“ਇਕ ਜੋਤਿ ਤੇ ਸਭੁ ਜਗੁ ਉਪਜਿਆ ਕਉਨੁ ਭਲਾ ਕੋ ਮੰਦਾ ॥”
“From the One Light, the entire universe was created. So who is good, and who is bad?”
— Guru Granth Sahib, Ang 1349

On April 27, 2025, a Pride Parade was scheduled to take place in Amritsar, a city that represents the spiritual soul of Sikhism. Quietly organized by local queer activists with reverence and purpose, it wasn’t intended to disrupt tradition—it was meant to affirm existence, dignity, and community. Yet, before the first rainbow flag could be raised, the event was abruptly cancelled. Why? Threats. Condemnations. Accusations that the march would “dishonour Sikhism” and “pollute the Guru’s land.”

The Spatial Politics of Pride: Amritsar vs. Jalandhar and Chandigarh

In recent times, several cultural and religious voices—both individual and institutional—have expressed discomfort with the idea of a Pride Parade being held in Amritsar. Statements such as "This is not in line with Sikh values" or "This will harm the sanctity of Sikhi" have echoed through public discourse. These concerns arise not in a vacuum but in a city that holds deep spiritual and historical significance—a city where Sri Harmandir Sahib stands as a powerful symbol of egalitarianism, having long welcomed people across castes, communities, and creeds.

The irony is striking: in a space built on the ideals of equality and universal love, expressions of queer identity are suddenly cast as unwelcome or inappropriate.

What makes this dissonance even more painful is the narrative framing: love, when it does not conform to heteronormative norms, is seen as a moral threat, while the denial of space—and even threats of violence—are justified in the name of preserving tradition. In such logic, it is not queerness but the visibility of queerness that becomes problematic. The desire to safeguard culture becomes, consciously or not, a tool to reinforce conformity and control.

Here, the politics of space become particularly relevant. Public and sacred spaces—whether religious, civic, or cultural—are not neutral terrains. They are socially produced and continuously negotiated. When one group defines how a space should be used, who should be visible, and whose voices are legitimate, it effectively exercises control over not just geography but identity. The exclusion of queer bodies from such spaces, especially under the pretext of religious purity or cultural protection, reveals deeper anxieties—not about faith per se, but about power, belonging, and narrative dominance.

The case of Amritsar starkly contrasts with cities like Chandigarh or Jalandhar, which, though far from perfect, have hosted Pride Parades and allowed LGBTQ+ individuals a degree of public visibility. Amritsar’s resistance was not just about an event—it was about drawing symbolic boundaries. The city’s sacredness was invoked to suggest that queerness is alien to its ethos, a contaminant to be kept away from what is imagined as spiritually “pure.” In such narratives, queerness is framed not just as different but as disruptive, as if its very presence pollutes the cultural order.

This reveals a deeper dynamic: when a space is run solely on one community’s interpretation, and others are expected to conform or are pushed out, it becomes a mechanism of exclusion. The denial of Pride in Amritsar, then, is not merely the rejection of a march; it is part of a broader effort to preserve a homogenous vision of Punjab and Sikh identity—one that leaves little room for sexual or gender diversity. It becomes a moral geography, where only certain bodies and desires are seen as sacred enough to occupy public or religious space.

And yet, queerness is not foreign to Punjab’s cultural or spiritual soil. The story of Peer Shah Hussain—a 16th-century Punjabi Sufi poet—offers a compelling counterpoint. His open devotion to his beloved Madho Lal, a young Hindu boy, forms the very soul of his poetry, a love that transcended religious and gender norms. Historical narratives suggest that Shah Hussain was received with respect in the court of Guru Arjan Dev Ji, and his verses—brimming with mysticism, longing, and spiritual surrender—continue to echo through Punjab’s cultural memory (Singh, 2005; Gill, 2010).

Such histories remind us that the land we now divide with lines of purity and pollution once made room for fluidity, devotion, and difference. The resistance to queer visibility today is not rooted in spiritual truth but in modern anxieties of losing control over who gets to define identity, culture, and belonging. Reclaiming these silenced stories, and the right to occupy space with dignity, is not an act of defiance—it is an act of spiritual return.

