‘Transgender amendment redefines who gets to say THIS IS WHO I AM’

There are moments in public life when a law is not just debated—it is felt. Not only in courtrooms or Parliament, but in homes, within individuals, and in the quiet, everyday act of being oneself. For Harish Iyer, the recent amendment to India’s transgender law is one such moment—deeply personal, profoundly unsettling, and impossible to ignore.

A life shaped by resistance

Harish Iyer’s voice carries weight because it is lived, not performed. For over two decades, he has worked at the intersection of LGBTQ+ rights, child protection, and social justice, often pushing conversations that society would rather avoid.

He first came into national focus in 2015, when his mother placed India’s first gay matrimonial advertisement—an act that quietly but powerfully challenged stigma within Indian families. But his journey goes far beyond that moment. As a petitioner in the reading down of Section 377, and as a globally recognised activist, Harish has consistently stood at the frontline of rights-based advocacy.

“I didn’t need to prove who I am before”

When Harish speaks, he does not begin with policy. He begins with identity.

“One of the biggest problems is that self-identification has been removed,” he says. “Previously I could go to anybody and say that I’m a person, a transgender person… I didn’t need any proof. I didn’t need to prove to anybody who I am.”

It is a quiet statement, but it reflects something fundamental—the loss of being believed without question.

Four concerns that reshape identity

The transgender amendment act 2026 is a proposed change to India’s existing transgender law that introduces stricter rules around how a person’s gender identity is officially recognised. It shifts away from self-identification and brings in processes like certification and medical evaluation to determine identity.

The amendment has sparked debate, with critics arguing that it raises concerns about dignity, privacy, and the right to define one’s own identity.

Harish outlines four key concerns with the amendment, each of which, he believes, reshapes how identity itself is understood.

First, the law recognises only a limited set of socio-cultural identities—such as hijras, kinners, aravanis and jogtas—leaving out many others, particularly female-to-male transgender persons.

Second, the removal of self-identification replaces personal truth with institutional approval.

Third, provisions around “forced transgender identity” risk criminalising those who offer shelter or support, especially when individuals leave unsafe homes.

Fourth, the introduction of medical boards to certify gender identity raises serious ethical and practical concerns.

Taken together, these changes do more than regulate—they redefine who gets to say “this is who I am.”

“Gender is not something you can see”

At the heart of Harish’s argument is a simple but often misunderstood idea.

“Gender is not a sexual character. It is not something that you can look at the body and say that this person is [a certain] gender,” he explains.

He continues, “Now I might have a male body, and I could be a woman inside… I might choose not to undergo surgery for many reasons. How will a board decide who I am?”

His question exposes a deeper flaw. Not every transgender person undergoes medical transition, and not every identity can be verified through physical examination. Health conditions, financial limitations, and personal choice all play a role.

He also raises a critical absence—where are the psychological perspectives? Gender identity is not merely biological; it is deeply personal and psychological. Yet, those trained to understand this complexity are missing from the process.

How is it humiliating to prove who you are?

To make his point, Harish turns the question back.

“If you are born male or female,” he asks, “how would you feel, as an adult, said to go in front of a medical board and asked to prove that?”

The discomfort is immediate—and that is precisely what he wants to highlight.

“If I’m transgender, I need to strip and prove. It’s humiliating on several levels… somebody else certifies your gender.”

There is no dramatic anger here—only quiet fatigue. The exhaustion of having to explain, repeatedly, that identity is not something that should require evidence.

And the impact, he says, will not be limited.

“Everyone who doesn’t fit into a mould of looking perfectly like a woman or perfectly like a man will get affected by this.”

In that sense, the law risks policing not just identity, but difference itself.

The quiet fear inside homes

Beyond policy and procedure, Harish points to something more fragile—what happens inside homes.

“There are many people who come to my house… my family provides them with support,” he says.

These are often young adults—sometimes facing rejection, sometimes facing threats—who leave unsafe environments in search of acceptance. For many, informal networks are the only safety they have.

But the amendment introduces uncertainty. Provisions under Section 18, aimed at penalising “forced transgender identity,” could be interpreted broadly. Critics warn that activists, NGOs, and chosen families may be affected.

“Now people are scared… if you harbour that person, then you are liable to punishment.”

The fear is subtle but real: that compassion itself could carry consequences. And in that fear, safe spaces may begin to disappear.

“Where is the data?”

When the conversation turns to the government’s justification—preventing misuse—Harish responds with a question.

“What is the data?”

He points out that while India’s transgender population is estimated in several lakh, only around 32,000 individuals have obtained transgender ID cards, and fewer than 2,000 have accessed benefits.

“If there is misuse… is there a criminal case? Or a law to prevent or penalise that misuse?” he asks.

His argument is straightforward. Every system can be misused—but that does not justify dismantling it. The solution, he suggests, is to fix gaps, not remove rights.

A silence that led to resignation

On March 26, 2026, Harish took a decisive stand—resigning from his role linked to the National Human Rights Commission. His reason was clear: what he described as a “deafening silence” as the Transgender Amendment Bill moved forward without consultation. For him, this was no longer about working within the system—it was about confronting it.

For Harish, the turning point was not just the content of the law, but the absence of dialogue.

“If I am in the advisory group… there needs to be consultation. There was zero consultation,” he says.

“We had no clue that something like this is coming.”

In a body meant to uphold rights, that silence felt like exclusion. His resignation from the NHRC was not just symbolic—it was a refusal to remain part of a process where voices like his were not heard.

A step away from a landmark promise

The conversation inevitably returns to the NALSA judgment 2014—a decision that once placed India at the forefront of recognising gender identity as a matter of self-determination.

“I think India was on the map for taking the right step,” Harish reflects.

“This particular step… is also a block on India’s image in the global landscape.”

For him, this is about more than reputation. It is about a promise—that identity would be respected, not questioned.

He also had a message for those who may be feeling abandoned or shaken by the developments—young people who feel left out, unheard, or unsafe.

“No matter if the government is against you, the law is against you, the system is against you—you will have us,” he said. “As a community, we will stand together. And as long as we stand together, nothing can break us.”

It was a reminder that even when institutions fail, solidarity can still offer strength and belonging.

At the same time, his message extended beyond the community—to families, to society at large.

“Don’t stop being a safe home,” he urged.

Harish’s words moved away from policy and returned to something deeply human.

“Please, please don’t leave the side of your children,” he said.

“Don’t stop being a safe home… let there be more open doors when some are closing.”

It is a simple appeal, but one that carries immense weight. Because beyond laws and policies, it is families that decide whether a person feels accepted—or completely alone.

Beyond law, a question of dignity

This is not just a legal debate. It is a human one.

It is about what it means to exist without fear, without proof, without having to justify who you are.

For Harish Iyer, the amendment is not merely a policy shift—it is a deeply personal rupture. A moment where identity risks being reduced to paperwork, and dignity to approval.

And in his words—measured, emotional, and unwavering—lies a reminder: rights are not abstract. They are lived, defended, and, when threatened, fought for.