A conversation with Afro Rainbow Austria on why shared physical spaces are essential for healing, connection, and collective strength.
“You can’t know what it means to live in a wooden house unless you’ve lived in one. Same with belonging. Same with being held. Same with sharing a space with people who don’t just tolerate you, but understand. People really underestimate the power of the feeling of belonging. No amount of therapy or medication can replace the sense of being truly seen and held by others who understand your struggle ”
Henrie Dennis, founder of Afro Rainbow Austria
With this blog series, we’re sharing insights from the work of LGBTI organisations tackling injustice, racism, and the unique challenges faced by racialised LGBTI communities in Europe. We hope their stories and practices will inspire and resonate. We believe that solutions and approaches that include a few will pave the way and point to the solutions for many. You can read the previous blog in the series here.
As rainbow flags fill the streets during Pride season, we’re reminded of how vital visibility can be. But for many racialised queer communities, gathering means something quieter, deeper, and no less urgent. In-person spaces can be sites of healing, survival, and joy. For Afro Rainbow Austria (ARA), they are a lifeline.
“People really underestimate the power of the feeling of belonging,” says Henrie Dennis, founder of ARA. “No amount of therapy or medication can replace the sense of being truly seen and held by others who understand your struggle.”
Afro Rainbow Austria is a space by and for queer people of African descent living in Austria. Its roots are in celebration – born from dance parties where Henrie first sought out other queer Africans – but it quickly became something more: a community for people navigating isolation, racism, migration, and anti-LGBTI hostility all at once.
“We try to create a soft landing,” she explains. “You don’t have to choose between being queer or being African. You bring your whole self.”
More than a retreat
ARA’s gatherings are intentionally small, informal, and deeply personal. Their community retreats are not structured around outputs, but around connection. “It’s not just a fancy name,” Henrie says. “It’s cooking together. Waking up late. Letting someone see your bad habits. Laughing. Sharing. Saying, ‘I’m not okay today’ and being met with, ‘I hear you.’”
These spaces are particularly vital in a country like Austria, where many queer Africans arrive feeling invisible. “You come here and suddenly you don’t even know your neighbour’s name,” Henrie says. “Community life, the kind many of us knew growing up, just disappears. These retreats bring it back.”
They are also spaces of vulnerability and trust. “We invite hand-picked allies too,” she says. “We tell them: say what you need to say. You won’t be punished. But be real. We’re not here for performance.”
Rest is resistance
For many participants, the chance to simply rest without fear, pressure, or expectation is transformative. “Some people had never taken a break. Some had never been on holiday. For them, just having food, space, and time to chill was revolutionary,” Henrie says.
At the same time, these gatherings offer tools – workshops, discussions, and space for reflection. “We talk about how to navigate systems. People leave with something for their CV, or just the knowledge that they’re not alone.”
A quiet kind of advocacy
ARA also reaches out to queer African asylum seekers in reception centres. The work is slow, intentional, and sensitive to risk. “Even holding a flyer can out someone,” Henrie says. “So we go ourselves. We speak gently. We offer connection.”
And always, the goal is the same: community that doesn’t demand performance, but offers presence.
“If you’ve never lived in a wooden house…”
“People who’ve never had true community can’t know what it means,” Henrie reflects. “They think you can replace it with Zoom or slogans. But real presence is different.”
She adds, “You can’t know what it means to live in a wooden house unless you’ve lived in one. Same with belonging. Same with being held. Same with sharing a space with people who don’t just tolerate you, but understand.”
In-person spaces are not a luxury for communities pushed to the margins. They are infrastructure. They are medicine. They are how people survive and begin to dream again.
“We need more spaces like that,” Henrie says. “Not just spaces for speaking, but for listening. Not just visibility, but connection. Not just being seen – being safe.”
