One Pride, Two Worlds

From a Police Raid in Kakuma to Freedom in Toronto

Published on Canada Day (1st July 2026) to commemorate Toronto Pride.

(Toronto Pride 2026 – Photo supplied by author)

On June 28, 2026, I marched in Toronto Pride for the first time in my life.

As thousands of people lined the streets cheering, waving rainbow flags, and celebrating with joy, I found myself holding back tears.

Many people around me saw a parade. I saw something much deeper. I saw what Pride looks like when it is protected instead of punished.

The day began with excitement, but also with fear. Although I am now living in Canada, my body and mind still carry the trauma of surviving as a transgender refugee. The memories of violence and persecution do not disappear simply because you arrive in a safer country.

As I joined the parade, those memories returned.

In Toronto, I was not hiding. I was not looking over my shoulder. I marched proudly alongside thousands of people from different backgrounds. Families smiled at us. Children waved rainbow flags. Strangers applauded as we walked past them.

What moved me the most was seeing police officers protecting the parade.

That single image almost brought me to tears.

For the first time in my life, I experienced what it means to celebrate Pride, knowing that law enforcement was there to protect us rather than threaten us. It was a dream I had carried for years, and in that moment, I finally understood the true meaning of celebrating Pride in safety.

But three years earlier, my experience of Pride could not have been more different.

Pride and Prejudice

In 2023, I was one of the organizers of Pride in Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya. We had spent weeks preparing for the event. Around 400 LGBTQ+ refugees gathered under the theme “Say No to Homophobia, Out and Proud.”

The camp was filled with color and hope. People wore rainbow clothing, danced, modeled their outfits, and prepared special meals together. Despite everything we had endured as refugees, we wanted just one day to celebrate our identities and remind each other that we deserved dignity and respect.

Then the police arrived.

As one of the organizers, I knew the responsibility rested on my shoulders. When officers entered the venue, I walked toward them to ask why they had come and whether there was a problem.

They never gave us an explanation.

Instead, they began dismantling our decorations and ordered everyone to leave immediately or face arrest. They did not allow the celebration to continue.

In a matter of minutes, what had begun as a celebration of our existence became another reminder that our lives and identities were not considered worthy of protection.

The violence did not end with the police intervention.

One transgender woman later described being attacked while walking home from the event.

“I was going back home from the Pride event in the evening, and I met a Sudanese gang. They immediately started beating me, but I managed to run quickly. Reaching home, I found myself having a lot of pain on my face and my neck.”

For many LGBTQ+ refugees, Pride was never simply a celebration. It carried enormous risks.

In the months that followed, our situation became even more dangerous. According to my experience and understanding of events at the time, authorities informed LGBTQ+ refugees that they should leave Kakuma because they could no longer guarantee our safety. For many of us, that message made one thing painfully clear: remaining in the camp had become increasingly dangerous.

A Tale of Two Cities

Today, as I marched through the streets of Toronto, I could not stop thinking about the friends I left behind.

Some are still waiting for safety.

Some are still afraid to be seen.

Some have never experienced a Pride celebration where they did not fear violence.

The greatest difference between Toronto Pride and the Pride I helped organize in Kakuma was not the size of the crowd.

It was freedom.

In Toronto, thousands celebrated openly while police ensured our safety.

In Kakuma, our celebration ended with police dismantling our decorations and ordering us to disperse.

One Pride reminded me that I deserved to exist.

The other reminded me how easily that dignity could be taken away.

Why Pride is Important

(Toronto Pride 2026 – Photo supplied by author)

As I walked through Toronto today, I realized that Pride means different things depending on where you stand in the world.

For some, it is a festival.

For others, it is an act of survival.

I am grateful that I finally experienced Pride without fear. But my celebration will never feel complete, while transgender refugees and other LGBTQ+ people around the world are still denied the freedom to live openly and safely.

My hope is that one day, every LGBTQ+ refugee, no matter where they are, will know what I felt in Toronto today: the joy of being seen, accepted, protected, and free.

by Charity Austin

Charity Austin is a refugee activist and founder of Trans Inclusion Group, working on advocacy, peer support and safety for LGBT+ refugees.

