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In the Philippines, there is a tradition that speaks to the power of community: bayanihan. More than an act of helping, it reflects a belief that communities are built through shared labor, collective responsibility, and people choosing to show up for one another.
The story of queer liberation in the Philippines has always been one of bayanihan.
The visibility we experience today did not emerge overnight. It was built piece by piece, through decades of organizing, resistance, and collective action. Every Pride march, every community center, every safe space, every hard-won right rests on foundations laid by those who came before us.
One of those foundations was laid in 1992, when a lesbian contingent known as the Lesbian Collective joined the International Women's Day mobilization. Described by scholars as an important turning point for lesbian activism in the country, it marked the first documented participation of an organized LGBTQIA+ sector in a public demonstration in the Philippines.
It may have seemed like a small act to some—a group of lesbians marching alongside women demanding equality. But history often begins this way. A single step creates a ripple. A ripple becomes a movement.
What followed were more acts of groundbreaking: UP Babaylan's call to come "out of the closets, into the streets" in 1993; Stonewall Manila in 1994; and the coalition-building efforts that led to the first Lesbian and Gay Pride March in 1996. No single event created Pride as we know it. Rather, each initiative expanded the possibilities of what could come next.
Movements are built the same way communities are built—not by one person carrying the entire structure, but by many hands contributing what they can.
For this year's Pride issue, Groundbreaking, we honor the lesbians, queer women, and trans men whose stories are often left at the margins of our collective memory despite their role in shaping the movement itself. They were among those who stepped onto unfamiliar ground and made it possible for others to follow.
Their legacy is not simply that they marched. It is that they imagined a future where queer people could exist more freely and then worked to build it.
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GROUNDBREAKING
In 1992, what has been described as “an important turning point for lesbian activism” (Mohideen, 1996) took place in the Philippines when a lesbian contingent known as The Lesbian Collective joined the International Women’s Day march.
It was a definitive mark in Philippine history—the first documented participation of an organized sector of the local LGBTQIA+ community in a public demonstration. At a time when queer identities were largely marginalized and discussions on sexuality were tightly policed, their presence was a radical act of visibility and liberation.
The Lesbian Collective did more than simply march. They challenged the assumption that LGBTQIA+ Filipinos should remain unseen. By claiming space in the public sphere, they helped lay the groundwork for future movements—creating pathways for later generations to organize, build solidarity, and participate in broader social struggles.
What they built was not just visibility, but a bridge—one that continues to carry the weight of today’s movement.
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More than three decades later, that very same fight for visibility remains urgent. As content creator Belle Rodolfo shares, taking up space means representation and visibility especially for queer women who often met with stereotypes and assumptions. As she emphasizes, “As a bisexual woman who is very feminine, sanay ako makarinig ng ‘hindi halata,’ ‘sayang naman,’ or ‘paano ka magkaka-anak.’ But the more I speak up, the more visible I become—and the more people like me become normalized. It helps break stereotypes”. She emphasizes how visibility becomes a form of resistance that challenges misconceptions and broadens understanding of queer identities.
This legacy of resistance lives on in the intimate lessons that members of the community continue to pass down—lessons about radical acceptance and self-expression that cannot be learned anywhere else.
For many, it begins with the simple permission to be loud. Filipina rapper SHNTI affirms this openness, stating, “It’s okay to be different. It’s okay to be extra. It’s okay to be loud.”
It is a sentiment echoed by volleyball players Ella and Jema who found empowerment in embracing their individuality: “Kahit iba tayo sa nakasanayan o sa normal, there's nothing wrong. It doesn't make you less of a person. Doon mo rin ma-accept and malalove yung self mo.”
To love oneself within this community is to recognize a spectrum that is vast, fluid, and inclusive. As a beauty and lifestyle content creator Kylie Celebre, reflects on her identity as a bisexual trans woman and the profound diversity of her community: “We all come in different shapes, sizes, colors, genders, parang we’re all a big spectrum of color.”
