Sikhander Coopoo, a Black, queer, Muslim intersectional feminist and activist, bravely steps forward in this thought-provoking piece to challenge some uncomfortable truths within queer spaces, especially in South Africa. He’s seen enough of life to recognize when someone twists your identity into a weapon, using your very existence not to protect you, but to justify something entirely different – a war, a border, a hierarchy. It’s a subtle, insidious violence, the kind that smiles in your face while it does its damage. This pattern has compelled him to speak out about what he’s witnessing in South African queer communities right now. He observes that some individuals, who intimately understand marginalization and have fought fiercely for their right to exist, are now, paradoxically, echoing the very narratives used to oppress them. He believes it’s time for a collective reckoning and a commitment to do better, to break free from these damaging cycles.
One of the most pervasive falsehoods Coopoo tackles is the claim that Hamas throws gay people off rooftops. This narrative, he notes, has spread like wildfire through social media and even casual conversations among queer people who, by all accounts, should be diligent about verifying their information. What the actual evidence reveals, however, paints a drastically different picture. The horrific documented cases of gay men being thrown from buildings occurred in ISIS-controlled territories in Syria and Iraq, specifically Mosul, between 2014 and 2015. These were undeniable atrocities, extensively chronicled by human rights organizations, but they were carried out by ISIS, not by Hamas or the Palestinian Authority. While there have been isolated incidents of violence against LGBTQIA+ individuals in Palestinian territories, as reported by the Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada, there is no proof of a systematic “roof-throwing” policy. Conflating ISIS with Palestinian governance is not an innocent mistake; it’s a deliberate act of propaganda, and by repeating it, we unwittingly become its conduits, spreading misinformation that further divides and dehumanizes.
This brings Sikhander to the grim reality of the ongoing conflict: the bombs falling on Gaza since October 2023 don’t discriminate based on sexuality. As UNICEF Executive Director Catherine Russell heartbreakingly points out, over 64,000 children have been killed or maimed in Gaza in the past two years, including at least 1,000 babies. Queer Palestinians are dying amidst the rubble alongside their families and communities, not because of their sexual orientation, but because they are Palestinian. This is precisely where “pinkwashing” enters the picture, a tactic Coopoo identifies as particularly insidious. Pinkwashing is Israel’s strategic use of LGBTQIA+ rights to project an image of progressiveness, effectively diverting attention from its occupation and apartheid policies. Tel Aviv is marketed as a “gay haven,” with targeted tourism campaigns aimed at queer Europeans and Americans. As scholar Jasbir Puar highlights, this strategy relies on portraying Palestinians as sexually regressive – backward, dangerous, and therefore undeserving of solidarity. For South African queers, this should trigger immediate alarm bells, resonating with their own history. Under apartheid, Black South Africans were branded “uncivilized” to justify their oppression. The familiar weaponization of “civilization” claims reappears here: when someone argues that Palestinians don’t deserve solidarity because of how their society treats queer people, they are, in essence, employing the same colonial logic, merely cloaked in a rainbow flag.
The conversation deepens as Coopoo addresses other concerning currents within the South African queer community, often discussed less openly. He points to the growing influence of Christian nationalism and Hindutva (Hindu nationalist ideology) in these spaces. While seemingly contradictory, both ideologies offer a framework of “traditional values” that can be rebranded as defending South African culture against “foreign” influences. Islamophobia frequently serves as the entry point, casting the “Muslim Other” as the enemy. This alarming development leads some queer individuals to unwittingly align with movements that have historically sought to erase their very existence. He highlights groups like the Family Policy Institute, Pastor Oscar Bougart, and Pastor Angus Buchan, who have consistently opposed LGBTQ+ rights and comprehensive sexuality education, as well as Hindutva organizations in India that have resisted decriminalizing homosexuality and recognizing transgender rights. These, he emphasizes, are not allies. Yet, when their Islamophobic talking points are repackaged within queer rhetoric about “safety,” some fail to recognize the dangerous company they are keeping. This internal conflict is further exacerbated by the classism and racism that Sibonelo Ncanana-Trower, another queer activist, precisely critiques as “ignorant, racist, and classist thinking dressed up as political commentary.” Middle-class activists, detached from direct lived experiences, sometimes dictate how communities should navigate their challenges, leading to harmful xenophobic narratives that mimic movements like “Operation Dudula” and reduce poor communities to crude stereotypes, all under the guise of “politics.”
Sikhander concludes by powerfully evoking the memory of Imam Muhsin Hendricks, South Africa’s first openly gay imam, tragically assassinated in February 2025. Imam Hendricks dedicated his life to refusing to splinter either his identity or his solidarity, building affirming spaces for queer Muslims through the Al-Ghurbaah Foundation. His “Shabbat Against Genocide” event in November 2024 at his mosque exemplified his unwavering commitment. Married to a Hindu man, he challenged Islamophobia and homophobia simultaneously, understanding that one cannot combat one form of dehumanization while simultaneously practicing another. He was murdered in South Africa by organized hatred, not by some distant, blameable enemy. His life offers a profound answer to the question of what true solidarity embodies: it is not a performance, nor is it conditional. Authentic solidarity does not first inquire whether those being bombed share your values before deciding if their lives hold significance. As the Palestinian queer organization alQaws aptly states, there is no “pink door” in the apartheid wall; queer Palestinians are not forced to choose between their queerness and their Palestinianness. They are fighting for liberation as whole, indivisible people. And so, Sikhander asserts, should we. Our freedom cannot be built on the dehumanization of others; that is not liberation, but merely a different arrangement of the same timeless cruelty. Sikhander Coopoo, with his background in gender, pedagogy, local governance, and his deeply held commitment to social justice and human rights, writes this piece in his capacity as a passionate voice for change, challenging us all to embrace a more inclusive and unwavering form of solidarity.