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(c) 2026 Rainbow Humanists. All rights hereby returned to the original author. We acknowledge the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation, the Traditional Custodians of the land on which this material was prepared, and pay our respects to Elders past and present.

Guidelines for Aged‑Care Homes Supporting Queer and Trans Elders


Queer and trans elders often enter aged care with life histories that differ markedly from their heterosexual and cisgender peers. Many have lived through decades in which their identities were criminalised, pathologised, or treated as moral failings. These experiences shape how they approach residential care, trust, privacy, and personal autonomy.

Several factors are especially relevant for aged‑care providers:

  • Disclosure has carried real risk for most of their lives.

    Many elders grew up when same‑sex relationships were illegal, gender diversity was medicalised, and discrimination was routine. Many suffered family rejection, workplace or accommodation discrimination, and stigma and shame. This can make them cautious about sharing personal information with staff.
  • Many lost partners, friends, and whole communities during the HIV/AIDS years.

    They lived through grief, stigma, and abandonment that reshaped their lives. Some were cut off by family, shut out of workplaces, or pushed to the edges of their own neighbourhoods. These experiences still shape their needs in later life, especially now that this history is often forgotten or treated as if it never happened.
  • Family structures may differ.

    Queer and trans elders often rely on chosen family — partners, close friends, or community members — rather than biological relatives. These relationships may not be immediately recognised by traditional care systems.
  • Past experiences with institutions may have been negative.

    Some elders have faced discrimination in healthcare, education, legislation, religious settings, or government services. Uniforms, authority figures, or institutional routines may trigger anxiety or distrust.
  • Trans elders may have specific vulnerabilities.

    Many lived for decades without legal recognition or social acceptance. They may fear misgendering, loss of autonomy, or disrespect during intimate care.

These histories mean that LGBTQIA+ elders may enter aged care with heightened concerns about safety, dignity, and authenticity. Aged‑care homes do not need specialist expertise to support them — only clear communication, respect for identity, and consistent person‑centred practice.


  • Use affirmed names and pronouns in all interactions and documentation where legally possible.
  • Ask privately and respectfully how a resident wants to be addressed.
  • Avoid assumptions about partners, family, or personal history.
  • Ensure clothing choices are resident‑led, not staff‑directed.
  • Acknowledge that residents may hold overlapping experiences — queer, trans, disabled, migrant, or culturally diverse — and ensure care plans reflect the whole person, not a single label.
  • Treat sexual orientation and gender identity as sensitive health information.
  • Share details only with staff who need them for care.
  • Never disclose a resident’s identity to family without consent.
  • Provide private spaces for dressing, bathing, and personal care.
  • Use the resident’s affirmed gender in daily life — activities, room assignments, social groups.
  • Respect choices around clothing, grooming, and gender‑affirming items.
  • Provide privacy and dignity during personal care.
  • Ensure staff understand that gender‑affirming items are part of identity, not “costumes.”
  • Support access to gender‑affirming healthcare where relevant.
  • Ensure continuity of hormone therapy if prescribed.
  • Avoid pathologising language (“real name,” “used to be”).
  • Recognise the long‑term health impacts of HIV/AIDS on some residents.
  • Maintain zero tolerance for harassment from staff, residents, or visitors.
  • Provide inclusive social activities that don’t assume heterosexual or cisgender norms.
  • Use subtle signals of inclusion, such as a small rainbow sticker at reception.
  • Train staff to intervene early in bullying or exclusion.
  • Recognise chosen family as legitimate support networks.
  • Ensure visitation policies include partners and close friends.
  • Ask residents who they want involved in care decisions.
  • LGBTQIA+ terminology and respectful communication
  • Privacy and confidentiality
  • Supporting trans residents in personal care
  • Responding to discrimination or bullying
  • Understanding the historical context of queer and trans elders
  • Include affirmed name, pronouns, gender identity, and chosen family contacts on intake forms.
  • Avoid unnecessary binary tick‑boxes.
  • Distinguish between legal and preferred fields to reduce misgendering.
  • Respect identity in death as in life — clothing, name, pronouns.
  • Ensure advance care directives reflect the resident’s wishes.
  • Honour chosen family in memorials and decision‑making.
  • Avoid reverting to birth‑assigned gender in documentation or ceremonies.