The Fragility of Secularism: When the State Bows to Sentiment

In 2018, the Supreme Court of India decriminalized homosexuality by reading down Section 377—a legal milestone that affirmed dignity and equal citizenship. But legal reform does not dismantle centuries of cultural fear and patriarchal authority. In Punjab, where religion and politics are deeply intertwined, the secular state remains silent when queer bodies are threatened.

The Amritsar Pride cancellation is not merely an isolated event—it is a reflection of how fragile secularism becomes when challenged by religious majoritarianism. It raises difficult questions:

• Does a city become exclusive to one kind of body, belief, or identity?

• Is public space available only to those who conform?

• What does it mean when the state, instead of protecting the marginalized, allows their silencing under the guise of religious offense?

This is not just about visibility—it is about survival, belonging, and the right to exist without apology. Punjab stands at a poignant crossroads. A land celebrated for its syncretic past, it now finds itself ensnared in a political culture where religion is not merely a matter of personal faith but a public performance of power. The cancellation of the Amritsar Queer Pride Parade is not an isolated administrative act; it is a revealing crack in the edifice of India’s secularism—an uncomfortable reminder that even the promise of constitutional rights can be suspended when they clash with dominant sentiments cloaked in religious sanctity.

What does it mean for a democratic state to retreat when faced with majoritarian discomfort? What message is sent when the visibility of queer people is deemed ‘provocative’—not because of anything they do, but simply because of who they are?

Public space is not neutral ground. It has always been fought over, carved up, and coded. Who gets to walk hand-in-hand, chant slogans, or raise a rainbow flag in a city like Amritsar—an urban space layered with sacred memory and contested identity? The answer is telling. It exposes a hierarchy of access, where normative bodies—cisgender, heterosexual, male—move freely, while queer and trans bodies must ask permission to simply appear.

When the state begins to justify this exclusion in the name of preserving religious sentiments, it abdicates its secular responsibility. It forgets that secularism, at its core, is not about erasing religion but about ensuring that no single religious code dictates who can speak, gather, or celebrate in public. The silence of state institutions, in the face of religiously couched homophobia, is not passive—it is complicit.

Queer existence, particularly in semi-urban and religiously saturated geographies like Punjab, is not only about claiming identity. It is about asserting presence in spaces that were never designed to include them. The denial of the Pride Parade is, therefore, not just the cancellation of an event. It is a denial of space, of recognition, of citizenship itself.

This is a crisis not just of policy but of imagination. Can a city like Amritsar imagine a future where a queer Sikh, a trans Dalit, or a non-binary youth is not seen as an aberration but as part of its social and spiritual landscape? Can the state uphold secular ideals not only in the courtroom but on the street, in the public square, in the spaces where real democracy unfolds?

Visibility is not the end goal. It is the beginning of survival. For many queer individuals, especially those at the intersections of caste, class, and religion, appearing in public is an act of radical hope. When that hope is met with censorship or threat, it is not just queer rights that are at stake—it is the democratic character of the Republic itself.

Sikhism and Queer Identity: Between Interpretation and Institutional Silence

Sikhism, at its heart, stands as a deeply egalitarian and inclusive spiritual tradition. Its foundational philosophy—Ik Onkar, or the oneness of all—calls for a world free of discrimination, where every being is equally divine. The Guru Granth Sahib, the living scripture of the Sikhs, is filled with verses that challenge hierarchies—whether of caste, gender, or social power. In many of these sacred lines, the divine is not confined to one form, gender, or identity. Instead, it is described in fluid, expansive ways. A beautiful verse reads:

"ਤੂੰ ਨਾਰੀ ਪੁਰਖੁ ਅਰੁ ਤੂੰ ਰਾਵਿ ਰਾਣੀ ॥"
"You are both woman and man; You are bride and bridegroom."
(Guru Granth Sahib, Ang 483)

Such verses invite followers to imagine the divine—and by extension, the self—beyond rigid binaries. This deeply spiritual imagination makes space for fluid identities, multiple ways of being, and diverse expressions of love.

