2024 saw many historic and horrifying moments – nationally and globally. Beyond genocides, alarming climate records, and civil unrest – sexual and gender-based violence (SGBV) took over a significant part of the public rhetoric in India, as well as the world. RG Kar took center stage in India, while Gisèle Pélicot’s name kept France under the global SGBV spotlight. While we are still witnessing the Indian legal system stumble and stutter through one of the most publicly tracked rape trials in recent history, we received news from France this week that 51 men along with the husband in question who was implicated in facilitating a series of rape – were convicted, albeit sentenced too little.
Gisèle’s case drew a crucial focus to a very complex form of SGBV – Intimate Partner Violence (IPV), also known as domestic violence or dating violence.
Gisèle’s case drew a crucial focus to a very complex form of SGBV – Intimate Partner Violence (IPV), also known as domestic violence or dating violence. Both identifying and seeking support against this is difficult – varying, depending on which part of the world you are in – or what your gender and sexual identity is. How does queer experience in this country complicate the question of IPV?
What is IPV? What is unique to the queer experience of it?
Intimate Partner Violence is a complex and often invisible form of violence between or amongst partners who are in a sexual, romantic, and/or domestic partnership. IPV can be defined as a pattern of physical, sexual, psychological, and emotional violence in the context of coercive control by a former or current intimate partner.
Like any other form of violence around the world, IPV also stems from hierarchies – which can be of any degree, across many intersections of identities. But unlike most other acts of violence, IPV is often invisible and enabled by social systems. It further goes under the shadow when the people involved are already marginalised and invisibilised in the social structure. An American study revealed LGBTQ+ women, trans people, and non-binary folx reportedly experience IPV at rates comparable to or higher than their cisgender and heterosexual peers.
61% of bisexual women and 44% of lesbian women, compared to 35% of straight women. 37.3% of bisexual men, 26% of gay men, compared to 29% of heterosexual men. While over half (54%) of trans and non-binary folx reportedly experienced IPV in their lifetimes they are also more vulnerable to intimate partner violence (IPV) within the LGBTQ+ community due to stereotypes and hypersexualisation. Unfortunately, such data sets are unavailable for India as there is little research done on IPV in the Indian academic space, with slimmer pickings for queer IPV.
Roe & Jagodinsky’s power wheel demonstrates and simplifies how abuse can leverage existing systems of hate. The outer ring is the environment within which a relationship exists – for queer folx that ring constitutes homophobia, biphobia, transphobia, and heterosexism. The inner circle within which the partners exist can see many techniques of violence – economic abuse, coercion, intimidation, and identity abuse.
The outer ring facilitates the inner mechanism as the external stigma becomes a weapon of silence and endurance of IPV. A study about barriers to reporting IPV for immigrant and refugee women spoke about a few reasons that resonate with the barriers for queer folx as well – discrimination, limited knowledge about laws and rights, isolation, social stigma, economic exclusion, lack of accessible shelters and above all – fear of loss. There is a sense of impending loss that looms over queer relationships, that does not even have anything to do with the internal workings of the partnership.
Shreosi Ray, senior program officer and queer peer supporter at Sappho For Equality spoke about how loss and impermanence are easier to accept in queer relationships, especially involving individuals assigned “female” at birth (afab). Between familial pressure and love, the former has more systemic power.
Between familial pressure and love, the former has more systemic power.
‘Sometimes recognising violence in close quarters is very difficult. What we had considered love in retrospect reveals itself as violence. Maybe one does not want to acknowledge it so that the partner does not leave. The fear of losing a partner can be huge.’ (transl.) For a community that often loses their natal family’s support, society’s protection, and more – a partner becomes a beacon of hope, the only available support. ‘If queer or trans people have to leave their homes, they cannot always bring their documents‘, Shreosi said.
This would lead to many related issues, like a bank account. Financial independence often decides the fate of a survivor in an abusive relationship. Without papers, one cannot open a bank account, so even if they earn their own money, they would depend on their partner for its safekeeping. Such dependence can limit a person’s choice and autonomy in a relationship – tipping the balance of power.
