Regard queer, intersectionnel
et traumatique sur le logement
et le sans-abrisme

At 13, Kevin moved into the apartment he would call home for over a decade. Raised by a single immigrant parent, he watched his mother work tirelessly, hoping the country would eventually reward her. Kevin later studied abroad to expand his opportunities, but when he eventually returned, he was met with a deadline, instead of stability.

At 13, Kevin moved into the apartment he would call home for over a decade. Raised by a single immigrant parent, he watched his mother work tirelessly, hoping the country would eventually reward her. Kevin later studied abroad to expand his opportunities, but when he eventually returned, he was met with a deadline, instead of stability. 

After years of struggling to find affordable housing, his mother made the decision to move back to Portugal. Keven is now left with less than 60 days to find somewhere he could afford. He’s not alone.

Kevin, nearly 30, is now part of a generation for whom upward mobility has stalled—priced out of ownership, stretched thin by rent, and statistically unlikely to break the cycle in a single generation. As a queer man from a working-class immigrant background, he navigates a market that structurally excludes him. For working class residents the consequences are direct. For those who are queer and come from immigrant backgrounds, the barriers compound.

“I am being asked to survive in a system that does not account for people like me”, he says. “How am I supposed to pay rent in my own country if what some people consider a minimum is already taking me to my breaking point?”

Luxembourg has the highest minimum wage in the European Union, at €2,570 gross per month for unskilled workers. Yet many residents spend 55-66% of their net income on housing, well above the 40% threshold for overburdened households. With rents averaging €35.61 per square metre, significantly higher than neighbouring Germany (€15–20/m²), higher wages do not translate into affordability.

Data from the Luxembourg government agency that analyses and reports on the country’s housing market, Observatoire de l’Habitat, shows rental prices have steadily increased year on year, with single-person households among the most exposed. On average, a single room now exceeds €900 per month. For people like Kevin, living alone is not a lifestyle choice—it is a financial impossibility.

In theory, social housing should act as a buffer. In reality, access is severely limited. Kevin’s mother applied for social housing, only to remain on the waiting list for five years before giving up.


“How am I supposed to pay rent in my own country if what some people consider a minimum is already taking me to my breaking point? ”

 

“There were so many people in the queue that at some point she just abandoned it. And then she was just like, I don’t think it’s gonna happen.”

Kevin’s mother’s experience is not exceptional. According to the State of Housing in Europe report by Housing Europe, the European Federation of Public, Cooperative, and Social Housing, approximately 6,000 households were on Luxembourg’s waiting list in 2025. On the other hand, 2026 estimates from the Fondation IDEA think tank suggests that only 5,000–6,000 units exist in Luxembourg—which accounts for just 2–3% of the total housing stock. Demand far exceeds supply, with waiting time stretching over years. Many applicants—facing mounting pricing pressure in the private market—quietly abandon their applications before reaching the top of the list. The system continues without them.

While investment in social housing remains limited, private developers have largely addressed the shortfall by constructing housing that prioritises financial return rather than social need.

Luxembourg consistently ranks among the wealthiest countries in the world by GDP per capita. Yet for many residents, access to stable housing is increasingly disconnected from that wealth. 

Economic precarity alone does not explain Kevin’s situation. Other factors such as sexuality, family dynamics, and social expectations also shape access to housing that statistics rarely capture.

“Queer people get left behind,” Kevin says. “When they leave home, they don’t always have the same preparation, the same sense of control of their lives. Many of us come from unstable environments.”

Research supports this. A 2025 report by the Luxembourg Institute for LGBTIQ+ Inclusion identifies family rejection and identity-based conflicts as key drivers of housing instability among queer people.

This is Kevin’s reality. As a queer man searching for housing alone, he enters a market that favours conventional households—coupled, straight, stable. By market’s standards, he’s none of the above, and it feels that way.

Luxembourg’s housing market has been criticised as implicitly heteronormative, with most larger and newer housing developments designed for traditional family structure. No dedicated queer housing exists in Luxembourg. Current official social structures do not offer the needed safety and support if the private market or family homes fail.

An issue that queer people also face in housing precarity is living in hostile households. Even though some parents of queer people in Luxembourg might not be overtly hostile, behind the scenes, their living situation could remain psychologically unsafe. 

An anonymous source describes the experience:

“Even if parents think they are accepting, they often don’t understand queerness. That lack of understanding becomes invalidating. Daily life becomes exhausting because you are not fully seen.”


