It's just past 6pm on an average weeknight in Kings Cross but already the streets are filling up with backpackers and kids from Sydney's western suburbs, hungry to party. Bored strip club spruikers are trying to drum up the first wave of dwindling, post-lockout law business, while in side streets, seagulls and ibises raid the bins and the odd junkie communes with a dealer.

This wouldn't be my first choice of setting in which to interview a vulnerable young refugee, one who has been tortured and humiliated because of his homosexuality, one who lives more than 20 kilometres away in Sydney's sprawling south-west. But it was Farhad's idea to meet here. "No one will know me here," explains the 27-year-old, surveying the scene before taking a seat in an outdoor cafe.

Refugees fleeing their homelands on the basis of their sexuality can find questions in Australia designed to assess their bona fides baffling. Marc Dufresne

At first glance, you could mistake Farhad*, with his handsome, aquiline features and tall, lean physique, as a refugee from central casting. Sporting cut-off jeans and a black T-shirt, Farhad has honey-brown skin and tattoos curling up and down his defined arms and shoulders. It's only when I take a closer look, and absorb the details of his astonishing survival story, that I notice the numerous scars poking out from under his tattoos, the pockmarks sprinkled over his arms and hands, and a couple of missing teeth: all the legacy of his torture in Iran four years ago. He hands me a sheaf of papers, including affidavits and immigration documents, to support his account.

It's taken a battery of reassurances on my part, including an ironclad guarantee that he won't be identified in any story, to convince Farhad to take part in this conversation. I'd been hearing disturbing reports about the way gay refugees seeking asylum on the basis of their sexuality are assessed: from laughable, stereotyped questions designed to establish whether they're gay or not, to wafer-thin research into persecution within the refugees' country of origin, to excruciatingly long delays in granting them a hearing. I'd spent the better part of a year phoning, emailing and interviewing migration agents and lawyers, and sourcing documents via freedom of information.

But such is the climate of fear among those at risk of being sent back to countries where they've suffered terrible persecution, no one is willing to talk, paranoid that any kind of publicity might stymie their case to stay in Australia. After the phone cut out on what seemed like the hundredth call seeking an interview, I was about to give up. Then Farhad phoned, asking me whether I was looking for a "gay refugee still". In fragmented English, he explained that he was willing to share his story in the hope others may understand what it's like to be gay and in fear for your life.

So here we are in this Kings Cross cafe, where Farhad is recounting his story of growing up in Tehran with his parents and older brother. His father part-owned a barber shop, which Farhad managed. "I was very happy about my life," he says in a deep voice. The only dark cloud was living with his homosexuality, which in Iran is outlawed and carries the death penalty. Almost no one comes out in Iran, even to members of their own family, as this is the most common way LGBTQI people are reported to the "morality police" and thrown into prison.

Although Farhad had a good relationship with his parents, he never deluded himself that they would accept having a gay son, particularly as his father was a respected local mullah and his grandfather an ayatollah. He'd known since his early teens that he was a hamjens-bazi, the derogatory term the government and state media use to describe someone who "plays" with the same sex (the closest English translation is faggot). Any openness would bring shame to the family, and social ostracism.

Keeping his sexuality secret was relatively easy for Farhad, as he wasn't someone, in voice or manner, you'd read as being gay. But then, maybe this emboldened him to take risks, especially after his brother revealed his secret to their father, who immediately went into denial. "My brother was jealous of me because he thought my father liked me better than himself," Farhad explains. "He told my father that I was gay – very bad – and had a boyfriend."

Perhaps because he'd fallen in love, Farhad committed the uncharacteristically reckless act of inviting his boyfriend back to the family home when everyone was out. It was tempting fate: Farhad's father came home unexpectedly, finding the two young men in bed together. "He was very, very angry. 'My son is dead, my son is dead,' he yell … before phoning police."

