“ONLY ARYANS.”

The moment my eyes land on those words in the bio section of a queer man’s dating profile, a surge of anger jolts through me, tightening the muscles in my neck and scalp. I feel my body temperature rise as my head aches, but underneath it all, those two words unleash frustration and rage that have been simmering inside me for years.

What does “Only Aryans” mean? Does this person think that people like me—indigenous and Dalit—are ugly?I tried to rationalize and came up with dozens of reasons, hoping to find an answer. But deep down I knew the real reason he wrote that in his bio was nothing but casteism.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t the first person to have that bio, and isn’t going to be the last. Queer spaces and dating apps are rife with several men like him who interject caste biases and Brahmanism into these platforms, making them feel exclusive for Dalit and indigenous queer folks.

Also read: Casteism in Queer Spaces

The inability to see Dalit and indigenous queer folks as attractive people, or as equal counterparts, is a grim reality that binds savarna queer folks together in their hegemony. From occupying the majority of spaces to avoiding physical and social contact to blatantly ignoring the caste system and its impact, Queer men, women, and non-binary folks from historically oppressive caste backgrounds have solidified the caste system by actively reinforcing their caste biases in queer spaces.

So what does this bias and discrimination look like? Many of you may argue that caste discrimination doesn’t exist, or that it’s a thing of the past, or that queers aren’t as casteist as others because we know what it feels like to be marginalized and discriminated against.

But caste is such an insidious force that it exists in every space, including those in the periphery of our social fabric, maintaining the hegemony of oppressor caste men, women, and non-binary people who benefit greatly from the system regardless of their gender or sexuality.

It is important to understand that as society evolves, the way in which caste functions and exerts its poison also changes over time. Today, caste may not always appear in its crudest form. There may be people belonging to oppressor castes sharing brunch with us. They may have no problem when we enter places of worship. They may touch us, kiss us, even fuck us, hold our hands, caress our foreheads and go on dates with us. But when it comes to fighting or abolishing the caste system, their bodies will tremble. They will either try to avoid conversations about caste or pretend it doesn’t exist. There is often little to no acknowledgement of the fact that they occupy and dominate the majority of spaces, shaped by the system designed in their favor. And they will also never acknowledge the fact that their parents agreeing to marry them off to another person of the same sex from the same caste is caste-based discrimination.

Such is the hypocrisy and caste blindness of queer folks hailing from oppressor castes that it has damaged the overall queer movement, forcing it to assimilate with the system rather than fight against it.

As a lower caste indigenous person, I have had my own fair share of experiences of casteism in queer spaces. Because of my positionality in the class system (I have had access to several resources), upper caste queer folks have never said anything problematic to my face. I have also been fortunate enough not to experience any form of extreme violence despite my caste identity. However, caste is rarely addressed with the sensitivity it requires, in most queer spaces that I have been part of. It always takes me to raise a flag about the lack of discourse around caste and how much queer activism is informed by Brahminism, which directly impacts what areas are prioritized in the movement.

For instance, consider the amount of emphasis and importance placed on gay marriage in South Asia by the queer activists. Careers are being built currently as activists and lawmakers are collectively working to pass same-sex marriage bills, arguing that it is the pinnacle of queer movement and liberation.

Also read: A Queer’s World

While everyone, regardless of sexuality or gender, should have the right to a civil union, marriage inherently serves the interests of those who already have privilege, which does not include Dalit and indigenous queer people. What is more pressing for us are economic security, equal access to social and political resources, and legal and community support. There are many queer Dalit and indigenous folks, who still struggle to find jobs. They face constant harassment from the police and society. Some are even disowned by their own friends and family, forcing them to live in isolation.

With all the challenges they face, is marriage or starting a family really a priority for them? What would matter more to them—securing food, money, and shelter, or a destination wedding with hundreds of guests and curated Instagram posts? Obviously the former.

Yet their issues are often sidelined as upper-caste individuals, particularly gay men, have largely dominated the movement, prioritizing marriage equality as the central agenda of queer activism. Unlike queer Dalit individuals, they don’t have to navigate the dual challenges of casteism and queerphobia. With the support they receive from family and friends (if they are lucky) and greater access to resources, they can secure jobs more easily than their Dalit counterparts. As a result, their focus shifts to marriage, which not only helps them accumulate more capital, but also provides legal recognition and rights that can further cement their position in the status-quo.

Also read: On Legitimizing Chosen Family Beyond Marriage

I recognize that escaping the grip of caste-based hierarchy is a challenging endeavor. Caste is so deeply ingrained in our DNA that it’s sometimes difficult to break free. But even if we ignore caste, or at least pretend to do so, caste never ignores us. Caste is omnipresent in the rooms we occupy, in the food we eat, in the water we drink, in our interactions, in the people we love or are attracted to, in the people we hate, and in the people we fuck. Caste affects all our actions and interactions—everything we do.

If you don’t believe me, try this exercise, especially if you are upper caste. Sit down and take out a piece of paper. Then start writing down all the names of Dalit and indigenous queer folks you have been involved with, whether it be platonically, romantically or sexually. Or maybe you have worked with them in some capacity where you were equals.

Were you able to write down any names? Or was your paper blank?

The latter is likely because your interactions with Dalit and indigenous queer folks are rare. Even if we don’t like to believe it, caste exists everywhere and is harming the overall queer movement. Caste determines the agenda of the movement, who gets to speak, what is considered cool and hip, who is considered attractive and desirable, who gets to write, who gets to organize, the subcultures, and so on.

So when you say that you are most attracted to people of your own caste and want to “settle down” with them, remember that your conditioning is not just mere attraction. It’s the caste-based biases that you have learned from your ancestors that shape who you are attracted to and who you want to be with—it’s not always just a personal choice, but a political one too.

Also read: Grace Banu Urges DEI Advocates to Address the Intersection of Caste and Queerness

I pose this question to all the upper caste queer folks: if love is love, why do you only fall for people of your caste? Why can’t you love someone who doesn’t have the resources you have, but is hardworking, sincere, and has a kind heart? Are the qualities that you are seeking in a partner like “being understanding”, “kind” and “humble” only applicable to English-speaking queer folks from the upper caste? Also, why do your lips part and your gaze lower when someone from our community starts speaking in slurs in a non-English language? Why do you not like it when a Dalit person tries to address the caste prejudices? Why do you label them as party poopers or conflict-makers, when they bring up their experiences with casteism in queer circles?

Maybe it’s time for you to rethink and reflect on your behavior and conditioning.