Which pride month belongs to the queer disabled?
Every June, rainbow flags flood the streets in celebration of Pride Month, marking the anniversary of the Stonewall uprising—a rebellion led by queer and trans people against police violence in 1969. Just a few weeks later, July brings another commemoration: Disability Pride Month, honouring the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act in 1990, one of the most significant civil rights laws for disabled people. Yet despite their consecutive timelines and shared roots in protest, these two movements rarely meet—forcing people like me, who are both queer and disabled, to ask: Which one is our month?This question, unfortunately, is not rhetorical—it has a million realities tied to it. Realities that are embedded in practice and in law.
I have attended three Pride parades in Bangalore and Delhi. Let alone having reasonable accommodation, these events are proactively exclusionary. Crowds without sensory support, high-decibel music without quiet zones, inaccessible and uneven pathways, lack of sign language interpretation, no seating or rest stops, absence of accessible washrooms, and no on-site volunteers trained to assist disabled persons—all of these effectively gatekeep these parades. Shelter homes for LGBTQIA+ persons are already scant, but even where they exist, the question of physical accessibility—such as wide doorways, ramps, or tactile flooring—is not even last on the priority list; it simply does not arise.
This exclusion does not end at footpaths and buildings. It seeps into the digital sphere as well. Dating apps like Hinge, Tinder, and Bumble are overwhelmingly visual and gesture-based, without proper alt text, keyboard navigability, or compatibility with screen readers. Their interfaces are not built for cognitive or motor accessibility either, effectively marginalising disabled queer people from even digital intimacy and self-expression. Likewise, online informational sources on queerness—be it sexuality, gender identity, or legal rights—are not designed to be accessible across disabilities: videos lack captions, PDFs are not screen-reader friendly, and content rarely uses plain or easy-to-read language. Mental health helplines and queer support services, too, are often unequipped to engage with callers who may be non-verbal, neurodivergent, or have intellectual or psychosocial disabilities—leaving queer disabled persons without crisis support that affirms both identities.
The disabled community is not behind in overlooking the double marginalisation of the queer disabled. Most conferences or events I have attended—even those organised under the banner of disability rights—stop at ramps and captchas, treating accessibility as a logistical checkbox. There is rarely any talk of sexuality, intimacy, or gender diversity. Panels remain cisgender and heteronormative, and even materials on reproductive health assume a heterosexual family model.
LGBTQIA+ disabled persons are rendered invisible in programme design, research surveys, and even panel representation. Where conversations on gender and disability do occur, they are often focused on women with disabilities in ways that flatten queerness and erase trans, non-binary, and intersex identities. Structural ableism is mirrored by cis-heteronormativity.
Unfortunately, only one group within the queer community—transgender persons—has a dedicated legislation. The shortcomings of the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019 have been widely critiqued, but if one were to run it through the lens of disability inclusion, it fares no better. The law presumes the right-holder to be an able-bodied person. Section 6 mandates that a transgender person must apply for a certificate of identity through a formal application process, and Section 7 requires proof of medical intervention for a revised certificate—without any provision for reasonable accommodation for persons with disabilities.
The accompanying Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Rules, 2020 further entrench this exclusion. The National Portal for Transgender Persons, which is supposed to be a one-stop platform for name and gender change applications, welfare schemes, skill development, and ID card issuance, features a visual captcha without audio or logical alternatives. It is not screen-reader compatible, nor does it allow accessible modes of document submission or proxy application support—functionally excluding blind, low-vision, and neurodivergent persons from even the first step. There is no mention of assisted decision-making, nor any procedural safeguards for trans persons with psychosocial disabilities who may be denied recognition due to guardianship structures.
If a codified law crafted to protect one of the most marginalised queer groups can overlook disability so blatantly, one can only imagine the invisibilisation of disabled persons in the broader gay, lesbian, bisexual, asexual, intersex, and plus spaces. For instance, in policy demands—like marriage equality, gender-neutral hostels, or conversion therapy bans—the disabled queer person is absent as a subject. They are either rendered invisible or seen as too complex, inconvenient, or rare to be planned for. This compounds stigma and isolation, and leads to queer liberation spaces reproducing the same ableism they claim to fight.
On the other side, the disabled community does have a comprehensive legislation—but it remains entirely silent on queerness. The Rights of Persons with Disabilities Act, 2016 mentions the word gender only twice—Sections 5 and 24—stating that community support and social security schemes should be implemented 'with due regard to gender.' But the Act never defines what gender is, nor does it recognise that disabled persons may be trans, non-binary, intersex, queer, or asexual.
Instead, it flattens gender into a male–female binary and assumes all disabled people live in heterosexual family structures. Across its anti-discrimination framework, legal capacity provisions, and welfare schemes, there is a conspicuous absence of any conceptual, legal, or policy space for queer-disabled individuals to be seen or protected.
