The Roots of Queer Filipino Pride: Reclaiming Identity, Culture, and Resistance

Every June, we can see the streets come alive, draped in rainbow flags, music and cheers echoing from passing floats, and lit by the heat of summer and celebration. Adorned in our most colourful clothing, we march in blocked-off streets aglow with pride.

Coinciding with Filipino Heritage Month, the word “pride” carries a heavier weight for those shaped by queerness and Filipino identity. For queer Filipinos, Pride is more than celebration; it is an act of reclamation. It is a time for unravelling the dark threads of bigotry spun from three centuries of colonization. It is a period of reflection and a return to our roots, reconnecting with our ancestors and the once rich queer culture of pre-colonial Philippines.

Before the arrival of colonial forces, pre-colonial Philippine society was matriarchal and inherently gender non-conforming. Contemporary ideas around gender identity and sexual orientation did not exist, nor did they affect a person’s place in the community.

Native Filipinos practiced animism, the belief that there is spirit within all things, both living and non-living.  Women were highly respected for their powers to create life and heal among the living. Many served as babaylans, spiritual leaders and healers who bridged the worlds between material and spiritual beings.

Second to, or even equal with, the datus (head chiefs), babaylans held vital authoritative positions within barangays (local villages). They were not only priestesses who wielded powers in medicine, divinity, religion, and agriculture, but also trained warriors and political figures.

Same-sex unions blessed by babaylans were accepted parts of community life. The role of babaylan was not limited by biological sex, extending to men and gender-diverse people who were called to serve these sacred duties. Femininity was regarded as a source of spiritual power. To strengthen their connection to spirit, male and gender-diverse babaylans embodied and expressed themselves in feminine ways.

Gender in precolonial Philippines was free flowing, transcending both mortals and the divine. Queerness is stitched into the very patterns of being Filipino: intertwined with our deities and folklore, alive in our material and spiritual worlds, and carried in the gender-neutral language we speak to this day.

The vibrancy of our cultures and traditions was muted soon after the Spanish arrived in 1521. Confused and dismissive of the Filipinos’ way of life, the Spaniards saw the authority and respect held by the babaylans as a threat.

The once revered spiritual leaders were eventually overpowered, and the barangays they governed were forced to submit to colonial rule. Along with the imposition of Catholicism came the rigid understanding of gender and “traditional” gender-based roles; females were expected to be docile and domesticated, while males were to be sole breadwinners and exhibit machismo (masculine pride).

What were once beautiful ways of life had been polluted under the guise of purification. The Catholic Church, seen as a source of moral authority, saw it as its mission to “cleanse” the Filipino people from their “demonic natures”.

Those who resisted or were accused of homosexuality endured ruthless punishment to further the colonizer’s agenda of correction. Under the new regime, to submit was to survive. After centuries of colonization, with its militaristic and religious silencing, Philippines was left behind with a legacy of ingrained hatred for queer people.

In post-colonial Philippines, the contradictions in how the 2SLGBTQIA+ community is perceived are evident. A Pew Research survey revealed that around 73% of Filipinos think that homosexuality should be accepted by society. In a separate 2013 survey comparing seven countries in Asia-Pacific, the Philippines was declared the most “gay-friendly” country in Asia.

At first glance, the outside world paints a pretty picture of progress. Yet beneath the surface, queer Filipinos are still facing systemic and intersectional discrimination. Many are disproportionately affected by poverty, denied stable housing, refused employment and education, and subjected to discriminatory healthcare. Society accepts them only when conditions are met, validating their worth based on contributions to their kin and the community.

While those residing in urban areas and rural provinces face similar forms of discrimination, their experiences vary given the different structures and vectors of oppression that shape their lives beyond their identities. This regional divide is apparent when considering the wider access available to urban Filipinos, from education and employment opportunities to gender-affirming healthcare, 2SLGBTQIA+ advocacy networks, inclusive workplaces, and basic services. In contrast, those in rural provinces face a lack of labour protection, limited educational and professional opportunities, and available support systems. Many are left searching for communities where they are, at the very least, tolerated. The systemic gaps result in financial dependence on unsupportive families and economic hardships that create a cycle of poverty.

On top of this, there are little to no laws protecting their rights. After two decades, the SOGIE (Sexual Orientation, Gender Identity, and Expression) Equality Bill criminalizing gender and sexuality-based discrimination has yet to be passed by the Philippine Congress. There are still no laws supporting same-sex marriage or allowing transgender people to change their sex on birth certificates.

In homes across the country, families continue to shun their queer children, still suffocating under the religious shame stemming from centuries of colonization.

Cross-dressing men parading in street fiestas, the societal adoption of Filipino gay lingo and humour, and the caricatured television portrayals of queerness may be taken as signs of progress. But the country’s tolerance of public queer visibility does not equate to true acceptance.

The volume of Pride does not silence the reality of Filipino queer suffering.

To queer Filipinos, Pride lives in the act of reclamation, decolonization, and resistance. It lives in the 2SLGBTQIA+ activists resisting riot police while protesting the proposed Anti-Terror Bill. It lives in the 110,000+ people who joined the 2023 Pride March, not to just celebrate, but to vehemently demand the passage of the SOGIE bill.

Pride lives on in the fight that continues, even in the face of economic struggle, generational trauma, and the lasting effects of colonization that blanket the country in prejudice, violence, religious shame, and extreme policing. It quietly endures in their resolute acts of defiance and the everyday resilience of queer Filipinos.

Like the babaylans before them, Pride is alive in their spirit, in their power to lead, to heal, and to foster communities formed by queer liberation.