Two decades after India’s first Pride march, the queer community's fight for recognition continues

While the Internet has played a major role in the collective experience of the Indian LGBTQIA+ community, concerns around safe housing, political advancement, and even inclusivity within the queer spectrum are yet to catch up

Trigger Warning: Mention of queerphobic abuse, suicide, conversion therapy

Forty-eight-year-old Nihal Satpute (he/him) moved to Goa seven years ago, after spending most of his life in Mumbai. Mumbai was where he came into his queerness and remembers finding queer community for the first time in his life, with a little help from the Internet. “In 1998-99, I began using the Internet and learnt about queer identities. It helped me find and meet other queer people living in the city, and that’s how I attended my first queer party,” he shares, reflecting on a time before social media pervaded our lives. “It felt like I was leading a dual life back then, as it was all very hidden. I didn’t feel as comfortable; it was difficult to accept this about oneself as things were very different from how they are today,” he says, contemplating the changes that have come with time and the evolution of the queer rights movement in India.

A quick online search reveals that Mumbai began hosting Pride marches in 2005, with the first official Queer Azaadi March held on 16 August 2008, as a protest against Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, which criminalised “unnatural sex”. This infamous term had been interpreted to include anal and oral sex (as noted in the Navtej Johar judgment), but was not limited to it. It is a fascinating contrast to the pleasure-centric and sex-positive content that floods cyberspace today, encouraging people to experiment with sexual wellness products that offer external as well as internal stimulation catering to various parts of the body. 

Space for inclusion within the queer spectrum

Sakshi Juneja (she/her) and R (they/them)—also in their 40s today— recollect finding queer community for themselves in a similar way in Mumbai, after looking it up online. Their individual quests led them to Stree Sangam, a voluntary collective in the city that was launched in 1995, later rechristened LABIA. “Stree Sangam hosted film screenings and get-togethers for women, non-binary, and trans folx; these words were not commonly used back then. I found them while searching for queer spaces in the city after returning from college in Australia, and got in touch with them via email. They were lovely to me and invited me to join,” says Sakshi, who would go on to start Gaysi Family, an LBT-run Indian media platform, in 2008.

R, on the other hand, was taken aback by the erstwhile name of the collective. “I had concerns about it being limited to ‘stree’ (translates to ‘woman’). I did not connect with them again until they changed the name to LABIA,” they clarify, throwing light on the need for diverse and trans-inclusive gendered spaces even within the queer spectrum.

Meanwhile, 34-year-old Koyel Ghosh (they/them), a gender activist, found community in Kolkata’s Sappho for Equality collective in their early 20s. Kolkata’s position is cemented in queer India’s history for having organised the first Pride march in the country on 2 July 1999. It was called the Friendship Walk and had fewer than 20 participants, with some folx dropping in from Mumbai and Bengaluru. 

Koyel attended their first meeting at Sappho upon the insistence of their then-partner. “Initially, I had a lot of internalised homophobia, and was quite apprehensive about being a part of a community space. I felt that just because I was queer, why do I have to be around other queer people? But once I began joining the Thursday evening meetings, I felt a sense of relief, warmth, and comfort [from finding queer community]. Volunteering at Sappho also helped me come to terms with my gender as a non-binary person. That’s why I say that I joined Sappho for love, and I never left it because love never left me,” shares Koyel, who is now the managing trustee of the organisation.

R too used to volunteer for a helpline but has now stepped back from community-building activities owing to various reasons. They also echo the sentiment of finding community-building rewarding.

"The hope has always been that I do this for others, and that they pass it on to other folx down the line,” R adds.

Across the globe, Pride Month is observed annually in the month of June to commemorate the Stonewall Uprising that took place in the United States on 28 June 28 in 1969. After the police raided a queer bar in New York’s Greenwich Village, black trans folx like Marsha P. Johnson stood up and rebelled back, leading to riots involving the local queer folx and cops from the NYPD that went on for five consecutive days.

In India, it was the pandemic-induced lockdowns in the recent past that have led to several brands co-opting this American tradition to launch digital campaigns, catapulting it into prominence on their marketing calendars. “During the lockdowns, since much couldn’t be done offline, a lot of digital space was used to amplify Pride messages, globally. Even though various cities in India commemorate Pride during other months of the year, June is still seen as a time when corporates and brands come together with the community to celebrate Pride Month,” points out Sakshi.

“June has become significant in the past 3-4 years; it was new even to me. Earlier, it wasn’t a big deal even within the local queer community, but all of a sudden, there has been a surge of Pride Month celebrations. I do feel it is more of a corporate gimmick than actual community pride. While the intention behind it is questionable, I do welcome the increase in queer visibility it has generated in recent times,” observes Nihal.

