Belonging vs bureaucracy—has proving who you are become an unfair battle for queer and trans lives?

I think a lot about what it really means to prove you belong. For most people, it’s simple: flash an ID, dig out a birth certificate, and maybe find a folder that’s been tucked away in a family drawer for years. But for others, belonging isn’t something you can just pull out of an envelope. It’s something you fight for, day after day, hoping that this time, the system will finally see you for who you are.

That’s the quiet, tense debate swirling around India’s Special Intensive Revision, or SIR—the Election Commission’s latest effort to “cleanse” voter rolls. On one side, fairness looks like paperwork: your life validated in black-and-white. On the other, there are people who have always lived in the grey zones of identity, for whom proof has never been a given. For trans and queer Indians, this isn’t just another policy update. It’s a demand for recognition, a plea to validate an existence the state has only recently begun to acknowledge.

This is about identity, yes—but also about tenderness. About the quiet ache of being asked to prove that your life is real. For many trans and queer people, that proof is never simple. It can mean revisiting a name that no longer fits, or showing a document that misgenders you, just to be seen by a system that values facts over feelings.

The cost of constant explanation

What does it do to a person over time to constantly explain who they are, and why their existence deserves to be recorded the way they live it—not the way it once was? It wears you down. It turns something as personal as identity into paperwork, and something as soft as belonging into an argument.

There’s no form for what it feels like to be mistrusted for existing differently. No checkbox for the years it takes to build a life that finally feels honest. But each time someone is told their documents don’t match, what they really hear is that their story doesn’t count. Most of us never have to think about this. Our names, families, addresses—they line up neatly on paper. But for someone who’s had to start over, whose documents carry someone else’s name, every form can feel like a test. And when the system doubts you, it’s hard not to start doubting yourself.

The SIR process asks people to trace their origins—their parentage, birthplace, previous names—as if these are uncomplicated details. They are not. A name is not always permanent. A home is not always safe. Family is not always a place you can return to. The state assumes these pieces of proof exist neatly, ready to be produced. For many, they don’t.

Paper vs reality: When fairness isn’t equal

Supporters of the SIR argue that the process is fair—that clean voter rolls protect democracy and prevent fraud. They believe documentation is what makes a system credible. In theory, they’re right. India’s voter list is enormous, and mistakes are common: names are misspelt, people are left out, and some are listed twice.

But fairness on paper is not always fairness in practice. It assumes everyone begins from the same place—with safety, family, and access to documents. That assumption excludes those whose lives have not followed that pattern.

For many trans and queer people, paperwork is never neutral. It carries histories of rejection and survival. Old identity cards bear names and genders that no longer fit. Producing them can mean risking exposure, judgment, or hostility. What should be a routine administrative step becomes a test of endurance—a confrontation with a system that has rarely felt safe.

During the National Register of Citizens (NRC) process in Assam, this exclusion took a visible shape. Over two thousand trans women reportedly lost their citizenship because their documents did not align with their lived identities. Some had left home early and could not retrieve old records; others had new documents that still carried mismatched information. The outcome was the same: people were erased, not because they did not exist, but because their existence did not fit neatly into official files. Critics fear the SIR could repeat this mistake—verification could end up excluding rather than including.

Redefining what fairness really means

At the centre of this debate lies a bigger question: what does fairness really mean? Does it mean treating everyone the same, with one rule for all? Or does it mean recognising that equality sometimes requires different paths to reach the same place? Both sides claim to defend integrity—but they see it differently. For the Election Commission, fairness means consistency. For trans and queer citizens, fairness means understanding—a recognition that proof isn’t always possible in the same way for everyone.

Democracy does need verification. Records matter. But recognition matters too. The goal should not be to discard the process, but to reshape it so it reflects how people actually live. Fairness doesn’t have to mean sameness. It can mean flexibility. It can mean acknowledging that justice cannot be blind to difference.

There are practical ways to do this. The Transgender ID card issued by the government could be accepted as valid proof for voter registration. The process of changing name and gender markers could be simplified, without forcing people through multiple offices or invasive questioning. A grievance mechanism could help those excluded because of missing or mismatched documents. These aren’t radical ideas—they’re practical adjustments that create space for people long pushed to the margins of bureaucracy.

Belonging beyond paperwork

A democracy that demands proof must also recognise that proof looks different for different people. A file can record facts, but it cannot capture everything that makes a person real. Bureaucracy can serve people without reducing them to paperwork. It can protect both accuracy and dignity.

Because belonging should never depend on the right piece of paper. It should depend on the simple fact of being seen—and accepted—as you are.

Lead Image: Pexels 

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