Pooja Rabha, a tribal transgender woman from the Charaideo District in Assam, trembled as she told SAAG about a haunting scene from her visit to the National Register of Citizens (NRC) office.

The office was swarming with border police and old heaps of paper documents. When called to the service desk, Rabha was asked to provide all the details of her origins, including a birth certificate, land document, and bank records. She stood behind her mother, her heart racing with anxiety.

“I knew they were looking at my body,” Rabha recalled. 

Within minutes of standing there, a border police officer approached her and mockingly asked, “Are you a boy or a girl?”

She froze. The officer screamed, “Go stand in the boys’ line!”

NRC inspection and verification is a lengthy process and typically incomplete without biodata, photographs, and documents proving lineage. For many transgender people in Assam, the process is especially resource-consuming due to the need for consistent documentation that reflects their current identity. Many find this difficult, particularly if estranged from their families or if their official documents still reflect their birth-assigned “dead” names.

Critics also believe the NRC is effectively a xenophobic exercise to identify and deport undocumented immigrants from neighboring Bangladesh—many of whom arrived in Assam following the 1971 war of independence. In 2019, the process excluded approximately 2 million people from citizenship, creating severe consequences for Assam’s transgender population, who face disenfranchisement alongside others left off the list.

In Rabha’s case, even the discrepancy between her gender presentation and the gender identity indicated on official documents is enough to arouse suspicion. Should people like Rabha fail to be verified under the NRC, they are essentially rendered stateless: at best, unable to vote in elections, and at worst, likely in danger of imprisonment at a detention center.

Unfortunately, transgender marginalization for political gain is not new in modern day India and Pakistan, where many Hijra and Khwaja Sira communities—an umbrella term in Urdu for transgender, nonbinary, and gender nonconforming people—share a rich history in connection to the land. 

A Long-Held Colonial Legacy

Pre-colonial India demonstrated openness to sexual fluidity. Themes exploring gender and sexuality can be seen in ancient texts such as the Vatsyayana Kamasutra, Jain religious writings from the 5th century, Sufi poetry from the 13th century, and erotic literature from the Mughal period in the 17th century. 

In fact, many researchers and historians of South Asian studies have also highlighted links between queer desire and the sacred. Shayan Rajani, for instance, delves into the documented homoerotic relationship between Madho Lal Hussain, a 16th century Sufi mystic from Lahore, and a married Brahmin man. 

Rajani explains that while the relationship was considered unconventional, even transgressive, it finds a home within the religious canon when seen through the lens of Sufi thinkers and practitioners. Across various written accounts, and in Persian verse, this queer relationship was understood through “Metaphorical Love”—a Sufi literary tradition in which the imagery of human love is used as a metaphor to describe love for the divine. 

This same elevation of queerness is seen in Vinay Lal’s explication of the ancient Indian epic the Ramayana, particularly how many hijras connect to the epic through their resistance to categorization. In the story, as Rama prepares to go into exile with Sita and Lakshmana, he instructs his subjects, “Men and women, please go back and perform your duties.” Per Lal’s interpretation, hijras, identifying as neither men nor women, would have remained at the same spot of his departure, where they would greet Rama upon his return fourteen years later. For their devotion, they would be blessed by Rama.

In both Rajani and Lal’s analysis, queerness is deeply woven into the fabric of the region, through spiritual, literary and cultural traditions. Their work demonstrates the relatively expansive ideas of queerness in the erstwhile Subcontinent. 

However, the colonization of the Indian subcontinent by the British East India Company, brought with it a steep decline of the Khwaja Siras’ cultural significance alongside a wave of discrimination through the Criminal Tribes Act (CTC). Under the Act,. Khwaja Sira were criminalized based on a strict, orthodox understanding of gender roles. Men wearing female attire and homosexuality were deemed punishable offenses. This legislation effectively enforced gender norms, while picking away at artistic traditions that embedded queerness within them. 

