A Reflection on UNGA
I’ve always thought of myself as a bold advocate. The kind of person willing to stand up in rooms, even unpopular ones, and insist on saying what others swallow back. I remember arguing with my Jamaican classmates about the rights of gay and queer people, long before it was acceptable to do so in a place where homophobia was law, culture, and inheritance. Jamaica has shifted since then, not nearly enough, but still—there’s been movement.
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So maybe that’s why I left UNGA last week with a heavy taste of disappointment. In space after space, my cis-het colleagues chose to sanitise their language. Race was reduced to polite euphemisms like “global majority.” I didn’t hear the words Black or Indigenous once. Gender was flattened to “women,” as if queer and trans people don’t exist, as if sexuality is an optional side-note we can afford to erase. Abortion—the word itself—barely surfaced. Taboo issues were swallowed whole before they could even be spoken.
As a Black woman, I’ve learned something over and over: when the world walked out on us, it was queer folks—especially queer folks of colour—who stayed. They’ve carried our movements when no one else would. Their absence in these spaces isn’t just disappointing, it’s dangerous. Because erasing them means erasing the marrow of our struggle, the part that kept us breathing when everything else said we shouldn’t. And it leaves me asking: where did our bravery go?
I think of Assata Shakur, who risked everything—not symbolic bravery, not polite bravery, but actual flesh-and-blood danger—for the rights of others. I think of Winnie Mandela, who endured solitary confinement because she refused to bend to a system that demanded her silence. Even in the most diplomatic spaces, where the stakes are nothing more than reputational risk and a few donor dollars, we can’t seem to say what we really think.
And yet—this week reminded me it isn’t all gone. I moderated a conversation with Latanya Mapp, Kavita Ramdas, and Melanie Hui—three women who didn’t bother with sanitised language. They spoke unapologetically, critiquing philanthropy’s colonial approach to funding, the structural barriers civil society faces, and the urgent need to prioritise youth-led initiatives. Beyond bemoaning the problem, they ideated solutions. They spoke in a way that would have made some of last week’s diplomats shudder.
That gave me hope. But it also scared me. Because if our boldness only lives on the margins, and not in the main stage rooms where decisions are made, then what future are we building? Diplomacy without sacrifice is just performance. Advocacy without risk is just branding.
I want us to remember what real commitment looks like. The kind that is not only about changing our own lives, but about carving out a freer, braver world for our communities—and for the generations who will follow.
