On The Difficult Question Of Global LGBTQ+ Unity

As LGBTQ+ people find themselves at a crossroads, it's worth remembering everything that we actually have in common and the depth of our bond.

I spoke with a journalist last week who challenged my assumptions on LGBTQ+ solidarity. For example, she questioned my view that wealthy Western LGBTQ+ individuals must help embattled LGBTQ+ people abroad or that we should have a common political agenda. She pointed out how the South Asian diaspora, one of the fastest-growing ethnic groups in the U.S., often struggles with solidarity, deeply influenced by class, caste, and nationality.

I might be naive, or perhaps it’s the influence of my own generation’s experiences as gay men, but I am convinced our connection runs very deep. I mentioned to her the unique experience of being born “far from the tree,” as Andrew Solomon elegantly puts it —the lying, the isolation, and then the long road back to truth, community, and meaning.

Before being a Frenchman, a Christian, a bourgeois, college-educated, my sexual orientation was always the most significant determinant of my life. I understand that other LGBTQ+ people, with various identities, might not have had this exact experience. And yet, I believe that our unusual journey provides a sufficient common foundation.

When I first came out, I was astonished to discover a world where the usual borders — profession, religion, race, class, gender — seemed to dissolve. Like Wilde in his salons or Proust in his drawing rooms, I found myself in spaces where people moved freely between worlds that, outside, remain rigidly divided. It was as if queerness itself carried a passport stamped for every territory.

I have written before about what that unity implies in terms of solidarity. This question feels more urgent than ever. A unified LGBTQ+ identity is a fragile recent development. We are a relatively new “people”. This shared identity seems to be threatened today by the insidious promotion of the “normal gay” and all its variations, as well as the tyranny of small differences.

In June, I wrote that “LGBTQ+ solidarity is always built; it can never be assumed.” I now feel that it is also a choice we make. Our task is to make one’s decision to “opt in” appealing.

In informal conversations on the topic of “the movement” or “community”, the most common reaction I get from gay individuals is questioning the connection between the trans and gay communities. At times, some will also discuss a rift along class lines. However, I believe these are both distractions and cop-outs.

While debates over the nuances of LGBTQ+ identities—such as whether trans women are women, the dynamics between cultural understandings of gender, or the intersection of Western frameworks with global traditions—might be legitimate, particularly in the political space, they are irrelevant to the question of our unity. These discussions often devolve into squabbles over theoretical details or cultural purity, akin to a religious minority debating theology while their homes are burning down.

Our house is on fire, as illustrated by the rapid decline of LGBTQ+ rights in Russia under Putin’s regime. The Russian situation is a warning for LGBTQ+ individuals everywhere. What started as an anti-Western political strategy has now relegated LGBTQ+ Russians to second-class citizen status, stripped of rights to form families, be represented in the media, a precondition to progress, or seek recourse against their landlord or employer.

The immediate danger for LGBTQ+ people, including in the U.S., within the next ten years was never extermination but instead becoming entrenched in a subordinate status, where LGBTQ+ individuals are seen as a societal burden, contributing little to the greater good, and therefore to be contained at the margins of society.

To change this course, can LGBTQ+ individuals take responsibility for re-engaging in the struggle we once outsourced to donors, governments, and multilateral initiatives? The collapse of USAID, and the Global Equality Fund, the global cuts in foreign aid and development funding —or this week’s revelation that leaked drafts of the U.S. State Department’s 2025 Human Rights Reports omit anti-LGBTQ+ violence—raise a crucial question: who will stand with embattled LGBTQ+ individuals in countries like Indonesia, Tunisia, Russia, or even within the United States, as they fight for dignity and economic opportunities, if not us?

Lately, I like to ask this hypothetical question to gay Americans: what if Democrats are never returning to “save us”?

LGBTQ+ solidarity—expressed not only through empathy, cooperation, financial support, and advocacy—is the last rampart in our fight for queer liberation. It boils down to very concrete questions on the way we lead our lives:

Should I invest my retirement savings in ways that align with our community’s shared goals? Do I put my creativity at the service of these goals? Should my philanthropic contributions continue to support LGBTQ+ organizations? Should I use my influence in my company to support our cause? Should I continue to identify publicly as a “member of the LGBTQ+ community”? Should I help this person because they are too?

The truth is, solidarity is never absolute — our own experiences, perceptions, and proximity to an issue shapes it. Some people, myself included at times, feel a more immediate connection to the victims of the war in Ukraine, while the suffering in Sudan or Syria can seem more abstract or remote. Empathy for Palestinians, too, varies widely, even within communities that have themselves faced injustice. Closer to home, I’ve heard conversations in which some gay New Yorkers speak of the homeless in their neighborhoods in ways that reveal more frustration than compassion. These moments remind me that empathy is often uneven, and that choosing to extend it across boundaries takes conscious effort.

In the face of immediate danger, it makes sense for our community to prioritize solidarity by engaging deeply with LGBTQ+ organizations, claiming our identities, leveraging our collective power, and supporting one another.

Unity will require a shared vision, one that is both inspiring and cohesive. Very few LGBTQ+ people will join a group that sells martyrdom, disenfranchisement, and delusion as a collective project. We must make the LGBTQ+ community a group everyone is proud to belong to again, with shared long-term goals that transcend even our community. It won’t be hard because our bond runs deeper than we think.