Compounding violence in IPV cases: a nightmare within a nightmare
Aritra Chatterjee, a clinical psychologist who has worked with the community extensively, said that the lack of self-worth perpetuated through shame and stigma sets the bar for relationships quite low for many queer folx. A lot of the fundamental work is ‘building that sense of self-worth, building the expectation of a safe and healthy relationship.’ A queer IPV survivor faces multiple layers of judgments – ‘first negation of the experience of violence, [second] of your identity and [third] of the relationship as a legitimate site of intervention.‘
Kaushik Gupta, a Kolkata-based lawyer who has worked with the queer community over the last 20 years, said, ‘If I have to answer, in the event there is an intimate partner violence (queer) whether there is a remedial law – the answer is principally no. However if we forget that the two are intimate partners, and [look at it] as two friends are staying together and if there is [an event of] violence – whatever remedial law is available to them is the only remedy available‘ for IPV in queer couples. The word “intimate” in that case is moot. Thus only a few cases can be tried under such a broad law, if at all they are taken to court. The threat of queerphobia and dehumanisation at the hands of law enforcers is too huge a cost to incur for someone who is already suffering from the mental and physical effects of IPV.
IPV is in many ways romanticised and accepted culturally. Kaushik said, ‘In IPV [within queer or heterosexual relationships] jealousy, insecurity, and possessiveness play very important roles in violence.’ Unmanaged emotions and unhealthy ways of processing them are often the cause of violence and abuse in intimate relationships. This insecurity is further fuelled by a society that corners and shames one for their sexuality or gender identity. Zahi, (name changed as requested) a young bisexual individual, spoke about how shame is a tool used even in heterosexual cases.
Zahi, (name changed as requested) a young bisexual individual, spoke about how shame is a tool used even in heterosexual cases.
‘In my area, love marriages have been a very recent [phenomenon]. When a girl gets into a heterosexual love marriage, [people say] you chose this for yourself, abhi kuch bhi ho jae mere paas mat aana (now, whatever happens, do not come to me).‘ Alienation from potential support system because of a “choice” allows such violence to go unnoticed and continue. Sometimes this queerphobia is internalised that indirectly blames the survivor and defends the violence – as if that is what they “deserve”.
Aritra while talking about multiple layers of relational violence said that for many queer folx, ‘violence becomes the norm than the exception.‘ Akhil, a Delhi-based research scholar, drew from his own and his peers’ experience, ‘The number of times most [gay] men have had to go through sexual experiences without consent or pleasure is alarming.’ While the Indian legal recourse for domestic violence favours women, there is little to no remedy available for SGBV or IPV committed by one woman against another.
In Anderson and Flanders’ 2020 paper “Young Bisexual People’s Experiences of Sexual Violence,” 38 percent of assailants were female. This brings one to the question of recognising localiaed violence in the face of larger machines of discrimination and stigma. Akhil added that he had had a lot of unpleasant sexual experiences that he did not like but was unable to identify if they were SGBV or not.
‘For the master’s tool will never dismantle the master’s house‘
– Audre Lorde
The issue of queer marriage rights plays a crucial role in this conversation, especially in a country where any legal remedy for domestic violence is recognised in the ambit of marital relations. In 2023, after a prolonged public hearing, all the judges reached a unanimous consensus in asserting that there is no absolute right to marriage, and same-sex couples cannot assert it as a fundamental right. This meant they would not be able to access the benefits the state provides for those who conform to the institution of marriage.
Kaushik strongly believes that it is not a patriarchal structure like marriage that is aspirational but an anti-discrimination law. While Shreosi, who also believes the power in the latter, thinks that if marriage provides systemic benefits then queer folx have a right to make that choice. Without the legal framework of marriage, or even civil unions or domestic partnerships, queer individuals often have little recourse to legal protection in cases of IPV. The lack of formal recognition means that survivors may not have access to legal aid, healthcare, housing, or even basic protections like restraining orders, further isolating them from support systems.
The lack of formal recognition means that survivors may not have access to legal aid, healthcare, housing, or even basic protections like restraining orders, further isolating them from support systems.
Relationships recognised as a marriage or akin to marriage are still struggling to seek recourse or address this issue, despite the existence of legal frameworks (except marital rape, of course). What happens when the relationships are systemically invisibilised or when being invisible is the safer choice? The external violence is not just social but a large part of violence against queer communities is from the natal family. Not many queer folx have the privilege to be out with their own family. Aritra pointed out the threat that addressing IPV poses, ‘Even to bring out the violence in the open you have to [reveal] your relationship status‘ Upon being asked what the greater threat is, Zahi responded, ‘Being outed is more scary than being assaulted for a lot of us.’