At the station the police gathered to jeer at Farhad, repeatedly punching him and striking him with a baton. A couple of teeth were knocked out and ribs cracked. Three officers took turns to stomp on him while he was lying on the floor, severing a tendon in one of his legs. Strung up in a cell, one officer took particular pleasure in torturing his hands – bending them so far backwards the fingers on one hand broke. "I was very afraid," says Farhad, nursing his now empty coffee cup. "[The police] were saying, 'You will never see your family again.' "

After a week of imprisonment, Farhad was suddenly released, without explanation. "Kicked out of police station and barely conscious, I phoned a friend to take me to hospital," he says.

There he remained for a month, recovering his strength and will to live, terrified the police would return to rearrest him. After being discharged, he lived in his car for a few months, moving around constantly until he could organise an apartment with his boyfriend. But they'd no sooner settled in than Farhad's family found out where they lived and notified the authorities. On a tip-off, Farhad and his partner fled through a neighbour's house and yard just as the police were pounding on the door.

In one notorious case, an applicant was deemed not gay by the Tribunal after failing questions about Madonna, Bette Midler, Oscar Wilde and Greco-Roman wrestling.

The neighbour obligingly sold off their car and furniture, taking a cut for himself, before handing them enough money to buy plane tickets to Malaysia and Indonesia. They used every last cent in their bank accounts to pay a people smuggler $6000 apiece for a boat trip to Australia. Several weeks later they found themselves on an unseaworthy vessel jammed in with 100 other desperate asylum seekers. "People were afraid, fighting for drinking water," recalls Farhad. "The boat felt dangerous all the time."

In July 2013 they made it to Christmas Island, where they were held for a few weeks in detention, before being transferred to a mainland detention centre. To their relief, after a battery of health and security checks, Farhad and his partner were released in Melbourne on a bridging visa. But because they weren't allowed to work, both were dependent on refugee charities for accommodation and food. It was at this point, after everything they had been through, that the couple parted ways, for reasons Farhad won't talk about.

After he was offered free accommodation from a Tasmanian support group, Farhad moved to Hobart, where he stayed for more than a year before relocating to Sydney, settling in a south-western suburb populated by many others from the Middle East. He has lodged a claim with the Department of Immigration and Border Protection for a refugee protection visa on the basis that he's gay and Iran is not a safe country for him. If he's refused, as many are, he must appeal to the Refugee and Migration Division of the Administrative Appeals Tribunal, known until 2015 as the Refugee Review Tribunal. The Tribunal is the last stop for asylum seekers who flee to Australia claiming refugee status.

While he waits for an answer from the Department of Immigration, Farhad's life is in a holding pattern. He's very cautious about mixing too closely within the Iranian community for fear someone will identify him and contact his family, yet he's also an outsider to Sydney's gay community. "I don't know many people and it's hard to make friends with not any money and my English," he explains. Surviving on charity and occasional cash-in-hand jobs as a barber, he buys himself the odd treat – a pair of jeans or a night at the movies. "I've been here for years and still don't know what will happen to me," he says with frustration. "I have … nothing."

While he misses his happy, busy life in Iran, and even the family who betrayed him, returning home is not an option, not without risking his life. The torture now is uncertainty. Asked what he'll do if his application for asylum fails and he's deported back to Iran, Farhad looks down and fails to answer.

Professor Jenni Millbank has been researching the refugee tribunal for over 20 years. Richard Hedger/www.richardhedger.com

Farhad isn't alone in this predicament. As with other refugees in Australia on temporary visas, he's unable to work, has little money, few friends, little or no English. What makes Farhad's case different, and that of others like him, is his sexuality.

When it comes to criticisms of the Tribunal, it's the treatment of gay refugees that really stands out, say its critics. Success rates for gay asylum seekers are pitifully low, according to Professor Jenni Millbank, of the University of Technology Sydney, who has researched the Tribunal's approach to sexuality cases for almost two decades. A 2003 study by Millbank showed that at most only 20 per cent of gay refugees succeed in receiving a protection visa. "There's a worldwide impulse with panels to fast-track and cost-save, rather than make sensible, thorough decisions," she says.

