Three years ago, Khushi, a 21-year-old trans woman, was sitting by the Dal Lake in Srinagar with her friend when an elderly man approached with an offer: “5,000 rupees for sex?”
In a rage, Khushi said she slapped him and a tussle broke out. “People were laughing and shooting videos, but none of them supported us,” she recalled. The lack of support still haunts her but she has made peace with the stigmatisation that the trans community faces in Kashmiri society.
As an amateur make-up artist, Khushi was financially independent before the August 2019 clampdown, after the abrogation of Jammu and Kashmir’s special status, disrupted her business. Then the restrictions of the Covid-19 pandemic hit. For a year, Khushi lived off of her savings and small loans and worked as a daily-wage labourer in Srinagar. “I bought flour on debt. We had only tea and roti thrice a day to beat the hunger,” she said. “But soon we had nothing to eat.”
By the summer of 2020, she was out of job options. Helpless, Khushi ventured into the capital’s Sanatnagar area one evening with Noor*, her friend and a sex worker by profession, looking for her first client.
The transgender community’s source of livelihood has already shrunk and now the situation has worsened, say community members. The marginalised community, which long relied on singing and dancing at wedding ceremonies and matchmaking for survival, has largely been out of work.
At the same time, community members have a difficult time finding work elsewhere due to stigma. Some have even forgotten the sound of their voices or the feeling of dancing to the tune of the tumbakhne’ar, a traditional percussion instrument. Persistent harassment at workplaces and on the streets has pushed transgender persons in Kashmir to the brink of survival, compelling them to resort to sex work, they said.
Aijaz Bund, a Srinagar-based LGBTQIA+ activist, said, “We saw an increase in sex work after the first Covid lockdown. If there were 30 trans persons doing sex work earlier, there are 150 of them now.”
“I had no other choice then,” Khushi recalled. “My parents were unwell and I needed money.”
Sex work for survival
When Noor was 13 years old, they started trying on their sister’s clothes. Seeing this behaviour, Noor’s relatives would call them laanch – a derogatory term used to identify transgender people in Kashmir.
“To avoid everyday quarrels, my father told me to leave – and I did,” they said.
Noor, now a sex worker, grew up on the streets of Srinagar, loitering around the banks of Dal Lake.
Back then, Noor recalled, an elderly man had harassed them. “He asked me to sleep with him,” they said. Thinking it over, Noor asked for money. “I was homeless and didn’t have the means to earn a livelihood, so I gave in.” The man offered Noor Rs 500, enough to buy food for a few days.
Noor said they were forced to opt for sex work — like many transgender women in Kashmir. Their struggle for acceptance has metamorphosed into a perpetual battle for survival.
A 2018 study by research scholar Yasir Ashraf, entitled “Transgender Community in Jammu & Kashmir: A Sociological Study of Kashmir Province”, found that according to the 2011 census of India, there are 4,137 transgender individuals in Jammu and Kashmir. Of them, 207 belong to the Scheduled Caste category and 385 to the Scheduled Tribe category. The literacy rate among transgender individuals in Jammu and Kashmir is 49.2%.
Noor first got in touch with the transgender community in Srinagar and lived with them till they started earning. “I took some time to settle down and started singing and dancing at wedding ceremonies,” said Noor, now 29, who lives in a rented accommodation in the capital city.
Weddings didn’t earn Noor more than Rs 1,000 per performance. Noor even landed a gig as a salesperson at a readymade garment shop, but it didn’t go well. “They [colleagues and customers] started teasing me and bullying me, so I left,” they said. Noor they found work at a salon but was fired again. So they could never stop sex work. But it came with a ton of issues.
One evening in September 2019, Noor was paid to visit a client who waited for them in a car parked on a deserted road. The middle-aged man inside the car forced himself on them. It was their 12th year of sex work. “I told him it was hurting because he was being harsh,” Noor said. “He said I had taken money for it and I did not get to say anything till I satisfied him.”
With time, Noor gathered a fixed clientele list. “I have so many contacts now…of men from different age groups, from the 20s to the 50s. I now share the contacts with others too.”
Rejection and stigmatisation
In 2019, the government had claimed that the abrogation of Kashmir’s semi-autonomous status would benefit gender and sexual minorities. This aimed to present the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party as liberal but did not benefit marginalised groups.
“It was pinkwashing to justify the decision to revoke Kashmir’s special status,” said Bund. “It did not benefit the LGBTQIA+ community at all. There is still no department that works for the welfare of the community.”
Khushi said that the community has not made any improvements despite the “big” promises made by the government. “They used the excuse of giving us rights to justify the abrogation, but nothing has changed in reality,” she said. “I keep in touch with nearly everyone in our community and things are only getting worse.”
She claimed that the community continues to endure harassment from authorities, doctors, and others. “They still mock us. No one has offered assistance,” said Khushi. “Even sex workers among us don’t prioritise protection because they’re desperate for money to survive. Our lives are ruined regardless.”
Over the past few years, transgender individuals have been using dating and social media apps to find clients. “We find it safe on apps. Nobody leaks your photos here,” said Meher, a 19-year-old trans person.
