Photo courtesy of Dimithri Wijesinghe
June is Pride Month
It started with a simple but powerful feeling that we, as queer people from the Malaiyaga community, deserve to be seen and celebrated in our own home. So many Pride events happen in cities or closed spaces, far removed from our realities. But what about us? What about the queer people who grew up in the tea plantations, who speak Tamil with a Malaiyagam accent, who carry generations of struggle in our bodies?
For me, the idea wasn’t just to wave a flag; it was to tell the world that we exist here too. Our queerness doesn’t erase our identity as upcountry Tamils and our identity as Malaiyagathars doesn’t make our queerness less valid. We’re both. And we’re proud of both.
This Pride was about reclaiming space, not just public space but emotional space too. To laugh, to dance, to wear a saree or a veshti, to hold hands without fear right here in the hills where our people have lived and worked for generations. It was also a tribute to those who never had the chance to live openly and a promise to the next generation that you belong just as you are.
We didn’t wait for permission. We created the space ourselves. That’s the spirit of Malaiyaga Pride – bold, rooted and beautifully ours.
The queer Malaiyaga community stands at the intersection of many layers of marginalisation and that intersection is not just political; it’s deeply personal and painful. One of the most pressing issues is invisibility. Even within the broader LGBTQIA+ movements, the voices of upcountry Tamils are often left out. Our unique history, shaped by indentured labour, caste oppression and class-based struggles, is rarely centred in conversations around queer rights in Sri Lanka.
Then there’s access or the lack of it. Many from our community live in rural or estate areas with very limited access to healthcare, let alone queer affirming services. Transgender and intersex folks, in particular, face tremendous barriers when seeking gender affirming care, mental health support or even basic recognition. There’s very little awareness around Sexual and Reproductive Health Rights (SRHR), HIV prevention or safe spaces to simply be ourselves without fear.
Stigma in the family and community is another deep wound. Traditional family structures in the Malaiyaga region are tightly knit and while that can offer support it can also become a cage. Many queer people here live double lives carrying their queerness in silence to avoid being disowned, abused or forced into heterosexual marriages. Queer youth face school dropouts, homelessness and often have no one to turn to.
On top of that, caste still casts a long shadow. Many Malaiyagathars are from historically oppressed caste groups and caste discrimination continues to shape our access to education, employment and social mobility. When you add queerness into the mix, the exclusion deepens – it’s like being pushed to the margins of the margins.
Organising Malaiyaga Pride was both powerful and deeply emotional not just because it was the first of its kind in our region but because we did it entirely on our own terms with our own people and from the ground up.
We didn’t receive any state support – no funding, no endorsement and no official recognition. But what hurt more was that even the usual sources of allyship such as donors, embassies and INGOs were absent. No one came forward with financial support. Not a single rupee from outside.
So we turned to each other.
We collected Rs. 500 here, Rs. 1,000 there. A few friends gave what they could. Some people bought food while others helped to print banners. Every single item from the flags, the sound system and the sarees to the tea and snacks came from the love and generosity of our own community. It wasn’t grand. But it was honest. It was real. It was ours.
Even the police, surprisingly, supported us by ensuring our safety. That presence, while not the same as state backing, gave us a sense of basic protection and it meant everything to those who were afraid to even show their face in public.
This event wasn’t about flashy sponsors or big stages. It was about courage, community and carving out joy where no one ever gave us permission to exist. We built this moment brick by brick, heart by heart. And that’s what made it unforgettable.
We knew from the very beginning that hosting a Pride parade in Hatton would not be easy. It wasn’t just about organising an event, it was about shifting mindsets in a place where queerness is still deeply misunderstood, often silenced or pushed into the shadows. So yes, we expected challenges, and many of them.
The biggest concern was community backlash. We feared how the public would react, especially in a town that’s closely knit, religiously sensitive and where people are quick to talk and even quicker to judge. There was worry about moral policing, threats or being labeled as “spoiling culture.” Many of us grew up hiding who we are and the thought of walking openly through the streets of Hatton was both thrilling and terrifying.
We also expected resistance from institutions – maybe the police stopping us, local authorities denying space or religious leaders speaking out. But surprisingly while the state didn’t support us the local police cooperated and offered us protection, which gave us the confidence to move forward. That unexpected support gave people enough safety to show up even if just for a moment, even if behind a mask.
Another major challenge was resources. We had no donor backing, no embassy support and no big NGO budget. Just a handful of queer folks and allies pooling together whatever we could manage. We weren’t sure how we’d get flags, food or even a sound system but we made it work with love, creativity and a deep belief that we deserve this moment.