What began as a single act of bravery has created a ripple effect that continues to shape how queer Filipinos move through the world. Today, that legacy lives on not only in large Pride celebrations and advocacy spaces, but also in the quiet, unapologetic confidence of everyday self-expression.
For Filipina singer-songwriter, actress, and LGBTQIA+ advocate, Leanne Mamonong, taking up space means living authentically and motivating others to do the same. ‘’It’s living your full truth. Showing up everywhere, proud and loud, because of who you are. Just inspiring others with that strength.’’ Her words reflect the very visibility that the activist before fought for more than three decades.
For newlywed veterinarian Deng Garcia, this visibility is deeply tied to representation and its impact on younger generations. She explains, “Representation matters because you never know as a young kid… seeing somebody that they might relate to gives them courage, or just the feeling of being proud of who they are.”
Beyond visibility, this also shapes how the wider public understands the LGBTQIA+ community. For Entrepreneur and partner of Klarisse de Guzman, Christina “Trina” Rey, representation serves as an eye-opener that encourages openness and acceptance beyond the community itself. “It’s an eye-opener also sa mga hindi part ng LGBT. For us, as members of the LGBT community, it’s important to be open and free.”
More than just acceptance, this legacy has also expanded the ways queer identity can be expressed. Indie film artist Nour Hooshmand shares that one of the most important lessons she learned is that “hindi lang iisang paraan para i-express ang sarili mo.” For her, self-expression is a continuous process—one that does not require permission from others to be who we truly are.
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These lessons of self-acceptance, however, are also shaped by fear, vulnerability, and the realities of growing up queer in the Philippines. While visibility has expanded over the decades, many members of the community still carry memories of doubt and uncertainty.
Reflecting on what she hopes queer youth never have to experience, singer and artist Klang points to a fear that many LGBTQIA+ individuals know all too well. “For me, siguro yung matakot lang talaga. Natakot ako husgahan, natakot ako kung matatanggap ba ako ng ibang tao lalo na sa field ko sa entertainment. Natakot ako na baka maraming umayaw kapag nasabi ko na yung totoong ako. Sana hindi maranasan ng mga kabataan yung matakot,” she shared. Her reflection underscores the deeper purpose behind decades of LGBTQIA+ activism. The goal was never just visibility—it was liberation: the freedom to exist without fear, love unapologetically and to live without constantly questioning whether the world would make a room for you.——
For illustrator Sai Genora, a painful part of that experience lies in the possibility of rejection from the people closest to them. “I guess… not being loved by their parents the most. You can handle rejection from the outside, but it’s the hardest to accept rejection from your own home and from your family.”
Meanwhile, for content creator and podcaster Jan Pablo, liberation also comes in reclaiming expression and identity through something as simple as clothing. “I learned that I can wear anything that I want regardless if it is masculine or feminine… clothes are genderless and I can be freely who I am regardless of what I wear.”
What began in the streets in 1992 now lives on in everyday acts of self-expression—proof that the work of liberation is still far from over.
The Same Ground
Yet even as we celebrate Pride's history, we must ask whose stories continue to be remembered and whose remain overlooked.
The contributions of lesbians, queer women, and trans men have often been present but underacknowledged. Their labor can be found in community organizing, mutual aid, advocacy, and movement-building, yet many of their stories remain absent from mainstream narratives of queer history.
This absence matters.
In a structure still being built, every overlooked voice becomes a missing piece. Reflecting on the ongoing struggle for visibility and representation within queer communities, Belle Rodolfo emphasizes: “I feel like we should center queer women more because number one, we’re queer people and number two, we’re women...We are specifically an intersection of people who are sometimes forgotten and marginalized in our society.. “
Visibility is not about recognition alone. It shapes who is seen as belonging, who is considered part of the movement's history, and whose needs are centered in conversations about liberation.
It’s a quiet ache for those who have to fight just to be counted and feel included—Jan Pablo, who carries the weight of the community still waiting to be seen. “Gusto ko rin ng more exposure for us, that we are existing, and…hindi lang siya sa international—we can exist anywhere in the world.”