Dealing with an assault alone feels much more within somebody’s control. ‘When you are ostracised from society you do not have control over other people’s behavior.‘ This is a negotiation that survivors and perpetrators of IPV must make within the community – what is within the control of the community? Because both the perpetrator and the survivor, if we go by that binary, are victims of the system. There are objectively no queer victims, the heterosexist society is only interested in establishing and taking apart a queer criminal. Vilified for their gender and sexual identity, like many marginalised identities – the assumption of crime committed by queer folx is the status quo.
Shreosi said, ‘There is a fear of generalisation that they will make – “look they are fighting even though we have let them be in a relationship”… they will focus on the violence of queer relationships without really talking about solutions.‘ (transl.)
Radically accountable: a queer lens to study differences
‘Even to raise a complaint [with concerned departments]… how many of these officials have been trained in gender sensitisation?‘ Zahi asked while talking about the lack of IPV reporting. Kaushik revealed how indeed the police have to go for sensitisation training, ‘Because I work in the field of human rights, there are many times, for many issues we have done sensitisation of the police… your seniors [have told you] go to this workshop, you will sit there, listen to whoever is saying whatever, and in your mind, you are saying ‘this is bullshit’.’
IPV has traditionally been framed through a gendered, heteronormative lens, assuming male perpetrators and female victims.
As any protocol goes, it can force someone to be somewhere but it cannot push one to engage or imbibe. Such workshop or training also creates a bucket or section for queer violence when queer experience just provides an intersectional lens for the larger scope of violence that exists. Aritra says, ‘Queerness (is) not a chapter that people learn but becomes a lens through which they view mainstream issues… because unless this happens, this intersectional and cross-sectoral engagement or collaboration will be impossible.’
‘Our ideas about abuse or intimate partner violence have been heavily dominated by heteronormativity and patriarchy,’ Akhil said. IPV has traditionally been framed through a gendered, heteronormative lens, assuming male perpetrators and female victims. This is reflected directly in the Indian legal frameworks available for IPV. This leaves little room to address the distinct realities of queer relationships. It is also important to understand that in many ways queer relationships emulate the heteronormative formula because there is not enough alternative available to look up to.
This domination not only obscures the unique forms of violence queer individuals face but also forces survivors to conform to a framework that fails to reflect their lived experiences. The idea of “safety” becomes elusive—what is safe, and where is safe, when the legal system, social structures, and even community spaces often overlook or avoid addressing the complex power structures within queer relationships? The erasure of queer realities in IPV discussions reinforces a culture of silence and invisibility, leaving survivors without adequate support or redressal mechanisms.
Kaushik directed attention towards something that unanimously all respondents focused on, ‘I feel the need of the day is accountability.’ In 2021, while hearing a writ petition by a lesbian couple Justice Anand Venkatesh voluntarily underwent psycho-educational sessions and interactions with LGBTQI+ people to have a better understanding of their emotions and problems. Each stakeholder is responsible for the role they play and if there is no dereliction of that duty – this is not a complex problem.
Addressing IPV in queer relationships requires holding institutions accountable, not just individuals. Police, legal professionals, and service providers must adopt non-discriminatory practices to ensure that survivors feel seen and supported. Even within LGBTQ+ organisations, there is an urgent need to create peer-led spaces and open channels for communication, as seen with the Sappho helpline, which fosters peer support and community care. Additionally, queer-inclusive policies, such as restorative justice frameworks and non-discrimination laws, can help reframe the conversation. Advocate Kaushik Gupta emphasised that IPV or any other form of violence faced by queer folx can be addressed through anti-discrimination law.
Advocate Kaushik Gupta emphasised that IPV or any other form of violence faced by queer folx can be addressed through anti-discrimination law.
There is a general lack of awareness, social stigma, and discrimination around queer communities, so combating IPV within this marginalised group is even more critical. Solutions need to be strategised in collaboration with community members while all stakeholders need to be accountable for their actions and inaction – which include police, lawyers, government, media, LGBTQ+ advocacy organisations, and family members.
Shreosi pointed out that there is a designated budget for community upliftment, the government must also be held accountable for the spending. This accountability must also extend to the community members and peer groups. Akhil says, ‘Sometimes the violence even happens within the communities… in their inner circles they [can be] manipulative or abusive.‘ The fear of external violence can also create a toxic need to defend and silence conversations about abusive or toxic power structures within the community.