While no one is suggesting the Tribunal's job is straightforward – having to decide, for instance, whether the approximately 100 asylum seekers who apply for a protection visa each year on the basis that they're gay are telling the truth – there are criticisms about Tribunal officials' lack of qualifications and training in refugee issues. Tribunal officials have long been accused of judging applicants based on a slew of Western gay stereotypes, such as effeminate manner or dress. In one notorious case, an applicant was deemed not gay after failing questions about Madonna, Bette Midler, Oscar Wilde and Greco-Roman wrestling. The man barely spoke English and was mystified by the topics. "I don't understand it," he said to his interviewer. "I'm sorry."

High Court justices were staggered to hear in 2004 that a refugee was required to answer questions about the singer Madonna, among other identities from the entertainment world. Peter Bregg

When in 2004 his case came before the High Court on appeal (after the Federal Court had first ruled against the applicant), the justices were staggered by the line of questioning used by the Tribunal, describing it as very odd, and almost bordering on the bizarre. "Madonna, Bette Midler and so on are phenomena of Western culture," declared Justice Michael Kirby at the time. "In Iran, where there is death for some people who are homosexuals, these are not in the forefront of the mind. Survival is." (The applicant won the High Court case and was later granted asylum by the incoming Labor federal government.)

More recent cases don't give great reason for comfort. Last year, a man from Bangladesh was rejected in part because he was unable to correctly pronounce or spell the name of a Sydney gay club he'd visited called the Stonewall, according to Tribunal documents – which incorrectly referred to the nightclub as a "day venue". In a similar 2014 case, an asylum seeker was told he wasn't gay because, although he described having two monogamous relationships, he hadn't "explored his homosexuality" by going to Sydney's gay bars, and had little knowledge of Oxford Street.

Questions about sexual encounters can centre on who is the "top", and who is the "bottom", or the use of lubricant. Some desperate applicants even resort to offering videos or images of themselves having sex to prove their case. Some officials consider this material and others reject it. Because there are no guidelines for dealing with LGBTQI applicants, a Tribunal member is at liberty to ask pretty much any question they wish, for this is no court room.

Ahmer*, a gay refugee from Pakistan, spent more than a year preparing for his Tribunal hearing. His migration agent advised him to play up to promiscuous and party lifestyle stereotypes to boost his chances of success. "We collected a lot of evidence – I had to get lots of support letters from people; pictures that prove yes I am gay and I am not lying," he tells me over the phone. "Like, you know, at gay bars and that kind of stuff." The interview turned out to be even more intrusive than he expected. "They wanted to know a lot about the sex I have had, how and where, and with which persons. I felt they thought I was not having very much [sex] and this was asked about."

Ravi*, another gay refugee, revealed in a 2013 interview with the ABC that a migration agent suggested he have sex with an Australian man and get an affidavit from him to prove it. "That person I slept with gave me a letter that he was a well-established Australian citizen," he said at the time. "It was consensual sex but I never enjoyed it. Now if someone wanted to do a similar thing with me it would be comparing as a rape." Ravi said he was advised to "camp" it up in any way possible when he appeared before the Tribunal. "I have been advised to pierce my ears and wear the earrings so that I can show that I am different from other Muslim Bangladeshis," he said.

Poor English, limited finances and ongoing struggles with their sexuality can all contribute to many gay refugees having little, if any, involvement with gay organisations or nightlife. Yet without this kind of evidence, most are rejected by the Tribunal. Last year a man from Lebanon lost his bid for protection in part because, according to the Tribunal member's findings: "He knew little or nothing about Sydney's gay scene. His evidence about his homosexual lifestyle in Sydney was vague and unconvincing."

John Azzi, who has represented gay asylum seekers in court, in his office at the University of Western Sydney. Louise Kennerley

In another case a Tribunal member became so preoccupied with the asylum seeker's trip to a gay sauna that the hearing turned into a lengthy interrogation about the venue, which the applicant visited only once, late at night. His inability to describe the interior beyond the most basic details or go into detail about "what people did" there contributed to the rejection of his claim. Lawyer John Azzi, who later represented the refugee in the Federal Court, described the Tribunal questioning as "absurd".