No dedicated queer housing exists in Luxembourg. There are no official support networks or safety nets if the private market or family home fail

 

For Kevin and others, this is the specific cruelty of being queer and housing-insecure in Luxembourg. The family home is complicated, the market hostile, and the state offers no dedicated provision. When all three fail, there’s no clear next step. You’re not just looking for housing; you’re seeking a place where you can be yourself. In Luxembourg, those needs often clash.

Martine, a Luxembourgish neurodivergent asexual person, has experienced this pressure first-hand. They grew up in a beautiful, stable, comfortable family home with a large garden. For many years, housing was neither something they had prepared for nor even considered. After leaving the family home, Martine moved in with their sister, and the transition was natural: costs were split, bills were shared. It wasn’t until their sister moved out with her boyfriend to start her own family that housing became a growing concern.

For years, Martine was forced to navigate the housing market alone. They tried co-housing, but co-existed with people who never really understood them. Pressure mounted from society and from peers to conform to a life that didn’t match their identity, to simply live more easily.

“People tell me to just find someone,” they say. “But I’m asexual. They think I should just get into a relationship, and then I can build a house, too. But for me it would be a nightmare.”

Martine fears losing the comfort they once knew simply because their orientation doesn’t fit heterosexual norms.

“I do think that when you are two people, it’s much easier— especially a cis man and a cis woman together,” they add.

Due to their neurodivergence, Martine receives state aid but it does not guarantee stability. To stay afloat, they cut costs wherever possible, including food. A €200 housing subsidy—intended to cover part of their rent—has, according to Martine, been delayed for months due to an administrative backlog.

When housing support systems fall behind, the consequences are immediate. For residents already operating on the edge of what is financially manageable, a delayed payment or a backlogged case causes more than just an inconvenience—it can be the difference between keeping a home and losing one.

Kevin and Martine arrive at this point from different directions. One is the child of immigrants who worked for years in Luxembourg, without ever securing stable housing. The other is also Luxembourgish with a path that was supposed to have been seamless, but found that the market had no place for who they are. Both have to navigate a system that was not designed to accommodate complexity. 

Kevin describes becoming “immune” to financial stress” due to constant monetary uncertainty, but points out that queer people—already at higher risk of mental health challenges—are increasingly exposed to instability with fewer pathways out.

The issue is not affordability. It is design.

The experiences of Kevin and Martine show how the current housing market leaves marginalised people, especially those from queer and immigrant backgrounds, without safe or stable options. Without targeted change by policymakers, community leaders, and society at large, housing in Luxembourg will remain out of reach for many whose identities do not fit traditional models, highlighting the urgent need to build a system where everyone has a place they can safely call home.

Across multiple conversations—some on record, others not—a consistent picture emerged among Luxembourg’s queer residents that general housing reforms must be paired with targeted interventions. 

Proposed measures include:

  • Rent regulations or caps to reduce systemic pressure across income groups;
  • Expanded and faster access to social housing; 
  • Training social services to tackle intersectional needs more effectively, including  sexuality and neurodivergence;
  • Matching platforms for compatible co-housing arrangements;
  • Dedicated co-housing spaces, designed to provide both affordability and safety.

These proposals reflect the gap between existing policies and lived realities.

In the meantime, Kevin is still looking for a place to live. He has less than 60 days left. The apartment still carries traces of the life his mother built over the course of sixteen years, the rent she struggled to pay, the waiting list she eventually gave up on, the country she ultimately chose to leave. 

He is staying in Luxembourg. He just does not know where. 

“I hardly know what support systems exist for poor people in Luxembourg, let alone for someone who is also queer, an immigrant’s child, trying to hold multiple identities in a system that only has room for one.” Then he adds: “The pot is too small in Luxembourg. They’re not used to cooking with so many ingredients. That’s why their food is so bland.”

Across the city, Martine is doing their own calculations—what to keep and what to cut, and how to absorb another administrative backlog.

They dream of their ideal accommodation; a place intentionally created for people like them. “That would be cool,” they say, adding that “it’s the simplest, most reasonable wish.”

Luxembourg has the highest GDP per capita in the European Union. Wealth is not the issue.

Following these testimonials, distribution—and who the system is designed for—is.

For Kevin, the countdown continues. For Martine, every month is a calculation.