“They [the British] criminalized our bodies back in the 18th century,” Pakistani trans activist Hina Baloch explained to SAAG. “So branding us as foreign agents or ‘others’ has a very colonial politics attached to it.” Although the CTC is no longer in effect in present-day Pakistan and India following their independence, its influence persists as a key colonial legacy, shaping societal attitudes and laws.

Queer Rights Amid Religious Conservatism In Pakistan

On May 19, 2023, the Federal Shariat Court of Pakistan rendered the Transgender Persons Act of 2018 incompatible with Islamic principles. This law had allowed people to choose their gender and to have that identity recognized on official documents, including national IDs, passports, and driver’s licenses. The recognition meant that transgender people could press charges for cases of discrimination and exercise their political right to vote while showing up as their authentic selves.

While activists like Baloch are currently in the process of appealing the court’s decision, the reality is that the Khwaja Sira community remained the victim of violence and dehumanization even while the bill was in effect, she said. “We never had faith in our judicial system, and to a large extent, we saw this coming.” 

In recent years, the Pakistani government, fueled by netizens’ religious uproar, has curtailed many forms of queer and trans expression in the country, creating a firm bedrock of support for the overturning of the Transgender Persons Act. 

As Hussain “Jaan-e–Haseena” Zaidi, a trans-feminine artist based in Lahore, told SAAG, “By being very public about your queer identity, you’re inviting other people to criticize and try to discipline you back into their framework of being a Pakistani.”

This sentiment is echoed in the backlash against the film Joyland, which depicted a love affair between a man and a transgender woman, in November 2022.

Spearheaded by prominent figures from Pakistan’s religious right, including fashion designer Maria B and religious evangelist Raja Zia Ul Haq, the mudslinging evolved into what seemed to be a broader campaign about the religious and cultural identity of Pakistan as a nation. Hashtags like #JoylandvsIslam gained traction, with critics denouncing the film as part of a foreign-funded agenda to destroy Islam. The discourse included other extreme reactions as well, such as equating transgender identity with pedophilia.

[Embedded] “The filthy venture named ‘Joyland’ is in fact promoting a one-way ticket to hell. The West has shortlisted this LGBTQ+ film for the Oscars as it openly mocks the teachings of Islam. We must reverse all decisions and actions based on the Transgender Act 2018.” (Tanzeem-e-Islami)

While Joyland was ultimately allowed limited release following significant cuts of ostensibly vulgar material, it remained banned in Punjab, Pakistan’s most populous province . 

In a country where any violation of the harsh blasphemy law can result in punishment by death, accusations of being “un-Islamic” or “mocking the teachings of Islam” can have dire consequences. Moreover, vigilante justice is common in blasphemy cases, which are increasingly settled with violence outside the courtroom, with mob and targeted attacks against those accused. 

On March 17, 2024, a violent mob of over 100 men attacked and severely wounded transgender women in Gulistan-e-Johar, Karachi. 

According to Shahzadi Rai, a transgender woman present at the scene who is also an elected official of the Karachi Municipal Council, the incident originated at a local marketplace. A member of the Khwaja Sira community had politely requested a shopkeeper to exchange a torn banknote. However, a nearby man responded with sexually suggestive comments, implying she engaged in sex work.

“Mind your own business,” the woman retorted.

The situation escalated as the man proceeded to verbally abuse and physically assault her. Within moments, said Rai, the commotion attracted a mob hurling transphobic slurs, inappropriately touching the women, attempting to tear their clothes off, and threatening them with death.

The mob accused them of “ruining society, “dirtying our neighborhood” and threatened to burn them all.

As of 2021, at least 89 people have been extrajudicially killed due to blasphemy accusations over Pakistan’s seven-decade history, and the numbers have further risen since. At this point, policing blasphemy is woven into the social fabric of the nation. In Haseena’s words, “There’s this normalized [policing] which can range anywhere from verbal to violent harassment. And this can be from family, people you know, or random strangers.”