And lastly, there was the emotional challenge – the fear of being seen. For many participants, this was their first time attending any Pride, let alone one in their hometown. The risk of being outed, of facing consequences at home or work, was very real.
My hope is simple, yet radical: to live with dignity, safety and freedom without the law branding our love and identities as crimes.
Sections 365 and 365A of the Penal Code are not just outdated colonial relics. They are still active tools of fear, silence and control. They may not always be enforced directly but their mere existence fuels stigma, legitimises discrimination and creates a chilling effect across every aspect of queer life from healthcare and education to housing, employment and even just existing in public.
For the Malaiyaga queer community, who already live with the burden of caste, class and regional marginalisation, these laws add another layer of invisibility and fear. They embolden gatekeepers in society including police officers, doctors, religious leaders and even families to treat us as “less than” or “illegal.” They keep us afraid of speaking up when we are harassed. They block us from accessing justice when we’re harmed.
So my hope and demand is full decriminalisation. Not halfway amendments, not soft promises but the full, unapologetic removal of 365 and 365A from our legal system. This isn’t just about law, it’s about liberation. It’s about affirming that queer and trans Sri Lankans belong in this country not as second class citizens but as equals.
Decriminalisation won’t solve everything. But it will open doors to protection, to policy changes, to public education and to healing the generations of harm caused by silence and shame.
It’s time for Sri Lanka to choose compassion over colonialism. We’ve waited long enough.
We were joined by allies from other districts – activists, feminists, artists, youth leaders and fellow queer folks from urban spaces who came not to lead but to stand in solidarity and learn. There were members from trans and intersex networks, some who travelled long distances just to be there to say, “We see you. We are with you.”
Local community-based organisations working on workers’ rights, gender equity and youth empowerment also showed quiet but powerful support. Some helped us with logistics, others helped make space for us in a town that’s not used to such visibility.
The response from the Malaiyaga community was a mix of surprise, silence, support and, in some cases, soft resistance. But above all it sparked something that can’t be easily undone: conversation.
For many in Hatton and surrounding areas, it was the first time seeing queer people walking openly, not hiding, not apologising but celebrating who they are with pride and dignity. Some stood at the roadside in stunned silence. Others smiled quietly. A few clapped. And yes, there were murmurs of disapproval, discomfort and confusion but nothing we hadn’t already braved our whole lives. This time, though, we met it head on with colour and courage.
What moved us most was the quiet, behind the scenes support. Elders who whispered, “We didn’t know this was possible.” Young people who messaged us after saying, “I saw myself in you.” Estate workers who didn’t join the march but nodded at us as we passed. Some even helped us with water and shade. That kind of warmth, unspoken but deeply felt, reminded us that hearts are more open than we think.
Of course there was criticism too, some from religious leaders, some from conservative families and some online but it didn’t drown us. It reminded us why visibility matters because silence and shame only grow when we stay hidden.
Most importantly this event planted a seed. Now people know that queer Malaiyagathars exist, that we are part of this soil, this tea country, this story. And once you’ve been seen, you can’t be unseen. That’s the beginning of change.
Long term queer solidarity for the Malaiyaga community isn’t just about waving flags once a year or showing up for photos. It’s about building a future where we are safe, seen and supported every single day.
It looks like centering the voices of Malaiyaga queer people not just in Pride spaces but in national movements, policy rooms and resource decisions. It’s about recognising that our queerness is intertwined with our caste, our class, our Tamil identity and our histories of labour and struggle. You cannot build queer liberation here without addressing the wounds of plantation exploitation and generational poverty.
It looks like sustainable, grassroots support, not just project-based partnerships that disappear after a report is written. We need long term investments in our wellbeing: access to gender affirming healthcare, trauma counselling, shelter, education and leadership development. Not in Colombo but in Hatton, in Nuwara Eliya, in Rakwana and in Talawakelle where our lives unfold.
It looks like queer collectives standing together across regions – urban and rural, Sinhala and Tamil, trans and cis, intersex and nonbinary – sharing resources, amplifying each other’s struggles and not erasing us from narratives. It means solidarity that doesn’t tokenise but truly trusts us to lead our own liberation.
It looks like elders unlearning and youth dreaming out loud. It looks like families learning to love louder, friends holding space for healing and lovers walking hand in hand in broad daylight without fear.
It looks like us building from the ground, rooted in tea soaked soil, reaching for sky.
G.D. Lidurshan Avilash is one of the founders of Malaiyaga Pride. He works as a managing director at the Aruvi Malaiyaga Queer Network.