Kenya Cuevas (1983) is a Mexican activist trans woman whose journey is one of survival and resilience. 

Born in Mexico City, Kenya lost the women who cared for her at just nine years old, leaving her in an abusive and violent household. After her older brother took her first salary, she left home for good. That same night, she met a trans woman who helped her understand her identity but also introduced her to the harsh reality of survival. By nine, she was working as a sex worker to sustain herself, leading to years of homelessness, drug addiction, and violence.

At 13, she was diagnosed with HIV, and by 28, she was unfairly imprisoned for drug possession. In prison, she faced extreme discrimination and witnessed pharmaceutical companies experimenting on inmates with HIV. Despite these conditions, she became a respected figure and fought for better treatment. After nearly 11 years, her case was reviewed, leading to her early release.

Once free, she continued sex work but also dedicated herself to HIV prevention, distributing condoms, educating, and helping trans women access healthcare. But in 2016, everything changed—her close friend Paola Buenrostro was murdered before her eyes. The justice system failed Paola, and Kenya coined the term "transfeminicide", demanding recognition of the violence against trans women. Facing death threats and assassination attempts, she persisted.

Kenya founded Casa de las Muñecas Tiresias, a shelter for trans women, sex workers, and people with HIV, providing education, legal aid, and psychological support. She works with lawyers and human rights organizations to push for policy change. Her fight continues, shaping legal discussions on trans rights in Mexico.

Her story is one of survival, resistance, and an unbreakable spirit. 



Below, you can read more about her personal story, based on the biggining of the interview in 'Más allá del rosa'.

Kenya Cuevas is a trans woman from Mexico City whose life has been shaped by loss, resilience, and a fierce commitment to justice. From a very young age, she carried within her a powerful sense of activism, rooted not in theory, but in survival.

She was born into a home marked by poverty, violence, and alcoholism. Her father was absent, living with another family. Her mother worked constantly, so Kenya was raised mostly by her grandmother. For a while, she felt safe, protected by both women from the abuse of her older brothers. But everything changed when she was just nine years old—first her mother died, then her grandmother passed away shortly after. With no one left to protect her, Kenya was left at the mercy of her brothers, who didn’t even feed her.

One day, she approached a neighbor who owned a small shop and asked for work. He gave her a job, and when she earned her first paycheck, her brother took it away. That night, she packed a small bag and left, knowing she would never return home.

On her first night on the streets, she met a trans woman. Kenya was struck by her presence, she looked beautiful and confident, everything Kenya longed to be. She asked her how she could look like her, how she could become like that. Until then, Kenya had believed she was the only person in the world trapped in a boy's body, liking boys. All she knew of gender came from stereotypes, and she dreamed of long hair, lipstick, and being seen as a girl. The woman told her, "If you want to look like me, you need to work." She explained what she meant, and that same night Kenya found herself in a hotel room with a man who paid for her to stay for a week.

The next morning, as she stepped into the hallway, she realized the whole place was filled with trans women. Two of them took her in and brought her to local shops to buy a wig, makeup, and clothes. When they dressed her up, she looked in the mirror and, for the first time, saw herself. She felt seen. She felt like Kenya.

But she was only nine years old, and she had no money, no food, and no home. So that very same night, she started working as a sex worker. At first, she had many clients—men drawn by her youth. But soon, all the men who had wanted to be with her had already been, and what remained were those who came drunk or high. With no experience, no guidance, and a deep sense of abandonment, she began using drugs too. It became a way to numb the pain.

For the next twenty years, she lived on the streets.

“The drug,” she would later say, “is just the tip of the iceberg. It's the consequence of everything you carry inside.”
“Someday, I thought, someone will come looking for me. They'll see me here and regret it. But no one ever came.”

She sometimes went to shelters, but she had to dress as a boy to be allowed in. “If they had accepted my gender identity, I would have stayed,” she said. “I would go, shower, rest for a couple of days, and then return to the street.”

The deepest pain came from the abandonment, not just from her family, but from society itself. No one cared about helping the people living on the margins.

Eventually, she reached a breaking point. Tired of being on the streets, she sought help at a social center. The process of quitting drugs brought on intense withdrawal symptoms and hallucinations, and she was taken to a detox center. There, at the age of 13, she was diagnosed with HIV.

She returned to the streets and stayed there until she was 28. One day, while buying drugs, police raided the house and arrested her. She was charged with drug possession and dealing. Resigned, she thought, “This is it. I’ll stay here.”

They sent her to a men's prison, where her gender identity was not respected. Makeup was seen as defiance. Inside Santa Marta prison, there was trafficking—not just among prisoners but by the officers themselves. Eventually, she was transferred to another prison, where she disclosed her HIV status. They placed her in a special ward for people with the virus. There were rumors that the medication being given was lethal, and Kenya stopped taking it. She watched as others grew sick and died quickly. Pharmaceutical companies were experimenting on them, treating them as if they had no rights.

In 2009, a doctor from Condesa Clinic started filming a documentary about people with HIV in prison. Four inmates, including Kenya, shared their stories. The documentary exposed the inhumane conditions, and as a result, the Condesa Clinic gained jurisdiction over HIV care in that prison.

Kenya built a chosen family inside prison. She earned respect, sold sweets to staff, and one day, while chatting with lawyers and social workers, one of them realized her case had been mishandled. They filed an appeal. Kenya’s sentence was reduced from 24 years to 10. After 10 years and 8 days in prison, she was told she had only 7 days left. But then, unexpectedly, she received full exoneration.

Oddly, her anger wasn't about the time lost. It was about leaving behind the people she loved inside. Prison had become her home. Her family. Her partner. Her job. Everything.

On her first day out, she returned to sex work to pay for a hotel room. But something had changed in her. She became a HIV health promoter, caring for others. She stopped using drugs and dedicated herself to accompanying those who were dying. She held close to 200 people in her arms in their final moments. Her care was sweet, gentle, grateful. “They left feeling free,” she said.

This experience changed her life. She realized sex workers needed education, protection, condoms, and health support. She started carrying condoms and test kits in her purse while working and would hand them out to other women, educating them on the streets. She helped connect undocumented trans women with Condesa Clinic to get treatment. For six years, she worked both as a sex worker and a community health educator.

Then in 2016, everything changed again.

She arrived at her usual working spot and saw a drunk man being kicked out for not having enough money. But one of the workers, Paola, still got in the car with him. A few meters down the road, the car stopped. Paola screamed Kenya’s name. Kenya ran over and saw her friend collapsing, shot. The man tried to shoot again, but the gun jammed. Kenya grabbed him. Police arrived. The man was taken in, but Kenya was labeled as a mere “onlooker,” a role that doesn’t even legally exist, instead of being recognized as a witness.

For 48 hours she demanded answers. Paola had been killed. When she tried to testify in court, the public prosecutor told her to leave to “avoid contaminating the hearing.” Kenya obeyed, and the killer walked free due to “lack of evidence.”

She demanded Paola’s body to give her a proper burial. Since she wasn’t considered family, she wasn’t allowed to claim it. She raised money to pay the funeral home. On a Wednesday at 1 PM, she took the keys from the hearse, stopped the car in the street, opened the coffin, and said:

"In these conditions, Paola comes to protest, because her body is still warm and her killer is already free."

That day, Kenya coined the word “transfeminicidio”, transfemicide. Twelve women blocked the street in protest.

Since then, Kenya has never stopped fighting. She eventually succeeded in being recognized as a witness and received state protection, but the protection never came. She began receiving death threats.

But she’s still here. Still fighting. Still living. Still loving.



here is the website of Kenya
https://www.munecastiresias.org/kenyacuevas