This normalization of vigilante-style policing coupled with dehumanizing smear campaigns on social media has resulted in what Baloch calls “a very systemic and organized transphobia.” Ultimately, trans erasure and persecution is equated with strengthening the religious morals of the nation.

“The Pakistani state has failed the Khwaja Sira community on violence,” Baloch added. “There is domestic violence like honor killing and homelessness [that] we face from our birth parents. Then, there’s intimate partner violence at the hands of our boyfriends and partners. And then there’s casual everyday violence.”

In India, The Trans Body in Conflict With Hindutva Logic

On the other side of the border, Dominic Amonge, a 34-year-old trans woman recounted an incident during her university days when, prior to her physical transition, she was raped during her stay at a men's paying guest (PG) house in Guwahati, India. Seeking justice, she approached the Station House Officer, but according to Amonge, the officer dismissively stated, "That's because it's your fault; you are queer." 

"I dealt with it," she said. "I lived with the abuse."

Dominic Amonge is not alone. Sumitra Ghosh, a 22 year-old non-cis passing trans woman, faced similar challenges in Guwahati. Her landlord evicted her after discovering she was undergoing hormone therapy, assuming she would engage in sex work. In reality, she was on the verge of completing her BA 3rd Semester. 

With few housing options, as many metro states of India still demand cisgender married couples or bachelor men, Sumitra reluctantly moved into a boys’ PG in August, 2024. Within days, however, her male roommate sexually assaulted her. 

Aniruddha Dutta explores the construction of an “elsewhere” within Hindutva rhetoric, highlighting how marginalized communities are framed as “foreign threats” to the dominant sociopolitical order. Dutta defines “elsewhere” as any group or identity that does not conform to the rigid boundaries of Hindu nationalism—this includes Bangladeshi immigrants, Muslims, Dalits, Adivasis, and certain queer and trans people who do not fit within the upper-caste Hindu framework.

Specifically, Dutta examines an incident from July 2021 where a brutal video of a trans woman named Ratna Chowdhury torturing a younger hijra circulated on WhatsApp. Without excusing the violence of the incident, Dutta traces how the event became a Hindutva talking point. As the case progressed, Dutta noticed that “Chowdhury was repeatedly singled out to direct blame towards Bangladeshis and Muslims and otherize them within hijra communities”—all while packaging it under the guise of safety concerns for trans individuals. 

Dutta notes that Hindutva may, at times, co-opt queer politics to project Hinduism as uniquely tolerant and inclusive. However, this assimilation can be slippery and rests on exclusionary and binary thinking—logic that would otherwise flatten Dominic Amonge and Sumitra Ghosh’s experiences into mere outliers or stereotypes.

Trans women from Bengali or Muslim immigrant communities in Assam, for example, face compounded challenges under the current political climate. The Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) government perpetuates ideas of a “foreigner-free” homeland for Assamese people, banking on middle-class Assamese anxiety to push the envelope for an updated NRC. 

While the 2019 Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, promised legal protections such as the ability to modify names on birth certificates, bureaucratic hurdles and the preoccupation with accurate citizenship continue to block progress in Assam. Trans women must provide proof of gender affirming surgery to update their legal identity, while those identifying as "transgender" must receive approval from the District Level Screening Committee. 

“Government offices demand an extra level of patience to deal with,” said Sumitra Ghosh, who struggled for months to receive her TG card (identity card for trans people) in Tezpur, Assam. “These offices are overburdened with work, and the employees either work slowly or continue to postpone their tasks until they become urgent. They rejected my certificates so many times in Tezpur,” she said. Often, due to additional document requests, “pictures, biodata proofs, and affidavits.” 

The stories of trans women like Dominic Amonge and Sumitra Ghosh illustrate that despite legal protections and selectively inclusive talking points, these women remain vulnerable to sexual violence, eviction, and systemic neglect by government officials. Their experiences also point to how queer people can easily slip between “legitimate” and “illegitimate” depending on the interests of the state.