An Egyptian asylum seeker was rejected by the Tribunal in part because he didn't look festive enough at Mardi Gras. "The applicant appears to be in normal street clothes, without a companion of his own, and there is no indication he is known to any of the people in the photos."

International expert Neil Grungras, head of the Organization for Refuge, Asylum and Migration in the US, which runs training courses for governments and non-government organisations on how to assess cases based on refugee sexuality, insists stereotypes just don't cut it. "If I have somebody who claims to be living a gay life in Sydney, but they don't know Mardi Gras, Oxford Street and gay bars, I don't assume they're not gay," he says in a Skype call from the US. "If you're an asylum seeker, you probably don't have money to go drinking at the bars and you may not have much or any English."

Ben Lumsdaine, a senior solicitor with the Refugee Advice and Casework Service in Sydney, echoes the sentiment. "A lot of gay culture is quite sophisticated; it's not something that you can just walk into from a foreign country, where you've had to hide your sexuality your whole life. You may be depressed, or suffering from some other mental health condition."

Ben Lumsdaine with a client at the Refugee Advice and Casework Service in Sydney. Nadine Koroleva

A former five-year veteran of the Tribunal, who does not want to be named, says the use of stereotypes is all the more dangerous because there are no safeguards to protect people from bad decisions, except an appeal to the Federal Court. "There are no checks or curbs on these assumptions, with members given free rein to indulge whatever personal views they may hold when making decisions that can mean life and death in the most extreme cases," he says.

Some members of the Tribunal have also struggled to accept that some gay people may have previously been married or had children, often using this information to make adverse findings against claimants' credibility. In a case from 2015, the Tribunal could not believe an Egyptian man was gay, even though it accepted he'd had sex with men, because he was in an arranged marriage with a woman.

Oddly enough, while some applicants have failed because they haven't convinced the Tribunal they're gay, a handful of heterosexual men have qualified because they've claimed persecution on the basis of their taste in fashion and hairstyles. A straight male from Iraq was given protection in 2014 because the Tribunal decided he was an "emo" (a goth-inspired look involving dyed black hair and skinny jeans).

"I accept that his physical appearance might readily be perceived to be feminine. I accept the applicant's evidence that, while in Iraq, he was harassed and called sissy because of his feminine appearance," a Tribunal member found. A Colombian activist who described himself as a "punk" told the Tribunal he faced problems because of the way he dressed. He was granted protection late last year. He was asked to name his favourite punk bands and what they meant to him as part of the Tribunal's assessment. One Bangladeshi couple, who fled their country in 1998 after being stoned by villagers, fought the Tribunal for 16 years through the courts, including a landmark High Court case. They were finally granted refugee protection in late 2015.

Make no mistake: a Tribunal hearing is not like a normal courtroom. There is just one Tribunal member hearing the case, along with the applicant, sometimes a migration agent or lawyer, and an interpreter. Many who have dealt with the Tribunal liken the conduct of hearings to an inconsistent interrogation. Even if the Federal Court believes the Tribunal has wrongly made an adverse finding, it has little power to overturn the decision, says former Tribunal member Linda Kirk. "There's not a lot of checks and balances," says Kirk, who is about to rejoin the Tribunal after a two-year break. "The courts can only look at legal issues; the courts are unable to reassess the factual findings."

There are 77 countries in which it's illegal to be gay, says the International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans and Intersex Association. In most, gay people suffer harassment, discrimination and, in the worst cases, death; Iran has executed at least 5000 gay men since the 1979 Islamic revolution, according to Amnesty International. Successive recent Amnesty reports comparing attitudes around the world revealed that Middle Eastern countries have some of the lowest levels of tolerance for homosexuality in the world. Last year, Iran made headlines when it executed a gay teenager for the crime of sodomy. Earlier this year, Human Rights Watch reported that gay teens were being electrocuted in Iran in a bid to "cure" them.

