.
.
The Body Between the Ancestor and the Rainbow: Homosexualities and LGBTQ+ Identities in Contemporary Zulu Society
In Zulu society, the question of homosexuality and transgender identities unfolds on a minefield, where several contradictory inheritances collide: a precolonial conception of sexuality that some researchers describe as more fluid than is generally thought, a Christian morality imported by missionaries and durably internalised, a customary system centred on fertility and the transmission of the ancestral name, and a South African Constitution among the most progressive in the world regarding sexual rights. For LGBTQ+ Zulu people, existing fully in this culture requires navigating between apparently irreconcilable loyalties: being Zulu and being gay, being transgender and being respectful of the ancestors, being oneself and being accepted by one's family and community. This navigation is never simple, and it is traversed by violence, silences, strategies of concealment, but also by creative reinventions of tradition that testify to the vitality and flexibility of Zulu identity.
One tenacious myth must first be dispelled: that of "homosexuality as a Western import", an argument often brandished by African political leaders to justify the criminalisation of same-sex relations. This myth ignores that the laws criminalising sodomy in Africa are themselves a colonial inheritance, imposed by the Victorian penal code on colonised peoples. Nineteenth-century missionary literature condemned with particular vigour what it called "juvenile and adolescent sexual practices", including homosexual relations, which it regarded as "evils" to be eradicated from Zulu society. The fact that missionaries judged it necessary to target these practices indicates that they existed and were widespread enough to alarm the evangelisers. The Zulu "tradition" that rejects homosexuality is therefore partly a colonial construction, the product of a selection carried out by Christianity and the colonial administration, which retained certain aspects of precolonial culture and concealed others. As an anthropologist cited in a recent study notes, negative perceptions of homosexuality are not inherent to African cultures but have been historically constructed, often through colonialism, religious teachings and the imposition of Western heteronormative values on cultures that had previously had more fluid conceptions of gender and sexuality.
This precolonial fluidity is, it is true, difficult to document with certainty, since the written sources are almost all missionary or colonial. But it transpires in certain accounts and in the manner in which contemporary LGBTQ+ Zulu people reinterpret their heritage. A remarkable study conducted by Stephanie Rudwick on a Zulu gay subculture in KwaZulu-Natal reveals that Zulu gay men construct their ethnic consciousness around three main pillars: first, isiNgqumo, a linguistic variety whose lexicon derives from old isiZulu and which functions as gay slang; second, belief in the power of the amadlozi, the ancestors; and third, adherence to the traditional custom of ukuhlonipha, respect. In other words, these men do not experience themselves as Zulus "despite" their homosexuality, but as Zulus whose ethnic identity is fully compatible with their sexual orientation, indeed reinforced by it. IsiNgqumo is not a simple code of communication: it is an affirmation that the Zulu language itself can be reinvested to express a reality that the heterosexual norm claimed to be unspeakable. And the reference to the ancestors is crucial, for it inscribes homosexuality within the Zulu cosmology rather than excluding it from it.
Yet this reconciliation is never acquired, and it depends largely on the interpretations of the guardians of tradition. A recent study conducted among the izangoma, Zulu traditional healers, reveals a diversity of positions that precludes any generalisation. Some izangoma consider that gay men can be accepted as equals provided they fulfil their spiritual responsibilities towards the ancestors. Others adopt a more conservative position, maintaining that the ancestors reject homosexual practices and recognise only heterosexual heirs. This conviction stems from their adherence to Christianity and from their conception of what constitutes a "real man" and a respectable household: anything that deviates from this social order is considered an abomination. The acceptance of a gay man within his Zulu family therefore depends on spiritual factors and cultural interpretations: a gay man who does not marry and has no children is excluded from ancestral duties because of his failure to fulfil the traditional role of heir; but if he possesses spiritual gifts or a particular calling, he may still be accepted by the ancestors. This malleability of interpretations shows that tradition is not a monolithic block: it is a space of negotiation, where the boundaries of belonging are ceaselessly defined and redefined.
The figure of the lesbian sangoma, documented by Schneider in 2023, illustrates in striking fashion this capacity for transgression and reconciliation. This activist succeeded in reconciling her Zulu spiritual practices with her lesbian identity, demonstrating that sexuality can transgress cultural and spiritual norms and that it is far from fixed. This case is not isolated: it suggests that there exist, within the most authoritative traditional structures themselves, interstices where non-conforming identities can find spiritual legitimacy. But these interstices must not be idealised: they are narrow, conditional, and always revocable. Acceptance is often subordinated to conformity in other respects, notably to respect for traditional gender roles or to the fulfilment of ritual obligations.
