One afternoon this summer, Vjosa, hunched over the shelves of the supermarket where she works, was lining up jars of peas on a metal rack when a young couple with a baby in a stroller stopped nearby. As they whispered to each other about which jar to pick, the baby reached toward the shelves, trying to grab one, while the parents laughed, amused by the scene. Vjosa straightened her posture, wiped her hands on her uniform, and followed them with her gaze. She then turned to me and said, “When you see the way parents treat their babies, with all that love, how could you not question how a parent could do to their child what my parents did to me?”

A few weeks ago, Vjosa took me to the outskirts of the capital, to the house where she had grown up. The street was typical of the surrounding neighborhoods — dusty asphalt, tangled electric wires and high iron gates that conceal the houses behind them. Pointing to a narrow window on the second floor, Vjosa said, “That’s the window.”

It was through that window, four years earlier, that she had escaped. Her parents, determined to marry her off to a man she had neither chosen nor loved, had kept her locked in a room for days. At 20 years old, Vjosa managed to flee with the help of her sisters. The youngest sneaked her out at midnight, while the eldest took part in the plan but made her swear never to tell anyone. Her marriage could be jeopardized if her role was revealed, her husband’s family might seize on it as an excuse to belittle her in the household where she lived.

Today, Vjosa lives with her girlfriend in Prishtina, in a studio apartment overlooking the bus station. She works long hours at a supermarket, far from her family home. Her parents have never tried to visit. Her father has cut off all contact, while her mother occasionally sends her brief, cautious messages, but never invites her back.

Still, Vjosa says there are moments when she feels lucky. She believes that her ordinary appearance — jeans, a simple T-shirt, long hair, a look she says “does not attract attention” — has helped her secure a job with a well-known supermarket chain.

“If only they knew…” Vjosa says ironically, wondering whether she would have been hired if her employers had known about her sexual orientation. This job has given her and her partner just enough support to cover the rent, buy groceries and — above all — ensure that Vjosa never has to return to her parents’ home.

For many queer people in Kosovo, such an opportunity doesn’t exist. Those who experience violence in their families rarely find a way out. There is no shelter in the country, whether municipal or state-run, dedicated to queer people facing domestic violence. Young people who leave home often do so without money, without work and without a safe place to go. For minors, escape is often impossible. The very institutions that should intervene — police, social workers — frequently fail or turn a blind eye, sometimes out of ignorance, sometimes out of prejudice. And so the circle closes in, forcing many back into the very homes that endanger them, sometimes at the risk of their lives.

Forced marriages, physical violence and lynching 

Over several months, in addition to Vjosa, K2.0 also spoke with several queer individuals — whose real names are not used in this article — as well as queer activists. These conversations revealed a pattern of domestic violence that is both familiar and painful. As elsewhere, in many families in Kosovo, especially those rooted in patriarchal and conservative traditions, a queer child is not seen as someone simply growing up and finding themselves, but as a rupture in the life trajectory that the family expects of them — a fracture in the family’s imagined future. Within this logic, queer identity is not understood as a personal truth, but as a threat: to the family’s honor, to the prospect of heterosexual marriages, to the security of heirs, and to the facade maintained in front of neighbors and relatives. Violence often stems from this social pressure. It is usually the men of the family — fathers and brothers — who enact it, though there are also cases where it comes from mothers or sisters.

“Expectations for marriage, reproduction and even having grandchildren are so deeply embedded in family identity that any deviation feels like betrayal,” said Genci, a queer activist.

“The violence is initially psychological and starts when the queer child begins to behave as they feel,” explained Dorina, a queer activist and friend of Genci. “Then it escalates and can turn into physical violence when the queer person, now an adult, openly expresses their sexual orientation or gender identity to their family.”

Psychological violence often starts early, in the form of what sociology calls gender policing. In the case of children, this refers to the ways in which society — especially family — monitors and attempts to correct their behavior to keep them within the boundaries of gender norms. Boys are reprimanded for showing softness or traits considered feminine, or for playing with dolls instead of cars. Girls are criticized for the way they dress, for spending too much time playing outside, or especially for associating with boys, since this is seen as a threat to the so-called honor of the family.

What may seem like a small remark, repeated day after day, becomes a powerful mechanism of control — disciplining children not only for what is deemed acceptable to their gender, but also in what they must hide in order to avoid punishment.

When she was little, Vjosa doesn’t remember having any traits that exposed her sexual orientation — as is often the case, since sexual orientation has no fixed appearance. She was simply lively and headstrong, running and playing, traits she describes as being “a bit like a boy.” Like many little girls, this was something her father initially welcomed. But everything changed when she entered adolescence. The same stubbornness that once delighted him began to feel like defiance, especially when Vjosa started openly challenging the norms that anchored her family — most of all, her insistence that she would never marry a man.

