LGBTQ+ inmates come out in Spanish jails

Juan’s journey from freedom to proudly posing on the rainbow crosswalk at the Morón de la Frontera prison in Seville has been tortuous. He had never experienced what it meant to hide as a gay man in his adult life until he entered a jail three years ago. “I went in terrified I would be raped in a restroom,” he admits.

He decided then to stay in the closet and adopt a staged life that included a wife on the outside and masculine mannerisms. When he was transferred to the Seville prison, he thought it would be “the same old thing,” but he was wrong: “Here I’ve become myself again.”

Juan is one of 15 members of Espacio Seguro (Safe Space), an initiative created by this facility to promote diversity and visibility among its 1,350 LGBTQ+ inmates. “Now we’re like a family,” Juan adds.

Life behind the two heavy doors and 11 airtight gates — called rastrillos — of a typical prison like Sevilla II (the official name of the Morón jail) is tense for most inmates. But for LGBTQ+ prisoners it is doubly hostile: wrapped in prejudice and homophobia. “[Espacio Seguro] is a space to relax from the tension of prison life,” says Alejandro P. Ferreiro, training services manager at the prison and the volunteer who runs the monthly Espacio Seguro meetings.

This prison officer, an activist for the community in his spare time, decided to launch the initiative three years ago after attending a conference on LGBTQ+ education where two gay inmates made him aware of “common and individual problems” that needed attention. On the other side, Laura Agüero, the prison’s deputy director and a member of the center’s Equality Committee, picked up the mantle immediately: “These realities had to be made visible.”

What is happening in Morón is part of an uneven shift within the Spanish penitentiary system. Its step forward is not unique among the country’s 80 prisons, but it is one of the most advanced and well-established. María Moñuz, coordinator for Equality at the National Prison Administration, estimates that initiatives working on diversity exist “in a little more than half of the centers,” though she acknowledges that the transformation is still a work in progress.

Some of those projects are carried out with support from local LGBTQ+ associations, such as Fundación 26 de Diciembre, which runs the Rejas Rosas (Pink Bars) program in the Soto del Real (Madrid) and Teixeiro (A Coruña) prisons. “These groups let them disconnect from being in prison; they become their circle, their bond, and their support,” explains Daniel García, the psychologist in charge of Rejas Rosas. “The creation of a group around these identities makes this kind of empowerment spread throughout the environment, including staff or modules,” he adds.

But the idea of the Prison Administration is for the initiative to grow from within each prison team, as has happened in Morón. “Being prison staff, we can address problems more naturally and with greater knowledge. That also helps ensure continuity,” Ferreiro adds. “We’ve been doing videoconferences with equality teams for three years. In the centers where work is underway, you can see the change: conflict and hate crimes are decreasing,” Moñuz says.

Still, homophobia persists, as laments Juanjo, Juan’s colleague in Espacio Seguro in Morón. Juanjo, 32 and openly bisexual, had never considered activism until he entered prison six years ago and witnessed homophobic assaults against other community members. “And that’s with everything having improved. The old-timers tell us it used to be much worse, that you were ‘the fag’ and you got what you got,” he adds, referring to sexual abuse and rape.

Juan, beside him, recounts having suffered discrimination, now more confined to cells than to communal spaces. “It’s hard. I handled an attack in public better than in private, where fear freezes you and in the end you stay silent and go along with it.”

That atmosphere of hostility leads some inmates to stay in the closet or even move from module to module as a way of hiding, Ferreiro explains. Speaking out and tackling those assaults, supporting people through the coming-out process and addressing individual concerns — such as protected sex or sexually transmitted infections — are part of Espacio Seguro’s regular conversations. Its 15 members also reflect the most common profile of the community in Spanish prisons: gay or bisexual men. Although there are no statistics — Prison Administration does not ask about sexual orientation or gender identity unless the person chooses to disclose it — that profile is shaped by the composition of the inmate population: 93% are men.

Time for reflection

Fran, 46, never imagined he would become part of Espacio Seguro. He entered prison seven years ago, leaving a wife and two children. “I had never been attracted to men or paid attention to them,” he recalls. Three years ago, everything changed after he began a relationship with another inmate. “I explained it to my wife and children. They understood and told me if I was happy, they were too. Now I consider myself bisexual,” he adds.

Fran’s profile is not unique. “Prison is a time for reflection,” Moñuz explains. “There are people who don’t come out until they reach prison. There they meet the group, shed self-discriminatory labels instilled by society and find a way to liberation and empowerment,” Daniel García adds.

In these past three years, the Morón group has had time to organize the annual Pride celebration in the prison — the last took place in June — with speeches and performances, as well as film forums, readings and occasional outings, such as the visit to La Barzola Pride in Seville.

“All this is possible because management is the project’s primary backer,” says Ferreiro. They have also received sexual health workshops, with rapid tests and activities to combat HIV-related stigma, run by the NGO Stop Sevilla.

“It’s an opportunity to work with vulnerable people who have limited access to sexual healthcare. It’s very moving,” says José Carlos Salcedo, a volunteer with the organization.

But above all, the initiative has served to improve inmates’ lives, Ferreiro explains: “Espacio Seguro is now taken into account in the prison’s daily life. For example, the Subdirectorate of Treatment asks us about module transfers for some LGBTQ inmates so we can give our opinion on what seems best.”

There isn’t a corner of Morón prison where the rainbow flag isn’t visible. Alongside the LGBTQ+ crosswalk that connects several modules, there is an exhibition — which has already toured outside the facility — posters, pride benches and slogans from previous editions of Seville Pride. It is the tangible crystallization of three years of Espacio Seguro’s work. All that effort led the center last year to become the first Andalusian prison recognized as an LGBTQphobia-free space by the regional government.

“By making ourselves visible, we have also become role models for other inmates. Some come up to us and ask what we do in Espacio Seguro, they want to know more and, in the end, some join,” Juan says.

Fran met his current boyfriend on one of the outings organized by Espacio Seguro. “He’s a guy who does drag. We’ve been together seven months,” he says proudly.

It is a Tuesday, in mid-July, and the inmate has just returned from temporary leave, made possible by the second-level prison regime (the standard classification for most prisoners in Spain, involving ordinary imprisonment but with eligibility for certain leave permits and rehabilitation activities) he now enjoys, in order to attend the group’s monthly meeting. Sitting in a circle, the 15 members discuss the organization of the most recent Pride celebrations while personal concerns also emerge.

“After the last film, some inmates have started seeing me differently and they no longer insult me,” one says. “The prison has reduced the stigma of the soap bar,” another notes.

Juan, Juanjo and Fran join the conversation, although for the latter this may be one of his last meetings before obtaining third-degree status (Spain’s most open prison classification, allowing inmates to spend much of their time outside prison), which would allow him to serve the final stretch of his sentence at another center.

“From this space I’m taking people who are already family. As for the rest of the prison… when I leave, I’m not looking back!” he exclaims with a laugh.

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