What Happened When I Wore a Hijab to Delhi Pride Parade

I wore it proudly. My hijab. My choice. My story.

As I stepped into the colorful crowd, rang birange fashionable kapdon ka jhund, I was a little nervous. But people smiled at me. Some complimented my outfit. A few even asked for photos.

It felt warm. Welcoming. Like I belonged.

Until I didn’t.

A woman came up to me, scanning me head to toe. Then she asked: “Why are you wearing that here?”

I blinked, unsure. “Matlab?”

She replied flatly, “This is Pride. It’s about liberation, freedom, open-mindedness. This,”—she pointed at my hijab—“is a sign of oppression. Pride mein iska kya kaam?”

Her words landed like a slap. I stood there, stunned.

How do you even begin to explain that for me, being Muslim and queer was never a contradiction? That I didn’t grow up seeing those two identities as separate. That they’ve always coexisted, quietly, peacefully, until someone else decided they couldn’t.

Before I could speak, she walked away. Shaking her head. Like my existence was a mistake. Like I was a mismatch in the Pride palette.

The rest of the parade felt different. Heavier. I couldn’t unhear her words. It suddenly felt like everyone was watching. Judging. I began to shrink within myself.

Eventually, I left.I just didn’t want to be there anymore. But isn’t Pride supposed to be for everyone? Isn’t it about expressing the fullness of who we are, no matter how complex, layered, or non-linear that might look?

Rainbow mein bhi toh saat rang hote hain. Each one distinct. Each one necessary. Not all bright. Not all loud. But together, they form the whole.

That day, I realised something that stayed with me long after I got home: We often talk about queerness and liberation like they have only one face. One style. One definition. And anything that doesn’t match that picture is seen as backward, confusing, or even threatening.

But who decides what queerness looks like? Who gets to draw the boundaries of freedom?

If my liberation looks different from yours, more modest, more inward, more spiritual, does it stop being liberation?

If my queerness speaks softly in Urdu instead of shouting in English, is it any less valid?

That moment at Pride taught me that sometimes, the hardest exclusions don’t come from the outside world, they come from within our own communities. From people who believe they’ve already unlearned everything, and now carry the right to decide what "liberation" should look like for everyone else.

I am queer. And I am Muslim. My hijab is not in conflict with my queerness. It’s a reflection of it. An extension. A choice. It’s my way of saying: I exist as I am. Fully. Honestly. Without erasing any part of me to fit into your comfort zones.

I wear it not in spite of my queerness, but because of it. Because queerness, for me, means having the courage to be exactly who I am, even when the world tells me I can’t be both.

Next year, I’ll wear my hijab to Pride again. Not for her. Not as an act of rebellion.

But for me. For every queer person who lives at the intersection. For those who carry multiple identities, and are tired of being asked to leave one at the door.

I’ll wear it for those who’ve been told they don’t belong, even in spaces meant to celebrate them. And I’ll wear it proudly. Because Pride, if it is to mean anything at all, must have room for all of us.

Even the ones in hijab.

~ Nusrat Jahan.