“In powerful patriarchal contexts, a child’s sexuality or gender expression is seen as a reflection of the family’s honor,” said Blert Morina, director of the LGBTQ+ rights organization Center for Freedom and Equality (CEL). “Even small corrections, like telling boys not to do housework or telling girls not to act ‘like boys,’ are forms of discipline meant to push children back into the gender roles the family believes preserve its reputation.”

Morina explains that parents’ fear is not confined to the walls of their home. It is not only what happens inside that worries them, but also what might be seen or heard outside: the whispers of neighbors, the judgments of relatives, the watchful eyes of the neighborhood. In environments where the opinion of others carries great weight, any behavior by a child that strays from the norm is perceived as a threat to the entire family.

“Even in an effort to avoid shame, some parents react violently toward their children, trying to suppress any visible signs of queerness,” he said.

Activists say that parents, overcome by fear or shame, sometimes still send their queer children to psychiatrists — a practice more common in the past — in the belief that therapy can change their sexual or gender identity or, as they mistakenly believe, to correct it. More often, they turn to religious leaders, convinced that prayers and rituals can alter their children’s identities.

For much of modern history, being queer was not understood as an identity but classified as a diagnosis or abnormality. Until 1990, even the World Health Organization (WHO) listed homosexuality as a mental illness. After its removal from official classifications, professional associations of psychiatrists and psychologists across the world began issuing guidelines affirming queer identities and strongly condemning so-called conversion therapies.

The years that followed saw a wave of anti-discrimination laws in schools, workplaces, and public services, while international human rights campaigns introduced the language of equality into global politics. Many countries legalized same-sex marriage and expanded adoption rights, shifting public perception from pathology to legal equality and human dignity. In Kosovo, as elsewhere, echoes of that pathologization persist in families that still view sexual orientation and gender identity as something to be “cured.”

Vjosa had never told her parents that she was a lesbian, and she didn’t exactly know what they thought of her. What was clear, however, was that they disapproved of her decision never to marry a man. At one point, they even tried to take her to a religious leader, believing that his prayers could change her mind. But Vjosa resisted, telling them she would offend the leader if they forced her to go. Reluctantly, her parents gave up.

She also narrowly escaped a forced marriage. Queer activists and individuals say that until a decade ago, such attempts were more common in Kosovo — especially at a time when few could imagine any alternative, and they were often impossible to avoid.

“Many LGBTQ+ people in the past married simply because they saw no other way,” said Nuhiu, director of the Center for the Development of Social Groups (CSGD), an LGBTQ+ rights organization. “Marriage then became the quickest way to ‘fix the problem.’ For some, it was a bitter compromise — a way to avoid open confrontation with the community and public shame. For others, forced marriage was a form of severe violence.”

For queer women, the impact is often double, as forced marriages are frequently accompanied by gender-based violence, making the experience even more painful and traumatic. Within the community, there are stories of women who entered unwanted marriages and were subsequently raped by the men they were forced to marry.

Although forced marriages remain a form of violence against queer people, activists say they are less common today than in the past. The age of marriage has been pushed back, delaying it has become more socially acceptable, and some queer youth are able to buy time by saying they are “not ready yet.” But activists get concerned whenever they encounter new cases, for these remain the most extreme examples of domestic violence.

When queer activists and individuals reflect on their own experiences of domestic violence, there is broad agreement that transgender girls and women are at the highest risk and endure the most severe forms of physical abuse. For other groups, opinions differ: some activists believe that after transgender women, lesbians face the most violence, while others believe it to be gay men.

Transgender men, on the other hand, are often thought of as being more protected. Activists consider this to be related to patriarchal logic. Families generally find it easier to accept daughters identifying as boys or men than sons identifying as girls or women. This partly explains why, in Kosovo, transgender men are often the first to come out publicly and even engage in open confrontations with state institutions — they, to some extent, benefit from family support.

“We continue to measure the power of the family through men,” said Blert Morina of the organization CEL. “Meanwhile, transgender women provoke the greatest shock, because for patriarchal families and society, the idea of a ‘man’ becoming a ‘woman’ is doubly unacceptable — a direct challenge to the authority of the family.”

Morina himself is among the first transgender men to come out publicly in Kosovo, highlighting the support he has received from his family while he legally challenged the state, demanding a change in his name and gender marker on official identification documents.

The risk of physical violence against transgender girls and women — and other queer individuals — typically increases when the doubts parents have about their children’s sexual or gender identity turn into certainty. What begins as psychological pressure often escalates into open violence when children resist their parents’ demands and assert their own identities.

