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Editor’s Note: This article is the third in a four-part series that draws on a new report by Innovation for Change – East Asia, which looks into the lived experiences of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer/questioning, intersex, asexual plus (LGBTQIA+) community engaged in civil society work that goes beyond LGBTQIA+ rights. Download the synthesis report here.
O
ne tweet cost them everything.
When queer activist Wani posted a simple message in support of LGBTQIA+ rights, she never expected a government ministry would swiftly withdraw its support from her organization.
But in Malaysia, where even small gestures of support for LGBTQIA+ rights can carry harsh consequences, that’s exactly what happened. “You can’t advocate for LGBT rights to the government as a queer person yourself,” Wani said. “Because then you’ll be discredited for anything you say.”
Her story isn’t unique among Malaysia’s queer activists, many of whom have to toe the line between fighting for their rights and watering down their advocacies while struggling to fit in a restrictive space for their own community.
For instance, same-sex sexual acts are criminalized under colonial-era laws, and are punishable by whipping and up to 20 years in prison, with additional prohibitions on some forms of cross-dressing under state-level Sharia laws. LGBTQIA+ individuals also face the threat of arbitrary arrests, forced “conversion” practices, and censorship of LGBTQIA+-themed materials.
Since 2018, the Malaysian government has intensified its crackdown on the LGBTQIA+ sector. It has raided drag performances, attempted to arrest a transgender woman outside the country’s borders, and set up state-sanctioned conversion programs. The government has also sought the passage of a legislative measure to punish those “promoting LGBT lifestyles.”
Owing to the stigma and discrimination toward members of the LGBTQIA+ community, many queer activists working in civil society organizations deal with “inclusivity blind spots.” That is, their workplaces may not be overtly hostile or discriminatory, but they aren’t fully supportive either, leaving them anxious about potentially jeopardizing their workplaces’ goals.
Carving queer spaces
A newly released report by Innovation for Change – East Asia (I4C-EA), “The Unwavering Rainbow Warriors of Malaysia: A Report on LGBTQIA+ Activism in Civil Society,” reveals how the country’s LGBTQIA+ sector continues to fight for rights while working in mainstream civil society organizations. The report is one of four major reports covering three other Commonwealth countries – Singapore, Brunei, and Fiji.
“When you ask what queer people bring to the table, they bring the table, the tablecloth, and the playlist,” writes activist and I4C-EA Programme Specialist Pang Khee Teik in the report. “Denied access, queer activists learned how to make new spaces wherever they are. They are ready to host anytime, anywhere.”
The Malaysia chapter profiles 11 queer activists who navigate the country’s hostile environment while contributing to causes beyond LGBTQIA+ rights such as environmental justice and refugee rights. Amid challenges, they are proud of their work, including what they have learned and become as a result of their civil society engagement.
Anthony Chong, an openly gay deaf advocate, explains how his intersecting identities shaped his resilience as an activist: “As a deaf and gay kid, I took on the role [of helping] my mother. So I learned to do everything by myself. Now I can run my own organization and I can do everything here. I do have that power even as a deaf gay man.”
For Megan Stevens, a transgender woman working with stateless communities in the eastern state of Sabah, visibility has its costs, but she also knows such costs outweigh those of invisibility .
“If I don’t show who I am to these people, they won’t understand what I’m going through. I want to do it because I want to be visible,” she says.
But even among human rights communities, some activists admit being in a constant state of vigilance, assessing which aspects of their identity to reveal in specific situations. This has an impact on their mental wellbeing. Pang calls this “minority stress,” or the strain experienced by individuals stigmatized by society based on their ethnicity, gender identity, or sexual orientation.
“Sometimes, I think that our organizations think we’re stupid,” says Wani. While organizations may feel it’s not strategic to publicly declare support for LGBTQIA+ rights, activists can tell the disconnect between public messaging and internal values, she adds. “What’s important is that their values and principles are LGBTQIA+-inclusive — and we can demonstrate that in different ways.”
‘Rainbow’ perspectives
The report also reveals how queer Malaysians bring unique perspectives and skills to their activism, developed through years of navigating hostile environments.
