Pride What does Pride mean to you? A reflection on identity

The Oxford Union recently hosted a divisive debate featuring Tommy Robinson, Laurence Fox, and other controversial figures. The city centre turned into an epicentre of polarisation, hatred and anger, with outraged protesters and counter-protesters creating sites of tension in our public spaces. Yet less than two weeks before these same streets were the centre stage of a celebration of love, connection, and humanity. 

It was the first Pride Parade I had ever attended, and I was pleasantly surprised when offered to carry the Oxford University LGBTQ+ Society’s banner. I was so excited to connect with the rest of the group through our shared enthusiasm and experiences. Eagerly, I contacted many other queer friends to join. Their responses would soon shock me.

No one in my friend group and broader network actively despised this event. Yet a plethora had emphatically rejected my invitation to march, and not for the commonly cited reason of scheduling, essay deadlines, or fearing that they would run into their ex-Hinge or Grindr date. Responses described either a general anxiety that the celebration had lost its purpose (‘it’s never really about Pride anymore’), or a feeling that one’s identity could not be adequately described by the labels.

Admittedly, my initial reaction was one of surprise, with a mild hint of disdain. Why in a world where anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric is on the rise in many supposedly accepting countries, such as the US or the UK, were we not eager to stand together? Yet my arrogant ignorance quickly turned into realisations of biases caused by my own experience.

As a queer Hungarian, Pride is not just a celebration; it is a protest, a rallying cry, and a force of nature. When the Parade was banned in 2025 through the far-right Orbán regime, it still took place in Budapest, and attendance was so overwhelming (numbering up to 200,000 in a country of less than 10 million) that police refused to proceed with investigations into participants. I grew up watching the degradation of my rights, and it filled me with motivation to never surrender to the prejudices of others.

This same passion created revolutionary changes in our society. Earlier this year, Orbán’s government was ousted, and Hungary transitioned from a far-right autocracy to a centre-right administration, a seemingly minor change that will nonetheless carry significant implications. The events of Budapest Pride 2025 likely played a role in motivating anti-government action. We fought for our rights despite the odds. Why does this impassioned mindset fail to manifest in those who refused to march with me?

For me, there appear to be two problems that mirror the responses I received from my friends: these are the complacency of those in Western Europe, and our imposition of identity on queer individuals in other cultures. 

Firstly, in Western Europe and North America, there appears to be a sense of indifference to the whole event, as if our rights are already won, and there is nothing further to be done. I find this perspective rather problematic.

What does it mean to have rights? In a superficial sense, we have achieved equality with regard to marriage, adoption, and dignity in healthcare. However, have we obtained a fundamental queering of societies? Reflecting on when I had to hide the pride outfit I bought in my bag at Westgate for fear of abuse, or when I was harassed by a straight man who thought my gay identity made me his property, it is clear that there is still work to be done.

Rights are never fixed; they are broken down and reconstructed according to the demands and opinions of society. Already, support for same-sex marriage has fallen 6% in the US since 2023. Companies have dramatically downscaled their support during June, with Target in the US being a noteworthy example. Pride reminds us that the rights we have won are not inalienable. Mass apathy promotes societal woes.

Whilst I could effectively counter this critique, the feeling that some experienced about not being adequately represented at the Parade stumped me. I soon realised the problem; many of my friends do not come from a European or American background, yet the origins of modern LGBTQ+ rights originated in Stonewall in 1969. Imposing our Western European and North American queer identities on the rest of the world, letting ourselves speak for them, mirrors neo-colonial sentiments.

I realised that questions of representation were not unique to conversations in Oxford. A prominent issue in North America concerns Native American two-spirit individuals. One carries both male and female spirits regardless of their gender, affecting how they present and the relationships they form. Pride events such as those in Toronto failed to provide communities for these identities, leaving them subject to harassment and discrimination. 

These discussions reveal that our views on Pride are shaped by both personal experience and societal labels. While these can foster belonging, they have also excluded and ‘othered’ many people. This does not mean abandoning Pride. Instead, we must not be complacent and ensure the event gives a voice to those whose identities do not fit European or American labels.

Next year, I will fly the flag above my head proudly. It is not the symbol of a country, but a community, one that has no borders. And as I walked through the street, I felt at home in my heart. I hope that one day everyone can share this feeling.