For the queer community, the fight for safe spaces never ends. And while rainbow flags and slogans fill timelines each June, what happens after the glitter fades reveals the truth: not all spaces that claim to be safe actually are.
Take queer nightlife, for example. Gay clubs and bars often market themselves as sanctuaries for the LGBTQIA+ community. But more often than we'd like to admit, these places turn out to be façades where safety is a selling point, not a reality. Behind the lights and curated aesthetics lie stories of discrimination, exploitation, and power dynamics that leave queer workers and patrons feeling anything but protected.
DJ and performer Edgy Teresa of Club Euphoria MNL knows this contradiction all too well. Just last June, a drag bar in Poblacion Makati, often regarded as a "safe space" for queers, came under scrutiny after a member of its leadership was called out online for elitist, discriminatory, transphobic, and fatphobic behavior toward her. Edgy had named the person publicly and shared the messages she received. Now, she points to the experience as a reminder that true safety isn't guaranteed by ownership or identity alone. It's something that must be actively practiced, upheld, and protected through consistent action and care.
I got ridiculed, mocked, shamed for my looks, and straight up bullied.
— edgy (@edgyteresa) June 15, 2025
After I spoke up on my Instagram stories about how disheartening it was to see this post. https://t.co/ULjRG3r8jK pic.twitter.com/SPOE87KVak
Inside the Booth with Edgy Teresa
On any given weekend, you'll find DJ and performer Edgy Teresa behind the decks at Club Euphoria MNL, spinning tracks that make the dancefloor come alive with freedom. But behind the bright lights and booming bass is a woman deeply aware that the spaces we celebrate in are not always as safe as they seem.
For Edgy, the term safe space isn’t just a label you slap on your Instagram bio or venue signage. It’s something you live and build with care, accountability, and above all, consistency.
“A ‘safe space’ to me goes beyond just an establishment, space, or venue," she tells us. "It can also be a feeling of security that you get from the people around you. From your peers, strangers, and the environment itself. A place or feeling where you can be unapologetic about your skin or who you are—but still respectful. By being confident, but not cocky. By being passionate, but not aggressive. By being loving and warm, but not overbearing and disrespecting one’s boundaries.”
When 'Queer-Owned' Isn’t Always Queer-Safe
This definition of safety—personal, emotional, and communal—is one that some businesses tend to misuse or misunderstand. And in Edgy’s experience, the reality can be far more disappointing than empowering.
“With no hesitation, I’ll say no,” she replies when asked if being queer-owned automatically makes a business safe for queer people. “I’ve experienced it myself while working at a local queer bar for more than a year. Just because something is queer-owned doesn’t mean it’s safe.”
To Edgy, the label is often thrown around loosely used for marketing rather than practiced in daily culture.
“Some business spaces these days really do use that term too lightly,” she explains. “Without fully internalizing what it really means to embody it. To be empathetic enough to see that it requires more than just branding a business as a ‘safe space’. It requires being hands-on, seeing people eye to eye, and actually practicing what you preach—on and off cam, as I’d like to call it.”
Safe Space Is a Responsibility
But the conversation around safe spaces isn’t just a matter of semantics or just for trend— it’s about responsibility. In a time where inclusivity can easily be co-opted as a buzzword, there’s an urgent need to reassess what we actually mean when we call a space “safe.” Especially for venues and platforms that champion queer freedom, this responsibility runs deeper than rainbow-colored marketing or having a visibly diverse lineup. It’s about the everyday choices made behind the scenes: who gets hired, who feels heard, who is protected when harm is done—and who gets away with doing the harm.
“I’d like to add that oftentimes, queer-owned spaces, collectives, or organizations brand themselves as a ‘safe space’ but do not actually walk the talk,” she says. “They ride on it as if it’s a trend or a simple buzzword, when in reality, it should be one of the essentials in having power over queer spaces.”
When queer spaces are run by people from the community, it can be easy to assume the dynamic is automatically equitable. But Edgy warns that power—even in queer hands—can become toxic if left unchecked.
“If you yourself is an owner or a person of power in an industry, business, or organization in the queer community that advertises ‘safe spaces’, I think power or control shouldn’t even matter. In a way that safeness and security is supposed to be something communal and for everyone. It should not only benefit you and your peers, but also the crowd and people you pull in and work with. Being able to put yourself into other people’s shoes definitely won’t hurt you nor any business you run.
As for the community, never EVER hesitate to speak up against injustice and degrading acts that these power tripping bosses or people of power confidently do. Break their echo chamber and their egos and hold them accountable. At the end of the day, we’re all human beings and we deserve to be humbled down and to be told to “touch some grass”.”
What a Safe Space Really Feels Like
Not all queer spaces are created equal. And not all of them are truly safe — even when they say they are. Edgy’s experience is not an isolated one, it’s a cautionary tale for queer establishments and community leaders who wear the label of "safe space" like a badge, but fail to live up to its weight. If your space protects only those in your circle, if your power is exercised without empathy or accountability, then it was never safe to begin with.
At its core, a safe space is not about who owns the keys or who headlines the event. It's about how people feel when they walk through the door. It's the comfort of being seen in your fullness, the freedom to exist without shrinking, and the quiet assurance that harm will not be ignored — no matter who caused it. It’s built not by branding but by action; not by clout but by care.
We must demand more. We deserve better. Because real safe spaces don’t just look queer — they feel human. And they’re made, every day, by people willing to listen, to grow, and to be called in when they get it wrong.
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