On March 13, Parliament in New Delhi proposed amendments to the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019. These changes restrict legal recognition primarily to identities like kinner, hijra, aravani, and jogta—categories reflecting the perspectives of mainland India—along with people with intersex variations, framing the bill through a mainland-centric lens.
This mainland-centric approach fails to reflect the broad diversity of gender identities in the Northeast, effectively sidelining communities whose self-identifications do not fit these categories.
Across the region, gender exists within cultural, social and linguistic contexts that vary from state to state, and often from one community or tribe to another.
The amendment also makes medical intervention—such as hormone therapy or surgery—a necessary step for changing identity on official documents, requiring approval from doctors and district authorities.
But across much of the Northeast, such pathways are difficult to access. Many states have no queer-friendly endocrinologists and very few psychologists trained to support trans people. For many, seeking care means travelling outside the state—something not everyone can afford.
This is further complicated by the nature of life in the region. In closely knit communities, where “everybody knows everybody”, as one trans person from Manipur put it, even approaching a hospital or government office can risk being outed.
In states like Nagaland and Mizoram, where religious pressure remains strong, visibility can carry consequences.
For many activists, the concern is not only exclusion from national law, but also a familiar pattern of being overlooked—where the Northeast remains outside the policymakers’ imagination.
Rituparna Neog, Associate Vice Chairperson of the Assam State Transgender Welfare Board and a member of the National Council of Transgender Persons, says the amendment came as a shock. “We were not aware of it,” she says. “The Northeast is already marginalised—both socio-culturally and politically,” she adds. “When laws are made without considering our realities, that gap only widens.”
Northeast Indigenous Identities Beyond the Law
In Manipur, nupi manbi and nupa manba—Meitei terms used for trans women and trans men—do not find a place in this framework. For Santa Khurai, a nupi manbi (transgender woman), gender rights activist, and writer from the state, this absence is not accidental.
“The entire Northeast region is not in the consciousness of mainland India,” she says. “We (nupi manbis) are a minority within a minority, and trying to claim our space is not an easy task.”
She points out that this erasure has deeper roots, shaped by years of misrepresentation of indigenous histories and identities through “censored” narratives designed to fit a so-called mainstream understanding of gender. “If the law doesn’t recognise nupi manbi and nupa manba, it erases marginalised voices and identities.”
Across the Northeast, she explains, gender plurality has long existed within local systems that do not always align with legal categories.
“During my conversation in Arunachal Pradesh, I came across terms like Twi and Patil. In Meghalaya, among the Khasi, there is a term called Ikubi; in the Kuki community in Manipur, there is a term Ola,” she says. “These exist within communities through spoken traditions.”
Rebina, founder of Shamakami, the only registered organisation working for the rights and dignity of the LGBTQIA+ community in Meghalaya, says, “Among Khasi, Jaintia and Garo communities, identity is closely linked to kinship and social roles. It is not always defined in the way legal frameworks expect.”
She points to matrilineal systems as an example. “These systems already challenge rigid gender norms. There are spaces for gender non-conformity, even if they are not expressed in the language of LGBTQ identities.”
In Sikkim, members of the Rainbow Hills Association describe a similar gap. “We have different communities—Lepcha, Bhutia, Nepali—and each has its own culture. Some have more fluid ideas of gender, especially in rituals or shamanic practices,” they say.
A similar challenge plays out in Arunachal Pradesh, where diversity among tribes itself makes standardisation difficult.
“We have 26 major tribes and hundreds of sub-tribes, each with its own language. Queer activism has only just started here recently,” says Sawang, founder of Arunachal Pradesh QueerStation. “We don’t have one common term for gender diversity. People communicate in broken Hindi or English, and even within communities, we are still trying to understand these identities.”
He explains that in some communities, words like mumbal are used loosely to refer to people who fall outside gender norms, but these do not translate into fixed identities like transgender.
He also points out that in Arunachal Pradesh, much of the visible queer and transgender activism today is led by trans men.
The Bill, however, explicitly removes the term “trans man” from the definition of a transgender person. For Nalo, a trans man from Arunachal Pradesh who spent most of his life in the Upper Subansiri region, this exclusion feels deeply personal.
It was only after moving to Itanagar for his education that he began to understand and articulate his identity. “It took me years to understand who I am,” he says. “I didn’t wake up one day and realise it—I explored, struggled, and slowly came to identify myself as a trans man. How can the government erase that in a day?”