The need for safety and acceptance

There is no discounting the fact that the Internet has time and again played a major role in the collective experience of the Indian LGBTQIA+ community. During the COVID-induced lockdowns of 2020-21, people scoured social media for safe spaces and many others came out or began transitioning. While the message being sent to the people was to “stay home, stay safe”, for many queer folx, the natal home in particular is often the site of violence and abuse. The news of Anjana Hareesh’s death by suicide after being forced into conversion therapy for coming out as bisexual, left the community rattled. The 21-year-old queer woman from Kerala was visiting Goa with friends in March 2020, mere days before the lockdown was imposed, so as to escape her family, and spent her last few days there.

“Safe housing is one of the major asks of the queer-trans community from political representatives,” explains Koyel. Public-funded and trans-inclusive housing facilities, like Garima Greh, are few and far between, and even when they are available, they are under-resourced. Queer and trans folx fleeing domestic violence, especially those from smaller cities and towns as well as those marginalised by their caste and class locations, are forced to take refuge in bigger cities and reach out to collectives like Sappho for Equality. “Once they’re forced out of their natal homes, many are unable to find safe housing due to exorbitant rents as well as societal issues related to stigma and security.” Community spaces help queer folx find housemates as well as friends in each other. “Safe workplaces and public spaces that queer-trans folx can move through without experiencing name-calling and bullying, being harassed, pushed and shoved, are also the need of the hour,” Koyel points out.

R agrees: “Electorally, what one wants from representatives in this country is strong anti-discrimination laws, changes in the education system, and the medical curricula. A better trans rights law is also required.”

How inclusive is inclusive, really?

Thirty-three-year-old Rayyan Monkey (she/they) who began transitioning between 2020-22, weighs in about the lack of Muslim visibility in the movement. “Even when I was doing the research before my transition, I couldn’t find any queer or trans Muslim representation. I think 2024 is one of the first times that I saw pictures from the Pride march where people were expressing their religious identity as Muslims in subtle ways. No burqas or abayas though, as those are not welcome even at queer events and people look at you funny if you wear them. I do see it a little more online and in the media, through groups like the Queer Muslim Project, but not so much on-ground,” she adds.

In saying so, Rayyan highlights how the State’s oppression of various marginalised communities has invisibilised much of the queer-trans presence in the country, making it hard for younger folx to find community and representation at these intersections. They recently wrote an extensive reported piece on the Hijra and Kinner communities in sacred spaces like the Ajmer Sharif Dargah, the temples in Ujjain, as well as the Haji Malang in  Kalyan on the outskirts of Mumbai—the site where the report is primarily set in. “It’s a 700-year-old tradition, where the Hijra community is part of the Urs dargah’s main festival. It allowed me to see myself through a different lens—not just the medically pathologised lens, but a more ancient, cultural lens [of trans-ness].”

“There is a rich and infinite history of queer culture in India and South Asia. I discover and uncover these with great joy; it allows me to look at my own identity through a different lens and take pride in my identity within the South Asian context itself. There is a history attached to the word ‘hijra’. Its etymology points toward the word ‘hijri’, which, in Arabic, means ‘migration’. The word ‘hijra’ itself is used to famously refer to the migration of the Prophet Muhammad (Sallallahu Alaihi Wasallam) from Mecca to Medina in 622 CE, to flee persecution. Even a millennium later, there are reports of hundreds of non-conforming individuals being housed in Medina, as royal guards and as an integral part of the religious infrastructure, owing their special status to being free from the patriarchal trappings of marriage between man and wife. Around the same time, in the Indian subcontinent, the hijra community of trans folx were recognised by the Mughals as a community of spiritual relevance," says Rayyan.

“I wish that we had more access to recording our histories about embodying Pride in the way that a lot of queer feminist organising has been doing for decades—[by centering] trans-inclusive feminism and disability,” shares R. A lot of documented history that is publicly accessible records only the public demonstrations of cis-gay men; such as the protest organised by AIDS Bhedbhav Virodhi Andolan against the arrest of gay individuals, outside the police headquarters in Delhi on 11 August 1992. This narrative tends to position sexual freedom and marriage equality at the centre of the queer rights movement, and public demonstrations as the only form of protest. However, for queer folx of marginalised identities such as gender, caste, and class, our daily lives are a protest in itself. Our queerness is often erased through shaming and invisibilised due to the lack of vocabulary and awareness. Given this reality, the question of being seen and heard by our elected representatives looms large.

