The July student protests in Bangladesh marked a historic moment, one that reignited hope across communities long excluded from national narratives of justice. For many trans and gender-diverse individuals, this movement sparked a renewed belief in coalition-building, mutual care, and the possibility of structural change. The courage and clarity of youth-led resistance created space for reimagining a more inclusive future.
Yet, even in this promising atmosphere, old patterns persist. Religious conservative forces have mobilized coordinated anti-trans campaigns, blaming feminist reforms for promoting lgbtq+ agendas. These narratives are no longer fringe; they are embedded in digital propaganda, public sermons, and street-level backlash.
In this context, feminist spaces must confront not only external threats but also their internal contradictions. While trans and gender-diverse people are frequently invoked as symbols of inclusivity, our leadership, safety, and perspectives are often missing from the movement’s core.
This critique is not a rejection of feminist history and coalition building in Bangladesh, it is an urgent call to deepen its promise. We ask for space, trust, and care for the trans community members. We ask to be held not just as symbols, but as partners in shaping the future we all fight for.
Symbolism over solidarity: The problem of token inclusion
In the wake of Bangladesh’s recent feminist mobilizations, particularly around the Moitri Jatra march, questions have emerged about the role of trans and gender-nonconforming (TGNC) individuals in progressive movements. While Moitri Jatra presented itself as inclusive and diverse, many trans activists and allies felt their involvement was more symbolic than strategic. Brought in for visibility, but excluded from decision-making and core organizing.
This kind of tokenism weakens coalitions. In a political moment where anti-trans sentiment is rising, bolstered by state complicity and right-wing actors, surface-level inclusion leaves TGNC communities vulnerable. Several student leaders, while claiming to be progressive, have shared openly transphobic posts online, exposing a dangerous gap between public positioning and private beliefs.
The government’s selective recognition of hijras and ceremonial gestures of inclusion only deepen the contradiction. These token acts allow institutions to claim progress without addressing the structural inequalities that keep trans people marginalized.
One recent example highlights this contradiction. A prominent trans individual was repeatedly featured across donor-funded and activist platforms as a sign of inclusion. Her social media activity during the July student protests, however, was closely aligned with pro-Awami government narratives, undermining the student movement while praising state actions of mass killing and oppressive policies. Despite this, no feminist or activist group publicly questioned her alignment with authoritarian power or the harm caused by her social media messaging.
This oversaturation of her presence -- online and within progressive spaces -- has contributed to an environment of mistrust, particularly among trans and gender-diverse individuals working at the grassroots.
Many of these community members engage in quiet, everyday resistance: Organizing mutual aid, creating support networks, and navigating a survival economy shaped by systemic precarity. Yet, their contributions often go unrecognized. They lack the digital platforms, media reach, or donor access that allow more visible figures to dominate narratives and resources.
As a result, movement-building becomes skewed in favour of self-interested actors, those who perform inclusion but act in alignment with oppressive power structures. When visibility alone becomes the criteria for leadership, we create a deeply unjust ecosystem.
We ask for space, trust, and care for the trans community members. We ask to be held not just as symbols, but as partners in shaping the future we all fight for
Those doing the hard work of building justice and kinship are sidelined, while opportunists gain legitimacy through curated optics. The burden of proof, care, and credibility continues to fall disproportionately on those who have the least access, even as they do the most work.
This is not merely a matter of individual critique, it is a systemic issue. We must ask: What kind of feminist and progressive spaces are we cultivating when popularity eclipses accountability, and representation substitutes for redistribution?
This is not an isolated incident. It reveals how trans identity is sometimes used to mask deeper contradictions. When identity becomes a shield against critique, we risk confusing representation with justice. Inclusion must come with care, trust, and accountability. Without that, it is exploitation.
Silence as strategy: The limits of feminist inclusion
This contradiction was not only visible in individual cases, but it was embedded in Moitri Jatra itself. Though the march received backlash from conservative forces for supposedly promoting lgbtq+ agendas, organizers largely avoided defending queer and trans participation publicly.
Their silence was justified as a strategy. But when those targeted are not openly supported, it sends a painful message: Your presence is welcome, but your safety is optional.
This is why many trans people feel unsafe in feminist spaces. We are tolerated until we challenge power. When we express disagreement or demand accountability, we are labeled disruptive. Inclusion without trust isn’t solidarity. It is a form of control.
Inclusion without trust is not solidarity. It is control. In Bangladesh, feminist spaces still lack the emotional and political frameworks to hold trans people with both care and accountability.
TGNC individuals are often seen as symbolic bodies, protected, perhaps, but not empowered. Leadership remains reserved for those who conform to dominant norms, while trans voices are only welcomed when they are compliant or palatable.
Meanwhile, the state’s recognition of a “third gender” category often imposes rigid definitions that exclude many. Access to healthcare, education, legal rights, and even the right to protest becomes contingent on fitting bureaucratic molds. Violence is not always spectacular; it unfolds in quiet refusals, in institutional neglect, and in the silence of supposed allies.
Beyond optics: What real inclusion looks like
To move forward, representation must be redefined. It is not enough to be visible, we must be vital. Feminist and progressive movements need to centre care as a political ethic. That means creating pathways for TGNC people to participate in decision-making, ensuring safety through shared responsibility, and building cultures where disagreement doesn’t result in exclusion.
It also means confronting transphobia not only from religious forces or the state but within our own spaces. This includes challenging student leaders who espouse hate while wearing the mask of progressiveness, and examining why figures aligned with oppressive regimes are still elevated without accountability.
Trans people should not be recognized only for our suffering, but also for our insight, leadership, and resilience. We are not symbols to be displayed. We are partners in the struggle.
The strength of a movement is not in its optics, but in its ethics. It must go beyond performance. It must ask: Who planned it? Who was meaningfully included? Who was left behind?
Let us build one where trans people are not just invited, but trusted. Not just seen, but heard. Not just included, but leading.
Tara Asgar is a Brooklyn-based Bangladeshi transgender woman, artist, educator, and activist whose work focuses on gender, migration, and community justice.