It started with Facebook Messenger, but, as Meher said, people would leak their photos. “That is when dating apps helped. Grindr is the safest,” they said.
A few months ago, Meher found amulets, a charm usually used for protection or magic, in their house. “My family wanted to fix me but there was nothing wrong with me,” they said. “They thought the charm would help to take me out of the influence of my trans neighbour. But it wasn’t them, it was how I felt about myself.”
Soon, Meher left their family and started living with one of their community members. “I had no source of income and no choice but to use the app,” they said. “My clients are sometimes metres away.”
Matchmaking opportunities dwindling
On the banks of the river Jhelum in Srinagar’s Basant Bagh lives Shabnam. Unable to pursue education beyond class 10, they used to enjoy photography and modelling, but those days are now confined to dusty photo albums. “I used to wear such colourful clothes, but then I stopped,” she said, pointing at one of the photographs where they are posing as the famous Hindi movie character Anarkali. “I realised it was not allowed in my religion. I am a believer, and I then started dressing like this,” she said, pointing to her attire of a shalwar kameez and a skull cap.
Like many transgender women in Kashmir, 48-year-old Shabnam’s source of income was performing at weddings and matchmaking. In Kashmiri culture, trans women matchmakers are known as “menzimyeors”. “I continued doing matchmaking and it gained me a lot of respect,” she said. “But I don't have much work at the moment.”
Kashmiri transgender individuals often avoid flamboyant attire and makeup when venturing outside, mostly to avoid harassment.
But at weddings, they find the freedom to dress as they please while performing. At weddings, they are esteemed figures, receiving warmth and admiration for their pivotal role in arranging marriages, from matchmaking to the culmination of ceremonies. “I never attempted to alter my profession,” Shabnam said. “Though, there ought to have been a place for us in government departments… But where do we turn? Who do we ask?”
Gulshan Majeed, a historian, highlighted the historical role of the transgender community in Kashmir, saying that they have been involved in matchmaking since Mughal times. “They facilitated conversations between families,” he said, “They receive a lot of love and respect at weddings.”
Majeed underscored the discrimination faced by the community in Kashmir, noting instances of bullying and neglect. “Transgender individuals have encountered sexual abuse in other occupations,” he said, “they’re vulnerable to exploitation”.
The historian emphasised the government’s neglect of the transgender community in Kashmir and advocated for policies to support their welfare. “They deserve financial assistance,” he asserted. “It’s imperative for both the government and society to take action, including implementing awareness programs and offering employment opportunities in various government sectors.”
Shabnam expressed her willingness to even work as a sweeper in government offices if given the opportunity. “The government never does anything for us,” she said. “If they had, we wouldn't be in the current situation.”
At first, Shabnam mentioned that the community experienced a 50% reduction in work, and now they’ve lost it entirely. “We somehow manage, but I worry about transgender individuals who rely on rented accommodations,” said Shabnam, “How do they make ends meet?”
Bund said that the people of Kashmir are not ready to accept transgender people in other professions and that “they are not empowered enough to break their status quo”. The activist said that transgender persons have tried to explore other jobs but faced a lot of harassment - verbal and sexual.
Majeed, the historian, said that the community has suffered not only due to the conflict in Kashmir but also because of societal oppression. “They have very limited employment opportunities now. Both society and the government have marginalised and bullied them to such an extent that transgender individuals are compelled to turn to sex work.”
Bharti Dey, a core committee member of the All India Network of Sex Workers and head of the Durbar Mahila Samanwaya Committee, highlighted the common rejection transgender individuals face from their families across the subcontinent. “The’re constantly in survival mode,” she said. “Their traditional jobs don’t pay enough, so many turn to sex work for better earnings.”
Dey added that transgender individuals encounter exploitation across various job sectors. “If they weren’t discriminated against and marginalised, if they had job opportunities and equal rights, they wouldn’t resort to sex work.”
She said the government should play its role in providing employment and ensuring equal rights for transgender individuals. “They deserve equal rights to live in society,” Dey said.
Years ago, in Srinagar’s park, Noor and Khushi sat in silence. They talked about their lives and sobbed. “We didn’t realise it was morning already,” Khushi said. “I then knew I wasn’t ready to do it. I couldn’t.”
In the morning, she received a call that “saved her”. “My friends called me and told me that they could help me with food and medicine,” she said. “If I hadn’t gotten any support, I would have gotten into sex work too. It’s not easy to live the life of a transgender person.”
Gafira Qadir is a freelance journalist who mostly covers human rights, gender issues, education, and culture. Her writing has appeared in publications such as The Rest of World, The Daily Beast, Maktoob, The Kashmir Walla and others. She is a recipient of a Pulitzer Center Grant.
This story was produced as part of the InQlusive Newsrooms Media Fellowship 2023. InQlusive Newsrooms is a collaborative project by The News Minute and Queer Chennai Chronicles, supported by Google News Initiative, that’s working on making the Indian media more LGBTQIA+ sensitive.
This article was first published on The News Minute.