On the legal front, the situation of LGBTQ+ people in South Africa is paradoxical: the country has the most protective constitution on the continent, and it is the first and only African country to have legalised same-sex marriage. The Constitutional Court was the first in the world to prohibit discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation, and the Civil Union Act of 2006 granted same-sex couples the same rights as heterosexual couples. In 2026, the National Assembly adopted an amendment to this law aimed at removing the provision that allowed a marriage officer to refuse to solemnise a same-sex union on grounds of conscience or religion, a provision that infringed the right to equality. On paper, therefore, LGBTQ+ Zulu people enjoy rights among the most extensive in the world. But the lived reality is quite different, and it is in this gap between law and life that the LGBTQ+ Zulu condition is played out.
For KwaZulu-Natal is one of the most violent regions in South Africa for LGBTQ+ people, and the violence does not come only from the street: it also comes, and perhaps above all, from the community and the family. A 2026 court case shed spectacular light on the virulence of homophobia in the Zulu public sphere. A cultural leader, traditional healer and influential content creator, Ngizwe Mchunu, was found guilty of hate speech, harassment and unfair discrimination by the Johannesburg Equality Court for a series of statements published on his Facebook page between 30 September and 6 October 2025. His remarks, of extreme violence, called gay people izitabane—a degrading insult—compared them to dogs, to "faggots" and to "moffies" who deserve prison, asserted that men who sleep with men are disgusting, likened gay and lesbian people to street dogs, declared that they deserve death and prison, accused them of "grooming" children and corrupting Zulu culture, likened homosexual relations to incest, and asserted that they act against God. The Court ordered Mchunu to pay 250,000 rand in damages, to publish unconditional public apologies, to undergo twenty hours of human rights training, and banned him for life from publishing any discriminatory material or organising demonstrations against LGBTQ+ people.
This judgment is important in more than one respect. First, because it shows that the most virulent homophobia is expressed today not despite Zulu culture but in its name: Mchunu is a cultural leader and a traditional healer, and his attacks on LGBTQ+ people were explicitly formulated as a defence of Zulu culture against an alleged foreign corruption. Second, because it reveals that homophobic violence in KwaZulu-Natal is not merely the act of isolated individuals but is inscribed in a public discourse that finds a wide echo: Mchunu enjoyed an audience of several thousand people and was a well-known radio presenter. Finally, because it testifies to the determination of the South African state to enforce constitutional protections, even when the perpetrators of hate speech are respected cultural figures.
But legal proceedings are not enough to protect lives. The National Task Team on Sexual Orientation, Gender Identity and Expression and Sex Characteristics (NTT-SOGIESC) actively monitors hate crimes committed against LGBTQ+ people across the country, and its figures are alarming. In September 2026, the rapid response team was monitoring 36 priority hate crime cases nationally, of which 20 were still under police investigation without arrest and 16 were enrolled on the court roll; among these active cases, 18 were murders and 7 were rapes. In April 2026, the NTT reported 54 active cases of murder, rape and assault, of which 84% were recorded between 2024 and 2026, which reveals both better reporting of these crimes and an escalation in levels of violence. KwaZulu-Natal, a predominantly Zulu region, is among the most volatile areas. A particularly worrying phenomenon is that of "Grindr syndicates": organised criminal groups target gay men via the dating application in order to rob, kidnap or assault them. Homophobic violence in KwaZulu-Natal is therefore not only ideological; it is also economic, exploiting the vulnerability and isolation of gay men who use these applications to meet partners in a context where public visibility remains dangerous.
For transgender people, the situation is even more complex, for it combines the obstacles of gender identity with those of migratory or administrative status. South Africa is the only African country to grant refugee status on the basis of persecution linked to sexual orientation or gender identity, and has done so since the late 1990s. Thousands of LGBTQ+ people fleeing criminalisation and violence in countries such as Malawi, Uganda or Zimbabwe have taken refuge there. But the experience of these African LGBTQ+ migrants in South Africa is marked by what researchers call "Afrophobia": they suffer simultaneously anti-immigrant racism and homophobia or transphobia, not in separate places but concurrently and intertwined. One study concluded that these migrants "do not experience homophobia/transphobia in one place and xenophobia in another, but rather experience both simultaneously". For transgender refugees, a specific obstacle is added: South African law prevents refugees from accessing legal gender recognition, which means they cannot change their name and gender marker on official documents, creating constant friction in administrative procedures, healthcare and cross-border travel.