In the past, the Tribunal has been criticised for using sources like the Spartacus International Gay Guide as a source for determining whether a country is hostile to LGBTQI people. The annual guides are designed for tourists and rarely focus on conditions outside the major cities, let alone the situation of ordinary people living in these countries. Recent cases have involved Tribunal members using online gay travel guides to Turkey, Lebanon and Nepal: Neil Grungras says these sources are totally inadequate for determining how safe or unsafe a country is for LGBTQI people.

When I approached the Tribunal for a statement, I was astonished when they mentioned the Spartacus publication, which is targeted at white gay men, as a reliable source of information on anti-homosexual persecution. It said in a statement: "Members invariably take into account a broad range of information about the conditions of an applicant's country of origin when making a decision; this includes publications such as the Spartacus International Gay Guide."

A common complaint from former Tribunal members is that they receive inadequate training, especially for LGBTQI applicants. "There is no particular guidance given to members as to how to make these complicated assessments," says Kirk. "I think that is why members can perhaps go astray and touch on things like, 'Have you participated in the Mardi Gras?' or 'What's your view on Madonna?' "

Asked about their training services, the Tribunal tells me that appointees receive a three-day induction program, followed by two weeks of mentoring.

The tribunal's task is certainly a complicated one. "In the absence of corroborating evidence it's still guesswork," concedes Professor Jenni Millbank. "If the claimant is not too traumatised and they are able to talk about those experiences, that should be a better guide. However, it is an approach that takes more time, requires more evidence and ideally requires people to be represented by advocates who also have sensitivity and time to properly build their cases."

But that may be easier said than done, with former Tribunal members complaining about the sheer workload. According to the Tribunal's last annual report, the backlog in protection visas has grown to more than 8370 active cases (spread among 151 Tribunal members nationally, 86 of whom are part-time).

What's making things even more tricky is the handful of applicants pretending to be gay, cases that have drawn attention from the tabloid press. In 2014, migration agent Sam Issa was banned from practising for five years after it was discovered he had been coaching his clients to qualify for protection visas.

There have also been a number of cases where agents tell clients it's as simple as going to a few gay bars, downloading the gay hook-up app Grindr and joining a few ethnic gay groups to prove they are LGBTQI, because it's commonly held in the migration and legal sectors that these are the things the Tribunal is looking for.

In an even more disturbing case last year, well-known lawyer and migration agent David Bitel was accused by six asylum seekers, in incidents going back to the mid-1990s, of sexually assaulting them and telling them to fake being gay to obtain protection visas. Bitel died in 2016 while the matters were still before the courts.

These cases have hardened the Tribunal's attitude towards sexuality claims, past and present members tell Good Weekend. "There's a real panic decision-makers have around people pretending to be gay," says Anna Brown, the director of legal advocacy at the Human Rights Law Centre.

Most refugees do not contest Tribunal decisions, but in some cases they try to fight back and appeal Tribunal decisions through the courts. But because the courts can only identify errors of law, most claimants wind up being referred back to the Tribunal.

In 2014, the European Union banned member countries from asking blatant sexual questions to assess gay refugees, or requesting images or videos. Neil Grungras says talking about people's individual experiences and their own awareness of sexuality, rather than asking about bars, sex and gay icons, is a better way to determine a person's claim. He and others have repeatedly offered to run sexuality training for members, but the Tribunal has declined.

A spokesperson for the Tribunal explains that its members are bound by migration legislation. She stresses that each member is not an employee, but an "independent office holder" who is answerable to courts of appeal and not the Tribunal itself. They're appointed by the federal attorney-general on a fixed term, usually five to seven years. "If there is an issue about the conduct of a case or any finding made, that would be dealt with in the judicial review process as it is the courts which have a relevant supervisory role," the Tribunal outlines in a written response.

Meanwhile, Farhad is still waiting for his case to be assessed. During our last conversation, he seemed completely broken by the process of waiting without knowing where he will end up and if he can start his life again. When I contacted him again just prior to going to press, he didn't return my calls.

*Some names have been changed to protect privacy.