“The more confrontation, the more physical violence,” said Dorina, a queer activist.

LGBTQ+ activists and individuals note that cases of physical violence are more frequent in rural areas and small towns, where the concept of “family honor” is more rigid and patriarchal authority is less challenged. They stress, however, that this does not exclude families in Prishtina or those from a higher socio-economic status.

Activists have observed that even in families from the capital — where awareness is presumed higher due to a greater exposure to social movements — a similar silent pact often occurs. It is not genuine acceptance, but a hidden agreement to protect the family’s public image. In these cases, queer children and youth may not face physical violence, but are compelled to keep their sexual orientation or gender identity private, hiding it from relatives and society.

“Children and parents make compromises to preserve the family’s reputation. Physical violence is rarer, because ‘modern’ families cannot allow it without damaging their image of being educated,” said Elena, a queer activist. “But this comes at a cost. Queer children, in order to maintain their family’s reputation, as intellectuals with high social standing, avoid exposure, avoid our organizations, activities, even queer-friendly cafés.”

In other cases, both in Prishtina and elsewhere, physical violence might be less common, but many queer people still experience gradual exclusion from family life. At first, they are not invited to birthday parties, then to dinners or gatherings, until one day they realize that family activities continue on as if they do not exist.

“One day you just realize that everything is planned and done without you,” said Iliri, a queer activist. “Acceptance turns into another form of exclusion.”

Activists note that another key factor influencing domestic violence against queer people is financial dependence.

When a queer child contributes financially — bringing money into the home or helping their parents — even the most patriarchal families often suppress violence, or at least keep it hidden. But when young people are entirely economically dependent on their families, the risk increases. Dependency makes them more vulnerable and can lead to an escalation of abuse. A recent example involves an unemployed transgender girl who experienced sever physical assault by her brothers, was denied property rights and was completely expelled from her home.

Activists agree that the most extreme form of domestic violence is total exclusion from the home. At this point, it is no longer about constant pressure or threats, but a decisive act: children, youth, and even adults are told to leave and never return.

“They just kick them out and never show interest in them again,” said Morina. “I know dozens of cases where, as soon as someone confirmed their sexual orientation or gender identity, their family would effectively lynch them.”

Homeless, unprotected

When a queer individual is evicted from their home, they are left homeless. Kosovo has no shelters dedicated specifically to LGBTQ+ people who are victims of domestic violence or other forms of abuse — a critical need that LGBTQ+ rights activists have been highlighting for years.

Many minors and young people who experience violence have no choice but to remain with abusive family members, while activists and civil society organizations, working with limited resources, try to find short-term rental housing or provide temporary shelter. In some cases, evicted individuals have been forced to stay overnight in the offices of these organizations, it being the only available option for shelter.

On rare occasions, queer girls or women have been able to access existing women’s shelters for victims of domestic violence. In one documented case, a transgender girl was accepted, but faced exclusion and rejection from other residents in the shelter.

To address the most urgent cases, in 2015, CEL reached an agreement with the “Streha” shelter in Tirana — the first residential center in the region opened specifically for homeless LGBTQ+ people. Initially established as a non-governmental organization, “Streha” has since received significant support from the state.

Since then, the center has always kept a bed reserved for people from Kosovo, typically accommodating one individual every six months.

Morina from CEL recalls the first case sent there: a lesbian woman who had been forcibly married to a man. After several months, she managed to escape and, somehow, found CEL’s contact information. Early one morning, she called from the bus station, saying she had nowhere to go. Activists picked her up in a taxi and immediately escorted her to Tirana. Once she crossed the border, she never returned to Kosovo.

“Everyone who contacts us is in an extremely difficult situation, both economically and physically,” Morina said. “The hardest part is having to decide what counts as an emergency. It’s a terrible feeling when you are forced to measure somenone’s pain, knowing that having a shelter in Kosovo would save many from returning to violence. Imagine if something happened… but you decided not to send them to Tirana. How would I have felt later on?”

Morina recalls a case in which a young transgender girl’s life was put in serious danger by her parents — so much so that she feared that they might kill her. Without identification documents, she could not even be sent to Albania, forcing activists to provide temporary housing for her on a rotating basis.

For years, activists have been pressuring institutions to take action. Morina from CEL and Nuhiu from CSGD emphasize that it has always been crucial for LGBTQ+ organizations that shelters secure state funding and not rely solely on donor-funded projects, which can be abruptly terminated. In 2020, under the leadership of Shpend Ahmeti, the Municipality of Prishtina allocated 300,000 euros to open the city’s first shelter for LGBTQ+ people. However, with the arrival of his successor, Përparim Rama, the project stalled amid ongoing debates between the municipality and organizations, often over basic issues, for instance, deciding on a location.