On September 11, 2023, Assam Railway Police arrested three Muslim trans women—Kusum, Durga, and Puja—for begging for change on the Bangalore Express train. The women were subjected to degrading and illegal bodily inspections. Despite trans people’s right to self-identify per the Supreme Court of India, the police falsely declared their trans identity as “fake” due to the absence of gender-affirming surgery.

The media’s portrayal of the incident exacerbated the women’s plight. They were not only deadnamed and misgendered but also labeled as “impostors,” vilifying them in the public eye. The narrative largely appealed to the importance of pure, sanitized spaces—another prominent Hindutva talking point—and framed them as deceitful individuals, who were harassing passengers and collecting money under false pretenses. 

“With my queerness and gender, nobody needs to worry about my body,” asserted Durga in contrast to the circulated story. “Police are always worried about what’s between my legs more than myself.”

Resistance Efforts On Both Sides Of The Border

Faced with national erasure, queer communities in Pakistan and Assam have created grassroots initiatives that prioritize solidarity, joy, and community-care. 

In Assam, prominent trans activist Rituparna Neog leads the Akam Foundation, an organization dedicated to nurturing feminist education through community-building projects. Growing up witnessing the oppression of Adivasi children in Jorhat, Neog’s activism is informed by a commitment to radical compassion. Her organization’s initiatives include establishing free libraries in remote Assamese villages to break down barriers and educate communities on gender and sexuality. The foundation’s first library project, Kitape Kotha Koi launched in August 2021 and offers a safe and accessible space for learning. The focus is on library education and ensuring reading materials are free for those who need them most.

Similarly, Palash Borah, a gay activist from Assam started Snehbandhan (Bond of Love) in 2015. Originally a support-based WhatsApp group of trans and queer people in Guwahati, the group has evolved into an officially registered organization. Major initiatives include activities like meet-ups and donation drives with Kinnar Trust and Donatekart. Currently, Snehbandhan is running a project with Azim Premji Foundation called Sahas to provide necessities like hormones, laser treatments, and registration certificates to the transgender community in Assam.

"At first, I was nervous about all the activist talk and labels,” shared Dominic Amonge, who works for Snehbandhan. “I'm not a so-called activist. However, how else would I learn where to get a safe doctor or a good job?"

Likewise in Lahore, Haseena founded Zenaan Khana in March 2023 following a slew of anti-trans attacks and rhetoric since the heated discourse on Joyland. Drawing on the region’s deep historical ties between art and queerness, Zenaan Khana positions itself as part of a broader artistic resistance. “Art is crucial in resistance movements because art has the power of providing a visual, auditory and literary toolkit,” said Haseena. 

One of Zenaan Khana’s goals is to create media that depicts queer and transness specific to the context of Pakistan, exemplified in one of its first projects: a series of photoshoots highlighting trans beauty, prominently featured on the group’s Instagram page. In one striking image, a trans woman is adorned in traditional jewelry, rings and henna, paying homage to the region’s aesthetics while questioning what types of bodies get to participate in this specific visual culture.

“Our idea was to get photographers, stylists, and visual artists together to showcase queerness that is specific to the Pakistani context, and even pushing back against Western notions of LGBTQ+ identity,” Haseena noted.

In many ways, “Ishq,” one of Zenaan Khana’s central ethos, captures the community-care politics at the heart of queer resistance. Ishq can be translated to mean an unending love filled with infinite possibilities. By anchoring itself in Ishq, the collective not only imagines a possibility for queer liberation in the Urdu language, but also expands the definition of the word itself to encapsulate the chosen families in queer circles, community building, and love beyond the binary—an ethos applicable on either side of the border.

Whether through education, art, or funding, queer activists from Karachi to Assam demonstrate a shared commitment to queer liberation in the face of state-sanctioned erasure. Haseena neatly captures this pillar of resistance: “expanding people’s imaginations of queer and trans possibilities.”∎