Josibotu, who works with rural communities on environmental issues, uses what she calls a “diversity and inclusion lens” shaped by her queer identity. “It’s a non-binary world,” she explains, “and people have different identities” based, for instance, on their backgrounds, upbringing, ethnicity, and sexuality. “All these shape how they respond to environmental injustices.”
Having this perspective sensitizes her to the absence of marginalized voices – women, youth, the elderly – from some community discussions. Knowing that not all of them may feel comfortable speaking up in public forums, she carves out alternative spaces for them through one-on-one interviews or focus group discussions.
For Yusri, a climate activist, being queer helps him encourage other LGBTQIA+ people to pursue environmental advocacy. “It’s more interesting and fun talking to queer people about climate change,” he says, especially when they can use shared cultural references to make campaigns more accessible.
Volunteering to help the victims of the 2021 Kuala Lumpur floods made Yusri realize “LGBTQIA+ persons were left behind when it comes to flood assistance and relief.”
He adds: “I got to this point because of my passion in volunteerism, but also through meeting other people, and them educating me, and then deciding for myself that I can’t do this alone.”
His dedication to bringing queer perspectives into environmental work came at great personal cost. For instance, he was once disinvited from giving a TED talk after someone discovered his queer advocacy on social media. When he posted about this unfortunate experience on social media, a private university reached out to offer him an alternative platform for the same presentation.
Meanwhile, Kaiser, who identifies as transmasculine and non-binary, applies what they call a “transformative lens” to their work with traumatized communities.
“The LGBT community at large is traumatized, which means a lot of their responses are also trauma-driven,” they note. “How do you build community in that kind of state? Thinking about that led me to think about the kind of leadership needed in civil society.”
A case for vigilance
Queer activists’ unique and significant contributions to their respective civil society organizations has not shielded them from a sense of ambiguity within those civic spaces. Most of the Malaysian activists interviewed for the I4C–East Asia report attest to this – that is, they are “tacit subjects,” who are known to be queer without ever coming out.
Z, who works for a democracy-focused organization while volunteering with LGBTQIA+ groups, recounts having to gauge his advocacy strategy depending on the political leanings of the public officials he engages with for specific purposes. With conservatives, he frames SOGIESC rights within broader human rights discourse without explicitly mentioning LGBTQIA+ issues.
“I’m empowered enough to express my ideas on human rights and queer rights in general,” Z explains. “But I’m still not comfortable expressing my personal identity because we are part of a big coalition. Half of them may not be comfortable with LGBT issues.”
Josibotu, despite having worked with her environmental organization for “a lifetime,” remains uncertain if she would be supported if outed. She fears that the communities she’s working with may no longer participate in her organization’s programs.
This is a heavy burden that many queer activists have to bear by their lonesome.
“Whether or not the queer activists are supported within their organizations, many felt that outside, when they have to engage with stakeholders, they are on their own,” says the report. “They have to bear the burden of their own risks and their organizations’ risks. When juggling these two risks, they would inevitably prioritize their organizations’ goals over their own.”
Path forward
The report offers a roadmap for Malaysia’s CSOs so they can better protect their queer members. To this end, tacit acceptance isn’t enough — formal policies for safeguarding a person’s queer identity must replace the unwritten “don’t ask, don’t tell” approaches. Risk assessments should consider individual vulnerability, not just organizational reputation.
“Organizations should conduct comprehensive security training with a gender lens,” says Rahmat, also a queer activist. Such training, he says, must address practical questions like “Do you want to be acknowledged as queer?” and “What are your safety considerations when representing the organization?”
The report also calls for a more diverse queer leadership, particularly women, transwomen, and transmasculine individuals who remain underrepresented even in progressive spaces.
While an end to Malaysia’s LGBTQIA+ crackdown does not seem forthcoming, these activists remain steadfast in the pursuit of their vision of a truly inclusive civic space.
“I look forward to the day when I don’t have to hide parts of my identity,” Arol says. Like other queer activists, they want to be able to speak openly about his experiences as a pansexual, non-binary person, including in conversations with government officials.
That way, the “policies wouldn’t just be recommendations from international best practices; they would be based on our own lived experiences,” Arol says. ◉
Cristina Chi is a Filipino journalist based in Manila, who writes stories on education, disinformation, and human rights.