Within Zulu communities themselves, LGBTQ+ people develop strategies of survival and resistance that deserve to be recognised. The literature on black South African teachers in rural areas and townships who maintain same-sex relationships reveals that religion and Zulu culture both play a critical role in the type of decisions they make concerning their sexual and professional identities. Internalised homophobia shapes the manner in which these men perform their identity, and "passing"—that is, passing oneself off as heterosexual—constitutes a protection strategy in their personal and professional lives. This strategy is not cowardice: it is a rational response to an environment where revealing one's sexual orientation can cost one's job, one's family, one's physical safety, even one's life. It testifies to the constant pressure weighing on LGBTQ+ Zulu people to compartmentalise their existence, separating the public sphere where they conform to heteronormative expectations and the private sphere where they can live their desire.
But it would be wrong to reduce the LGBTQ+ Zulu experience to concealment and suffering. There exists a visible, creative, even joyful LGBTQ+ Zulu life, which unfolds in the urban spaces of KwaZulu-Natal, particularly in Durban. The Zulu gay subculture studied by Rudwick is not merely a community of survival; it is a community of cultural production, which has developed its own language, its own codes of recognition, its own forms of sociability. And South Africa as a whole has become a prized destination for international LGBTQ+ tourism, to the point of hosting WorldPride in 2028 in Cape Town, a first on African soil. This international visibility contrasts with the daily violence suffered by LGBTQ+ Zulu people in townships and rural areas, and it reveals a class and geographic cleavage within the LGBTQ+ community itself: urban and relatively affluent gay men can live more openly and benefit from constitutional protections, while poor, rural, transgender or migrant LGBTQ+ people remain exposed to violence that the state fails to prevent.
The question of family and community acceptance remains the most painful knot, for it is there that the articulation between sexual identity and cultural identity is played out. In a society where the family is the basic structure of social recognition, where ilobolo seals alliances between lineages, where fertility and descent are the conditions of belonging to the ancestors, the announcement of homosexuality or a transgender identity is experienced not as a simple personal confidence but as a potential rupture of the social and cosmological contract. A gay man who does not marry and has no children is considered to have failed in his role as heir, and he risks being excluded from ancestral duties. A lesbian woman who refuses heterosexual marriage and ilobolo deprives her family of an essential economic and symbolic resource. These material stakes, and not only moral or religious ones, explain families' resistance to accepting their LGBTQ+ children, and they also explain why certain izangoma condition the acceptance of gay men on the fulfilment of their spiritual responsibilities: it is a way of reintegrating the individual into the system of obligations from which he seemed to have excluded himself.
Yet signs of evolution are perceptible. The national public opinion survey conducted by the Human Sciences Research Council in 2026 reveals a growth in public support for the inclusion, equality and human dignity of LGBTIQ+ people in South Africa. The Deputy Minister in the Presidency responsible for Women, Youth and Persons with Disabilities, Mmapaseka Steve Letsike, welcomed these results while acknowledging that many LGBTIQ+ people continue to suffer discrimination, violence, exclusion, hate speech and inequalities in access to opportunities. She stressed that legal protections alone are insufficient if they are not accompanied by societal acceptance, responsibility and respect for the inherent dignity of every human being. This official discourse, delivered by a leading Zulu figure, shows that the South African state fully assumes its role as guarantor of LGBTQ+ rights, and that there now exists a possibility of leading an open and fulfilled life for LGBTQ+ Zulu people, even if this possibility remains unequally distributed and constantly threatened.
The struggle for LGBTQ+ rights in South Africa and in KwaZulu-Natal is therefore far from over. It comes up against a resistance that claims to speak in the name of tradition and culture, but which is in reality traversed by colonial and missionary inheritances that its defenders do not recognise as such. It also comes up against material violence, poverty, unemployment and the housing crisis, which make LGBTQ+ people particularly vulnerable to exploitation and assault. And it comes up finally against the internalisation of homophobia by LGBTQ+ people themselves, which leads them to hide, to marry against their will, to lead double lives that exhaust them and expose them to health and psychological risks.
But this struggle also produces unprecedented forms of culture and resistance. The reappropriation of isiNgqumo as a language of affirmation, the reinterpretation of ancestral roles by izangoma who accept spiritual diversity, the emergence of figures such as the lesbian sangoma who reconciles spiritual practice and sexual identity, the growing visibility of LGBTQ+ people in the South African public sphere—all this testifies to a capacity of Zulu culture to transform itself from within, to integrate what it excluded, to make diversity a richness rather than a threat. Zulu tradition is not a frozen heritage that must be preserved intact against the assaults of modernity; it is a living, contested, negotiated practice that reinvents itself with each generation. And LGBTQ+ Zulu people, far from being enemies of this tradition, are today full actors within it, who reformulate it and enrich it with their experiences. Their existence poses to Zulu society a question that can no longer be eluded: can a culture honour its ancestors while welcoming all its children? The answer, which is being built in the courts, the families, the churches, the consultations of healers and the spaces of gay sociability, has not yet been written, but it is in the process of being made, in pain and in hope, in secrecy and in light.
.