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(c) 2026 Rainbow Humanists. All rights hereby returned to the original author. We acknowledge the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation, the Traditional Custodians of the land on which this material was prepared, and pay our respects to Elders past and present.

Census 2026

Australia’s 2026 Census will be the first to count sexual orientation, gender identity and variations of sex characteristics. These questions matter because visibility drives policy: governments fund what they can measure, and communities that remain statistically invisible stay politically vulnerable. The census is not a survey of identity for its own sake — it is a national dataset that shapes health planning, anti‑discrimination work, service design and long‑term resource allocation. For LGBTQIA+ people and humanists, accurate reporting is one of the few structural tools we have to correct decades of erasure.

The 2026 Census is a chance for LGBTQ+ Australians to make our presence visible in the national record. For decades, our numbers have been guessed at, minimised or ignored — and non‑religious queer people have been overlooked even within our own networks. This census finally gives us a way to be counted on our own terms. If we want better services, better policy and better recognition, we need to show up in the data. Our invisibility has lasted long enough.

Make your voice count. Ensure that all Australians are fairly represented — and that religious organisations no longer receive special privileges based on inaccurate data.

Eight reasons for LGBTQ+ people to consider marking ‘No Religion’ on the 2026 Census


  • Visibility in national data — Census data determines who is seen and who remains invisible. If you no longer belong to a religion — or never did — marking “No religion” ensures you are counted accurately rather than absorbed into institutions that do not represent you.

  • Accurate population estimates — Many Australians tick a religion box out of habit or family tradition, not belief or practice. This inflates religious numbers and distorts the national picture. For LGBTQ+ people who left a faith or were pushed out, marking “No religion” reflects reality rather than history.

  • Funding and service design — Census affiliation numbers influence government funding for religious organisations, including schools, charities and service providers. When nominal affiliation is overstated, these institutions receive resources and political leverage that do not reflect actual community support — including from LGBTQ+ people they have historically excluded.

  • Health planning and outcomes — LGBTQ+ health needs are distinct and often unmet. Accurate secular data helps ensure that health planning is based on real demographics, not inflated religious membership that can skew priorities and reinforce institutional influence over public health.

  • Anti‑discrimination and legal protections — Religious exemptions in anti‑discrimination law allow some institutions to treat LGBTQ+ people differently in employment, schooling and service provision. Large census‑reported religious numbers strengthen political resistance to reform. Accurate secular data helps expose the gap between claimed influence and actual community affiliation.

  • Regional and rural visibility — LGBTQ+ people outside major cities are often erased twice: once by geography, and again by assumptions about religiosity. Marking “No religion” helps reveal the true diversity of regional Australia and challenges the narrative that rural communities are uniformly religious.

  • Evidence for advocacy and policy change — Community organisations, human‑rights groups and service providers rely on census data to demonstrate need, challenge misinformation and push for reform. Accurate secular numbers strengthen the case for inclusive policy and weaken arguments based on inflated religious affiliation.

  • Ending a long history of harm, exclusion and religious privilege — LGBTQ+ Australians — especially those who are non‑religious — have lived with decades of erasure, discrimination and institutional hostility. Religious privilege has shaped who gets counted and whose lives are treated as statistically relevant. It’s time for change.

The Safe Schools debate, controversy over religious-based discrimination, Gay Conversion Therapy, the Marriage Equality postal survey, and the current attacks on trans rights all show how organised religious influence can shape public policy and public sentiment in ways that harm our communities. Many still carry the impact of past trauma and ongoing injustice. Marking “No religion” is a way to correct the record and ensure our communities are finally seen on our own terms.

A note of respect

Many LGBTQ+ Australians are religious and find community, affirmation and belonging within faith traditions. This page is not a universal prescription. It is an explanation of why many LGBTQ+ people — especially those who grew up without religion, have left religion, or were harmed by it — may choose “No religion” in 2026. Speak up. Use your individual voice.

Visit

http://censusnotreligious.org.au

In 2026, mark ‘No Religion’ and make every secular Australian count.

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(c) 2026 Rainbow Humanists. All rights hereby returned to the original author. We acknowledge the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation, the Traditional Custodians of the land on which this material was prepared, and pay our respects to Elders past and present.