And yet, this generous spiritual vision does not always reflect in the lived reality of many today. Over time, especially in colonial and postcolonial periods, Sikh identity began to be shaped not just by theology but by political, militaristic, and cultural influences. A striking example is how the concept of the Sant-Sipahi—the saint-soldier who embodies both spirituality and strength—gradually evolved into a narrowly defined image of the Sikh man: muscular, stoic, duty-bound, and often hypermasculine. In this cultural imagination, traits such as softness, emotional vulnerability, or gender non-conformity were seen as deviations rather than as part of the spiritual wholeness originally envisioned.

This shift didn’t happen overnight. It was shaped by historical necessities—resistance to persecution, the need for communal defense, colonial stereotyping of the “martial race”—but the long-term effect has been a shrinking of acceptable identities. Today, many who don’t conform to this constructed ideal, particularly queer Sikhs, often find themselves excluded from the mainstream narrative, not because the faith denies them, but because cultural interpretations have become narrower than the Gurus ever intended.

Institutional silence has further deepened this marginalization. The Sikh Rehat Maryada—the code of conduct compiled in the early 20th century to standardize Sikh practices—does not mention LGBTQ+ identities at all. While on the surface, this might appear neutral, in practice, this silence has often been interpreted as disapproval. In religious gatherings, gurdwaras, and community events, this omission becomes a tool of quiet exclusion. Queer Sikhs are not explicitly condemned—but nor are they affirmed. The absence of recognition leads to erasure. They often find themselves erased from community discussions, rituals, and even family conversations, forced into silence or invisibility.

This experience is not unique to any one person. For example, many queer Sikhs have shared that they participate in religious life only by concealing their true selves, fearing judgment or alienation. The contradiction between what the scriptures say about equality, love, and oneness and what some institutions practice creates deep internal conflict. Scholars like Doris Jakobsh and Navtej Singh have noted how institutional interpretations often reflect dominant social norms, rather than the radical spiritual egalitarianism of the Gurus.

And yet, Punjab’s soil has long nurtured stories that defy these boundaries. One of the most powerful examples comes from the life of Peer Shah Hussain, a 16th-century Punjabi Sufi poet. His poetry was steeped in divine love, but what makes his story remarkable is his open devotion to Madho Lal, a young Hindu boy who became his companion and muse. Their love was not hidden—it was celebrated in Shah Hussain’s verse and in the community that came to know them as Madho Lal Hussain. This was a relationship that crossed not only religious lines but also challenged the norms of gender and desire. According to historical accounts, Shah Hussain was even welcomed into the court of Guru Arjan Dev Ji, where his poetic spirit was embraced.

Their story is not just about romance; it’s about defying norms through love, faith, and art. Even today, Shah Hussain's verses are sung in melas and gatherings, keeping alive the legacy of a love that refused to hide.

This isn’t a one-off tale. Queerness has existed in Punjab’s cultural and spiritual fabric for centuries—sometimes in metaphors, sometimes in silence, sometimes in celebration. But as society became more rigid, these stories were pushed into the background, forgotten or reshaped to fit normative molds.

The tension between these inclusive pasts and exclusionary presents reveals an important truth: the spirit of Sikhism, with its emphasis on justice, equality, and oneness, has always had room for queerness. It is not the faith that turns people away—it is the fear, silence, and social policing around it that does.

To reclaim these forgotten or silenced legacies is not to challenge the faith but to return to its core: to see the divine in everyone, to love without fear, and to live truthfully. For many queer Sikhs, this act of reclaiming is not just resistance—it is healing. It is coming home.

The Violence of Respectability and Honour

Punjabiyat, the deeply rooted cultural pride of being Punjabi, carries with it powerful associations—honour (izzat), masculinity, lineage, and collective identity. It is a source of immense strength and belonging for many, yet within this framework, queerness is often rendered invisible or, worse, seen as a threat. This is not because queerness opposes Punjabi culture but because it challenges the rigid definitions that have come to dominate what Punjabiyat should look like—particularly when it comes to gender roles and expressions.

In this tightly held imagination, queerness unsettles the norm. It gently, yet boldly, asks: What if masculinity isn't always about stoicism or strength? What if pride doesn’t depend on conformity? And these questions can be deeply unsettling for a society where gender performance is often seen as a duty to family, to community, and to tradition.