Across the same table, podcaster and DRPH first trans pit crew member Gian De Borja Cruz puts it, taking up space is where survival turns into power. “You know, to take up space means visibility, right? And for me, visibility speaks a lot, speaks a volume, because when there’s visibility, there’s opportunity. And when there's an opportunity, syempre mayroon din tayong capability to change hearts.”
Pride was never meant to elevate only a select few voices. It was built through coalitions. Through people with different identities, experiences, and struggles finding common ground while recognizing their differences.
Like any structure meant to endure, this movement stands not because of what is most visible, but because of what quietly holds it together. By looking beyond the spotlight and honoring those who quietly sustain queer spaces, Sai Genora whos been making sapphic art under her instagram handle reminds us to “show appreciation and i-push ‘yung mga non-gender conforming sapphics in our community especially lesbian butches, mga working class sapphics, mga everyday people.”
To stand on the same ground is to understand that liberation cannot be partial. A movement is only as strong as its commitment to those pushed furthest to its edges.
Remembering these stories is not an act of nostalgia. It is a political act. It reminds us that queer history is richer, broader, and more collective than the narratives we often inherit.
Work in Progress
No structure is completed in a day, and the same can be said for the ongoing struggle for LGBTQIA+ rights.
Thirty-four years after that first documented lesbian contingent joined a public demonstration, the work remains unfinished. Not because the movement has failed. Not because nothing has changed. But because liberation was never meant to be a destination. It was always meant to be a process—one that each generation inherits, reshapes, and continues.
The groundbreaking courage of queer women, lesbians, and trans men allowed them to step into spaces filled with uncertainty. Their acts of defiance created possibilities where none seemed to exist. What began as small gatherings grew into communities, and communities grew into a movement whose impact continues to be felt today.
The people who came before us broke ground. They marched where there were no paths, built communities where there were no spaces, and imagined futures that many believed were impossible. Their labor became the foundation upon which today’s LGBTQIA+ movement stands.
But foundations are only the beginning.
As SHNTI reflects, “We should maintain the foundation—take care of it, and establish a stronger ground that can support anyone else in the community.”
Today, that responsibility belongs to all of us.
While visibility has grown, liberation remains uneven. Across the country, LGBTQIA+ Filipinos continue to face discrimination, violence, economic insecurity, and barriers to opportunities that others often take for granted. The freedoms won by previous generations have opened doors, but many are still waiting to walk through them.
Yet some of the most important work lies within the community itself.
As content creator Yani who has openly spoken about the experiences of queer women and bisexual Filipinos, points out, “Even within our communities, hindi talaga tayo truly nagkakaisa.” The fight for liberation requires more than visibility—it requires solidarity. It asks us to confront the divisions, biases, and exclusions that continue to exist even within spaces built for belonging.
Because Pride was never intended to be a structure that serves only a few. It was built through collective effort, shaped by different identities, experiences, and struggles coming together in pursuit of something larger than themselves.
The work ahead calls for stronger support systems, greater representation, and a deeper commitment to ensuring that no one is left at the margins of the movement they helped build. It calls for making space for stories that have too often gone unheard and for communities whose contributions are too often overlooked.
Most of all, it calls for imagining a future beyond survival.
For indie film artist Nour Hooshmand reminds us, “The queer community should not be surviving but rather thriving.”
But thriving cannot happen without confronting the barriers that still exist. Visibility alone is not enough when true equality remains unachieved, demanding a collective refusal to settle for progress. As Deng Garcia puts it, “We have to fight because we’re still not there, but one day…”
Perhaps that is what remains under construction.
Not simply a future where queer people are tolerated, acknowledged, or allowed to exist—but a future where they are celebrated, protected, supported, and free.
The story of queer liberation in the Philippines is still being written. The blueprint continues to evolve. The scaffolding remains standing.
A movement built by many hands should never leave anyone standing outside what it has built.
Because the work of Pride was never simply to build a movement. It was to build a home.
And perhaps the measure of our progress is not how much we have built, but how many people can finally call it theirs. After all, the story of Pride has always been a story of bayanihan: people choosing, generation after generation, to build a future larger than themselves.
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