Further, Rule 10 of the RPwD Rules, 2017, which ensures access to reproductive and family planning services, assumes the user is heterosexual and cisgender. There is no mention of access to sexuality education, sexual autonomy, or relationship rights for queer-disabled individuals. Rule 15, which outlines accessibility standards, speaks of physical and digital access in generic terms but fails to consider how gendered infrastructure—like sex-segregated toilets, hostels, or shelters—can be inaccessible or unsafe for trans and non-binary disabled people.
Exclusionary practices and compartmentalised laws that refuse to account for intersectionality stem from a deeper reluctance within both communities to see each other. Not every queer person is able-bodied, and not every disabled person is cisgender or heterosexual. Pride that is not accessible is not pride. Accessibility that does not imagine queerness is not inclusion.
It is only when both movements begin to work in tandem—across lines of disability, gender identity, and sexual orientation—that the full promise of dignity and rights can be realised. Until then, the rainbow and the purple flag will continue to fly on parallel poles—never meeting, never touching—leaving queer-disabled persons to wonder which Pride month is theirs?
This article is authored by Anchal Bhatheja, research fellow, Vidhi Centre for Legal Policy, New Delhi.
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Crowds without sensory support, high-decibel music without quiet zones, inaccessible and uneven pathways, lack of sign language interpretation, no seating or rest stops, absence of accessible washrooms, and no on-site volunteers trained to assist disabled persons—all of these effectively gatekeep these parades. Shelter homes for LGBTQIA+ persons are already scant, but even where they exist, the question of physical accessibility—such as wide doorways, ramps, or tactile flooring—is not even last on the priority list; it simply does not arise. This exclusion does not end at footpaths and buildings. It seeps into the digital sphere as well. Dating apps like Hinge, Tinder, and Bumble are overwhelmingly visual and gesture-based, without proper alt text, keyboard navigability, or compatibility with screen readers. Their interfaces are not built for cognitive or motor accessibility either, effectively marginalising disabled queer people from even digital intimacy and self-expression. Likewise, online informational sources on queerness—be it sexuality, gender identity, or legal rights—are not designed to be accessible across disabilities: videos lack captions, PDFs are not screen-reader friendly, and content rarely uses plain or easy-to-read language. Mental health helplines and queer support services, too, are often unequipped to engage with callers who may be non-verbal, neurodivergent, or have intellectual or psychosocial disabilities—leaving queer disabled persons without crisis support that affirms both identities. The disabled community is not behind in overlooking the double marginalisation of the queer disabled. Most conferences or events I have attended—even those organised under the banner of disability rights—stop at ramps and captchas, treating accessibility as a logistical checkbox. There is rarely any talk of sexuality, intimacy, or gender diversity. 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Section 6 mandates that a transgender person must apply for a certificate of identity through a formal application process, and Section 7 requires proof of medical intervention for a revised certificate—without any provision for reasonable accommodation for persons with disabilities. The accompanying Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Rules, 2020 further entrench this exclusion. The National Portal for Transgender Persons, which is supposed to be a one-stop platform for name and gender change applications, welfare schemes, skill development, and ID card issuance, features a visual captcha without audio or logical alternatives. It is not screen-reader compatible, nor does it allow accessible modes of document submission or proxy application support—functionally excluding blind, low-vision, and neurodivergent persons from even the first step. There is no mention of assisted decision-making, nor any procedural safeguards for trans persons with psychosocial disabilities who may be denied recognition due to guardianship structures. If a codified law crafted to protect one of the most marginalised queer groups can overlook disability so blatantly, one can only imagine the invisibilisation of disabled persons in the broader gay, lesbian, bisexual, asexual, intersex, and plus spaces. For instance, in policy demands—like marriage equality, gender-neutral hostels, or conversion therapy bans—the disabled queer person is absent as a subject. They are either rendered invisible or seen as too complex, inconvenient, or rare to be planned for. This compounds stigma and isolation, and leads to queer liberation spaces reproducing the same ableism they claim to fight. On the other side, the disabled community does have a comprehensive legislation—but it remains entirely silent on queerness. The Rights of Persons with Disabilities Act, 2016 mentions the word gender only twice—Sections 5 and 24—stating that community support and social security schemes should be implemented 'with due regard to gender.' But the Act never defines what gender is, nor does it recognise that disabled persons may be trans, non-binary, intersex, queer, or asexual. Instead, it flattens gender into a male–female binary and assumes all disabled people live in heterosexual family structures. Across its anti-discrimination framework, legal capacity provisions, and welfare schemes, there is a conspicuous absence of any conceptual, legal, or policy space for queer-disabled individuals to be seen or protected. Further, Rule 10 of the RPwD Rules, 2017, which ensures access to reproductive and family planning services, assumes the user is heterosexual and cisgender. There is no mention of access to sexuality education, sexual autonomy, or relationship rights for queer-disabled individuals. 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