Paving the way for more queer folx 

“Gaysi Family was born out of the pure need of finding myself in community and grounding myself in relatability. I wanted to see more of me and my queerness reflected around me,” says Sakshi. However, the road is not without its challenges. “Some days are emotionally draining. Even within the community, it can feel like nobody appreciates [our work] sometimes. But on the other hand, I am able to fulfill a lot of my own dreams and desires of having such a community space! The pure happiness of watching queer people out and about, reclaiming public spaces, being outspoken about their identities and creating queer art and design, expressing themselves—I find a lot of joy in knowing that I have a small part to play in their journeys and making it a little bit easier for others,” she shares.

Nihal too has hosted many a queer party and get-together at his flat in Mumbai, which he had the privilege of calling his own, thereby allowing him to exercise some agency in using the space without any impositions or snooping from queerphobic landlords. “A few friends and I would host weekend parties, and people would come in drag and express themselves in different ways. So many have told me that their first queer party or the first space that they’ve felt safe in was in that apartment— that’s quite rewarding for me to look back on,” he offers. “In Goa too, many people come from various remote parts [of the state] to the parties we host. Having such a space helps them feel confident about themselves,” says Nihal, talking about Queer Kinara, a queer event-production business that he started upon moving to Goa. “Initially, my move to Goa felt it was setting me back 20 years and made me feel like I was reliving that dual life. Acceptance of queerness in the Goan community, among both Hindus and Christians, is low. They are very conservative and it was hard to even find a compatible space for hosting such events. However, things have changed drastically since 2020,” he adds.

Seeking rights and representation

Many transgender activists, especially those belonging to Dalit-Bahujan-Adivasi communities have provided leadership to organise protests that benefit their communities beyond its queer-trans members. This includes Malem Thongam’s  hunger strike in Imphal, which began in Delhi on 21 February this year. Thongam and other protestors from the All Manipur Nupi Manbi (trans-women) and Nupi Manba (trans-men) Associations have been demanding for peace to be restored in the state where violent conflicts broke out in April 2023 and are ongoing, unabated for over a year, leading to Internet shutdowns and frequent communal riots. Others, like Santa Khurai and the Trans Rights Collective under the leadership of Grace Banu, played an important role in urging the state governments of Manipur and Tamil Nadu respectively to extend monetary and livelihood support to their transgender communities in the wake of the lockdowns. The Trans Rights Collective has also been instrumental in getting authorities to recognise the double marginalisation of being a transgender person hailing from a Scheduled Caste community, by agitating for Horizontal Reservation. 

“It is not just about marriage rights; we have several demands as a community,” points out Nihal. “But first, we need to be proactive in organising ourselves, and through that we can organise the queer vote. We need to establish ourselves as a significant voting minority for our demands to be taken seriously,” he says. It is worth noting that Nihal grew up in a household that was active in electoral politics, with his mother contesting elections. “Active politics is fascinating to me, and I’m very much interested in it. However, since my move to Goa, I’m unsure of how much I’ll be accepted here as I do not speak Konkani.”

Sakshi is also enthusiastic about becoming a part of active politics: “Despite the marriage equality case (that was live-streamed) and various petitions for it, the electoral political system does not take the queer community seriously. Hence, we are struggling to be seen and heard by them. I wonder if it will change until queer folx jump into the electoral political system. There is only so much one can rely on allies.” As someone who aspires to join active politics soon, she adds: “Eventually, we will have to become part of the [legislative] process to see big, life-altering changes. Although I personally lack political training, I believe that taking my experience in the community space to the political system will not only benefit the community, but also the political system itself. The hope is to take a little step towards a more empathetic society.”

One-off instances of garnering visibility rarely translate into political representation, awareness, or protection. Moreover, it also means the visibility of a few who are privileged, over others. “It would be good to see representation from community leaders who are not in the major metro cities or those who don’t speak English. More resources and support for community-building is required in smaller cities and towns, and that would mean active support from those of us who live and enjoy these privileges in major metros,” responds R, when asked about the need for diversity in the representation of the LGBTQIA+ community in India.

In the recent Lok Sabha elections, after years of collective organising and vocalising on various issues, the queer community’s demands were recognised by a few parties of national significance in their respective manifestos. From the CPI(M)’s road plan that includes horizontal reservation, anti-discrimination laws, and amendment to the Transgender Protection Act, to the Indian National Congress promising to modify Articles 15 and 16 of the Indian Constitution so as to prohibit discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation, and National Congress Party (Sharadchandra Pawar) listing healthcare and adoption rights and sensitisation of teachers as areas of focus, this is the beginning of a long road to social transformation. But, we’re queer, and we’re here. Hear, hear!

Curated by Gaysi Family | Illustration by Anjali Nair

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