April 2015, Mahmud was shot dead in Karachi on her way home after holding a session on rights violations in the insurgency-ridden Balochistan province. She had been receiving death threats due to the fearless advocacy she conducted through her community center.

Ahmad, meanwhile, had returned to Oman two days after hosting the September 2014 event because he feared a reaction from Karachi’s right-wing factions, whose hatred for the Ahmadi community is well-known. He found out about Mahmud’s murder while casually scrolling through his Twitter feed after work. “Upon hearing about her cold-blooded murder, I once again lost hope in Pakistan.”

Ahmad continued to channel his anger into his activism through Repeal the Second. Its Twitter account—due to its bold content—began to attract attention from some of the most prominent human rights defenders in Pakistan.

Ahmad was glad to be in Oman, where he could continue his activism without risking his life. However, within two years, homophobia became a significant challenge for him.

“At work in Oman, my superiors would taunt me for wearing earrings,” he says. “I was made uncomfortable due to my sexuality several times. They thought I was asking for it by acting too ‘feminine.’”

Ahmad needed to find a new path. He applied to a film school in New York, and by December 2017, he was on a plane to the U.S., hoping to start a new life.

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Ahmad was granted asylum in the U.S. in January 2023. He now describes himself as a New Yorker. He received his work permit in 2021 while awaiting a decision on his asylum application, and he now works remotely for a client based in Oman. The client pays him well, and he is financially stable, enjoying a comfortable lifestyle. However, he still longs to return home one day.

His elderly parents and an older sister, who are still in Pakistan, do not want to leave the country because they consider the persecution faced by their community to be a “test from God.” “I wish I could convince them to find a way to join me in the U.S., but they have made peace with their oppression,” Ahmad says.

Ahmad’s relationship with his parents has been negatively affected by his decision to apply for asylum, and they have never been able to truly reconcile. They exchange greetings during religious and cultural festivals such as Eid, and he speaks to his sister once or twice a month. However, Ahmad hasn’t spoken to his parents in the past several months, except for a couple of text messages informing them of his well-being.

As we sit in the living room of his New York apartment, Ahmad shows me family photos and the many certificates he received throughout his time in school. “I was known as a bright student.”

There is a spark in his eyes as he talks about briefly teaching at a law college back home. As he shows me videos from the talks and events he hosted at the college, he becomes emotional. 

“I had a life,” he says. “I had a life before I left everything behind and hurriedly moved here.”