This summer, after sustained pressure from activists, the municipality finally made two small apartments available as temporary shelters until a permanent facility is built. Rama has promised that construction will begin in the fall of this year, following the local elections.

“This only came after relentless pressure,” Nuhiu said. “We finally agreed on the land, the shelter will have two entrances: one for minors and one for adults. It will provide services from psychologists, social workers, legal experts, and lawyers, as well as vocational training programs, and will operate as a semi-open shelter. But the funds need to be much higher than the initial 300,000 euros. With inflation, this amount has to be significantly increased.”

The news of this decision was made public only by LGBTQ+ rights organizations and not by the Municipality of Prishtina. K2.0 contacted the municipality for more details about the shelter plan, but did not receive a response.

K2.0 also reached out to the Kosovo Police (KP) to understand how they handle cases of domestic violence against queer people and their experiences with victims. So far, the request has gone unanswered.

Activists say that there is only a very small number of queer individuals who report domestic violence to the police. The are many reasons for this: like other children, they may not want to confront their parents. However, unlike other children, they also have no safe alternative if they are forced to return home after visiting the police station.

“We can’t even tell them to ‘go and report it’ when there are no shelters available to them,” Morina said.

On paper, Kosovo’s laws guarantee that domestic violence against queer people has to be treated seriously. The Criminal Code recognizes domestic violence as a distinct criminal offense. When this violence is motivated by hatred — because of sexual orientation or gender identity — the law considers it an aggravating circumstance, meaning the punishment should be more severe.

Meanwhile, the Law on Prevention and Protection from Domestic Violence also includes the LGBTQ+ community among its “vulnerable victims.” This means their cases should be treated as a priority, and public institutions responsible under the law are obliged to provide measures, services and support tailored to the specific needs of these victims.

In practice, however, the situation remains unclear. Activists are not aware of any cases of violence against queer people that have gone beyond brief police detention, a limitation also linked to the cultural tendency to view domestic violence as a family matter to be resolved privately.

K2.0 spoke with a queer individual who, after reporting violence from his father, was subjected to insults by a police officer inside the station. Civil society organizations also reported at least one other case of mistreatment of a queer person by the police, though this incident was not related to domestic violence. In that case, too, the victim chose not to file a complaint but shared their experience with K2.0.

K2.0 contacted the Kosovo Police Inspectorate (KPI) to ask whether it has received complaints from LGBTQ+ people regarding excessive force or unprofessional, discriminatory and offensive behavior by police officers, and requested access to related documents. So far, the KPI has not responded.

The situation becomes particularly concerning when the victim is a minor. Social workers, who often act as legal guardians, frequently lack the expertise to handle issues related to queer individuals, which exacerbates the problem. When K2.0 reached out to the Center for Social Work (CWS) in Pristina, two social workers said they had no comment, noting that they had never worked with LGBTQ+ individuals. Only one, Naim Gashi, recalled a case from several years ago in which a queer minor was a victim of domestic violence. Due to the lack of shelter, Gashi said the minor was forced to return home.

Activists point out that social workers often openly admit they do not know how to handle these cases, clearly demonstrating the need for the state to provide additional training. Gashi confirmed this, noting that although many social workers are willing to help, they lack the basic knowledge — such as distinguishing sexual orientation from gender identity — to provide appropriate support to victims.

The broader question remains: how can the state intervene so that parents — and institutions — treat queer children and citizens with respect and care? Activists are often pessimistic, but they have concrete suggestions. They argue that solutions require parallel efforts across several areas: training for parents, where sexual orientation, gender identity and the psychological impact of rejection are openly discussed; specialized programs to teach teachers, police officers, social and health workers, how to support queer families and individuals; and media campaigns and school programs that integrate and normalize discussions about queer identities.

“But, then you see all that homophobia and transphobia on the floor of Parliament,” said Morina of CEL. “When you see MPs talking like that, there needs to be measures against them. Otherwise, this language will tell parents that rejection is acceptable,” he added, referring to instances when LGBTQ+ issues have been treated with stigmatizing discourse by MPs.

That afternoon, as Vjosa spoke about feeling lucky to have a job — something many LGBTQ+ people are denied — she added that she also felt fortunate that her mental health was “stable.” By “stable,” she did not mean the absence of anxiety, depression, loneliness or stress, all of which she has experienced, but rather, a state of daily survival.

“Stable means managing to somehow continue living after all that has happened to you at home. Without going completely crazy,” she said.

Feature image: Illustrative photography by Ferdi Limani / K2.0

Want to support our journalism? Become a member of HIVE or consider making a donation. Learn more here.