This tension becomes even more visible in digital spaces like Instagram, where queer Punjabi individuals—especially turbaned Sikh men who express themselves through makeup, jewelry, or fluid fashion—are hyper-visible and hyper-surveilled. While some celebrate these expressions as acts of courage and creativity, others respond with vitriol. Comments such as, “This is not what a Sikh man does,” or “You are shaming the turban,” reveal not spiritual concern but cultural discomfort. What’s being protected in these moments isn’t the essence of Sikhism—which at its core rejects ego, judgment, and rigid hierarchy—but a fragile sense of cultural honour shaped by patriarchy and fear.

These reactions are not just isolated online trolling—they are a reflection of how digital platforms extend the reach of social policing. The boundaries of “acceptable” Sikh or Punjabi identity are enforced through likes, shares, comments, and public shaming. Even in the diaspora, where many find more freedom to explore identity, queer Punjabi creators are dismissed as “Western,” “elite,” or “vulgar,” their experiences deemed inauthentic or foreign to “real” Punjab.

And yet, this erasure is not rooted in truth—it is rooted in forgetting. Queerness is not new to Punjab. It has always been here—quietly breathing in the metaphors of Sufi love poetry, lingering in the fluidity of Bhakti saints, and surviving in the margins of oral histories. Today, it continues in the works of queer Punjabi poets, artists, and performers who dare to speak their truth, reclaiming language, dress, and desire on their own terms.

The problem is not that queer Punjab doesn’t exist—it’s that it is not allowed to exist publicly, proudly, or peacefully. Shame, ridicule, and silence continue to suffocate queer voices, especially in rural areas and small towns. But slowly, and powerfully, these voices are rising. They are not asking for permission—they are simply asking to be seen.

Decolonizing Punjab: Beyond the Binary, Beyond the Fear

To queer Punjab is not to insult it—it is to heal it. It is to restore the radical compassion at the heart of Sikh teachings. It is to challenge the colonial, patriarchal, and binary systems that have defined gender and sexuality through violence and control.

The work of feminist hermeneutics, as undertaken by scholars like Bains & Sandhra (2021) and Jasbir Puar (2008), has opened space for reinterpreting Sikh texts through the lens of justice, inclusion, and compassion. Young Sikh activists, especially in the diaspora, are engaging with these frameworks to build a more expansive, queer-affirming Sikhi.

Amritsar Pride may have been cancelled, but its impact cannot be undone. It forced a conversation, exposed hypocrisies, and revealed the urgent need for reclaiming not just queer rights but the very soul of Punjabiyat.

Guru Nanak’s teachings began with rejection of hierarchy and division. Today, queer Sikhs and queer Punjabis are not asking for special space—they are asking for recognition within the spaces they already belong to.

If a city built on the foundations of equality cannot allow a peaceful Pride Parade, then perhaps it is not queerness that threatens Sikhism but the narrow, fearful interpretations of those who wield religion as a weapon.

“ਜਿਥੇ ਨਿਵਾਸ ਹੋਵੇ ਮੇਰੇ ਸਤਿਗੁਰੂ, ਸੋ ਠਾਉ ਭਲੀ ਰਾਮਦਾਸੇ ॥”
“Wherever my True Guru dwells, that place becomes truly pure.”
— Guru Granth Sahib, Ang 784

It is time to ask: Will Amritsar, and Punjab at large, remain a land of exclusion? Or will it return to its roots—a land where love, in all its forms, is sacred?

What is urgently needed is a reclamation of Sikhism from narrow cultural nationalism and a return to its foundational ethics of justice, love, and dignity for all. Guru Nanak’s rejection of Brahminical hierarchy and Guru Gobind Singh’s refusal to let caste or gender define a Sikh’s worth offer more inclusive paths than those peddled by modern-day gatekeepers of morality.

To queer Punjab is to open it to new meanings, to forgotten traditions, and to a more expansive spiritual life. If a turbaned queer Sikh posts a photo online with pride, it should not be seen as a shameful act—it is an act of resistance, of courage, and of reinterpreting Sikhi through love, not fear.

- The author is a PhD scholar at the Dr. K.R. Narayanan Centre for Dalit and Minorities Studies, Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi.

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial stance of The Mooknayak.