In Tripura, too, Chao Subhajit Dutta, founder and vice president of Swabhiman and organiser of the state’s first Pride March in 2021, says the transgender community in the state includes a significant number of trans men. “In Tripura, we see the visibility of trans men more compared to trans women,” he says, noting that they are often at the forefront of community visibility.
Living with Visibility Comes at a Cost
In much of the Northeast, communities are closely knit, and anonymity is rare. “Everybody knows everybody,” says Pavel Sagolsem, a non-binary trans person from Manipur. “You go to a hospital, you stand in line, someone sees you. By evening, people know.”
For someone seeking gender-affirming care or trying to update official documents, this can mean being recognised, questioned or outed—often before they are ready.
In fact, in Nagaland, visibility can even be life-threatening. Following an LGBTQ conclave in Dimapur in 2024, the NSCN-K (Niki faction) issued a public statement calling queer identities “alien” to Naga society and directing those “propagating” them to leave Naga-inhabited areas within three days.
The statement framed LGBTQ identities as a threat to both cultural values and Christianity, urging communities to remain vigilant. In such contexts, approaching formal systems—whether for healthcare or documentation—can carry risks beyond being outed in the community.
“There has never been a Pride March in Nagaland, and it cannot even happen,” says Priya (name changed), a trans woman from Dimapur. “We can only meet in closed spaces, in queer-specific gatherings.” Recalling tensions, she says, “In 2024, after the LGBTQ conclave, we were told that we would be shot.”
Public spaces, she adds, can be openly hostile. “If we go to the market, people say things like ‘throw hot water on them’, ‘chase them away’, ‘kill them’,” she says. “I am Naga, but I still have to prove that I am Naga beyond being a trans woman at every step.”
“In conflict-affected areas of Manipur, trans individuals have been among the first to be targeted during periods of unrest,” says Santa Khurai. “One nupi manbi was shot in her leg. Around 16–17 were attacked in broad daylight for making Bollywood reels,” she says. “Two were abducted. ₹50,000 was demanded as ransom.”
“In situations like this, the 2014 NALSA judgement at least gave awareness that transgender people also have a law to protect them. But if the law does not recognise us anymore, how do we even seek protection?”
Healthcare and Mental Health Costs
Instead of approaching systems directly, many trans individuals in many parts of the Northeast rely on informal pathways. “People don’t usually go straight to government offices,” the NGO in Sikkim said. “They go through someone they trust—an NGO, a community member, someone who knows how the system works.” These networks, they explain, act as a buffer. “They make things safer. You don’t have to expose yourself immediately.”
The Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026, places these support systems under strain. By criminalising the “coerced” assumption of transgender identity—with penalties ranging from 10 years to life imprisonment for “allurement” or “deceit”—the law introduces risk into spaces that were previously informal and community-led.
“Even basic support can be questioned now,” says Rudrani Rajkumari, founder of Xomonoy, a Guwahati-based queer collective. “If someone comes to you for counselling or peer support, it can be interpreted as influencing them. Anyone can file a case. That puts both the person seeking help and the person offering it at risk,” she says.
Respondents across Nagaland, Manipur, Tripura, Sikkim, Meghalaya and Arunachal Pradesh described limited and uneven access to gender-affirming healthcare and queer-friendly mental health support, often requiring travel to cities such as Guwahati, Kolkata, Delhi or Bengaluru.
Others point out that access is only part of the picture. “Not everyone wants medical transition,” says Rituparna Neog. “People experience the level of gender dysphoria differently.”
For those working in public health, the implications extend further. Rajesh Paul, who has worked on HIV and STI prevention through projects such as Sahyog of the Humsafar Trust, says, “Reaching out to people for HIV testing is first about slowly building trust.”
Outreach, he explains, can take months. “If people feel their identity is not even recognised, why will they come forward?” he says. Funding, too, is uncertain. “Several HIV and LGBTQ-focused projects I have worked on have already shut down after their funding cycles ended.”
In the Northeast, where identities vary across tribes, languages and cultures, a single, standardised definition of gender does not easily fit.
Activists believe the amendment risks flattening these differences—imposing categories that neither reflect local realities nor account for the challenges of accessing care, safety or support. In a region already navigating marginalisation, the fear is that this law will not fail to include—but will further distance people from recognition, resources and protection.
Also Read: From warfront to wilderness: The marksman who hunted big cats in Nagaon
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