If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh?

Priya Venkatraman

In the last week of June 2009, the world celebrated the repealing of Article 377 in India, a landmark judgement which spelt freedom for thousands who had to lead dual lives everyday. In the midst of this jubilation, a talk held in the city raised uncomfortable questions that cannot be answered by passing laws alone.

It certainly isn’t easy to ‘come out’ if you are gay. But what if you’re a hetrosexual dalit? Is there a need to ‘come out’ to your friends as well? Yes, says Elavarthi Manohar, co-founder of Sangama and who is now with Jeevika, “there is hesitation in admitting to be of a ‘lower’ caste.” As moderator of the Dalit-Sexual Minorities Dialogue, held in the city on June 22^nd, Manohar shared some of his experiences that highlight the similarities between dalits and sexual minorities in the struggle for rights.

During a group discussion with sexual minorities in Cubbon Park, a young man let out that he was a dalit. “Everyone was so surprised,” Manohar said. “The truth is that even in such a setting, castes don’t mix. The ‘upper castes’ offer support during these meetings but never befriend (the dalits).” It is an understanding that everyone comes to unquestioningly.

The ‘Dalit-Sexual Minorities Dialogue’ was held as part of the week-long Karnataka Queer Habba, which culminated in the Bengaluru Pride March on June 28^th, following which a historic judgement was passed that repealed Article 377.

Nitin, who works with NGOs like Good As You and Alternative Law Forum, is part of the organising team. He says the ‘Dalit-SM’ dialogue is unique because it is “the first time someone has made an attempt to understand the two movements through one keyhole”. The initiative to bring them together came from NGOs working with sexual minorities, who found that at the core, both movements were a struggle for reclaiming self-respect and dignity.

The queer ones

While dalits don’t exactly wear their caste on their sleeve, sexual minorities have a harder time avoiding confrontations. “Buses aren’t safe for sexual minorities to travel in. Humiliated by passengers and being refused an entry are regular incidents,” said a homosexual. Another hijra said that she is molested whether she stands with the men or the women. Plus, there is only so much pointing at one can take.

The discussion covered education, job opportunities, marriage, family, law and social acceptance. “The pain of discrimination is the same,” said a dalit social worker after listening to a lesbian narrate her story. “In our case the law is on our side. In theory at least,” she corrected. Schools may have dalit teachers, but the ayahs will always be upper caste, she said, since the ayahs have to cook the mid-day meals.

One gay man insisted on knowing what the general group thought about homosexuality. “What do you think of men who have sex only with men?” he asked. A few said it was the first time they had spoken to a homosexual They had been brought up to look upon gays as freaks. “We’ve never heard your (a homosexual’s) opinion before,” said a mid-aged man.

While Revathi, a hijra, spoke about how she had to cover up her friend’s caste to her mother (“She was dark so I told my mother she was Christian”), for whom caste was a bigger consideration than sexual preference, most of the dalits felt they had definite advantages in comparison. For one, they had their family support. Ration cards or voter IDs were hardly a problem. Plus, they did not have to alter any part of their behaviour to fit in.

Nitin said this was one of the reasons the LGBT community was reclaiming the word queer. “Not using it (queer) and claiming to be just like the rest, curbs our expression. The debate has led us to retain the term queer as it states that we are indeed different and that is okay.”

Dalit sexual minorities

“Dalit hijras never admit they are dalit,” said Revathi. “They don’t fear segregation, because we don’t do that in our community. But someone might say something mean.” Several participants, who fell into both categories, agreed. One spoke about how her village was more livid that she ran away with an upper caste girl than with the fact that she was a lesbian. “They just think I am confused and that once I get married (to a man), I will be fine.”

One gentleman opined that people have more sympathy for the dalit’s cause over the hijras’ because they believe that unlike dalits, hijras have chosen to be the way they are. “That’s not true”, countered a participant. “Just like you might have wanted to become a dancer or an engineer, I wanted to be a woman. I felt normal only when I was wearing a saree. The sight of my own penis distressed me. Wanting to change my sex was a desire that was always in me and not something I chose.”

Anecdotes, misconceptions (“are there forced castrations in the hijra community”), jokes (“I used to be teased for behaving like a girl in school and now, after becoming a hijra, I’m told I am too much like a man!”), eye openers (police harassment, lesbian suicide rates, hijras despising the word homosexual) and confessions had hardly settled down, when the evening was brought to a close. “Discussions like this must be held over two to three days, so we can reach some sort of a conclusion,” voiced a participant.

Feeling like something has been achieved is the danger of attending open and honest discussions such as these. Who are we kidding; sexuality and caste aren’t things to be flashed around in public. “Only English dailies talk about gay rights,” said one when I told him the newspaper I worked for. “The Kannada dailies never do. It is when vernacular media picks up these issues that the war will be won.”