The intersectional violence within the queer community is one such structural violence that is rarely discussed. ‘While mental health [aid] should be affordable and accessible, there is a big problem of caste that is involved… while Instagram is showing the rosy picture of queer life [partying in places like Taj Vivanta], that elitism needs to be broken.‘ During the peak-covid crisis, Sappho opened its shelter or temporary residency for queer boarders, ‘We saw many kinds of interpersonal dynamics and violence play out there… we had imagined this would be so easy, all queer people living together happily.‘
The reality of intersectional violence of larger structures like caste further complicates a vulnerable space like queer community peer groups or shelters. ‘So we had to create protocols, do communication workshops.‘ Shreosi also said art-based therapy proved to be very helpful in these interventions.
Restore, not retribute: make space for differences
‘The problem is everyone wants to cancel each other rather than have dialogues.’ Akhil put his finger on the pulse. The hyper-polarised world of social media has long bled into our reality and now more than ever the world is a binary of good and bad, victim and culprit, survivor and abuser. IPV like any other SGBV has a power hierarchy where one commits the violence and the other endures – even in cases where the violence has been mutual, the moment of violence will inadvertently create a victim or survivor of that violence. Due to the lack of adequate judicial support, the #MeToo movement saw the rise of cancel culture as a way to levy sanctions on individuals. But it soon grew into a vindictive and retributive social justice system with no checks and stops.
Canceling a cishet man in the pinnacle of power is not the same as canceling a queer individual for IPV – cutting the latter off from whatever social support they have can isolate them, which could be potentially dangerous.
Canceling a cishet man in the pinnacle of power is not the same as canceling a queer individual for IPV – cutting the latter off from whatever social support they have can isolate them, which could be potentially dangerous. ‘See, the focus is on healing and restorative justice than [absolute] shunning‘, Aritra emphasised. Even for the survivor – if they are counseled to leave the partner – what is the alternative provision? Where is the support? Often such a decision can pose an existential crisis – as fundamental as a roof over one’s head. Reimagining IPV dialogue for queer relationships requires a shift from cancel culture to restorative accountability, prioritising therapy, mental health, and systemic change.
Aiswarya Raj T, an independent writer, and researcher, says, ‘[They] only study the victims. [Even in heterosexual violence] they study how women can do better.’ The study of patriarchy is abstract, and the perpetrator – their location and profile is abstract. Aritra spoke on the same tenor of why we need to ‘listen to both sides of the story‘ – to understand the perpetrator, not to validate or enable the cycle of violence but to build a restorative system of delivering justice. It is important to acknowledge that a relationship can be both ‘a source of support and at the same time it can be a violent one‘. Acknowledging the contradiction can then make way for redressal and repair.
Twisted voice or silence – what role is media playing?
Gisèle’s case and the consistent reporting around it – which also created a narrative of a very vocal and visible survivor, has been both heartwrenching and empowering. Sensitive and incisive reporting can help thousands find their voice. So how are we failing the queer community? In the last few months, two murder investigations revealed that the cases were the culmination of intimate partner violence in queer relationships.
The murder investigation of a 21-year-old man led officials to the murderer – head constable Mr Singh, who had met the deceased through a dating app. A few months after this case another made headlines – fourteen years after the murder of a city hotel manager, the prime suspect was finally arrested – the partner of the deceased, a waiter at the same hotel. One or two major news portals barely carried both these news pieces. If one reads these articles, besides the abysmal headlines, the language displays a blatant lack of sensitivity and training. ‘Gupta initiated furious sexual contact‘- a very strange way to phrase aggravated sexual assault.
Neither cis-men nor transgender folx are protected against rape by Indian law anymore.
It would have been rape but legally, and strictly legally, it cannot be as has been facilitated by the new-fangled version of law against rape in Bharatiya Nyay Sanghita. Neither cis-men nor transgender folx are protected against rape by Indian law anymore. The report also includes statements like, ‘Desai told investigators that he had been in a homosexual relationship‘. We have been reading a lot of intimate partner violence reports, including live-in cis-het partners – when have we last encountered the phrase ‘the suspect told the police that they were in a heterosexual relationship‘? This is not nitpicking, this is the tip of the iceberg as far as gender-sensitive reporting goes. Or reporting in general, where sensationalising the stigma, voyeurism, and phobias of the consumer is what we have boiled news down to.
Confidentiality and anonymity are of utmost importance when covering SGBV news. Indian media unfortunately has been failing, even within the heteronormative status quo. Drawing from the RG Kar reporting – not only was the victim’s name revealed, but her pictures were published within hours of the news breaking – the voyeuristic details of an unverified post-mortem report would make for a completely different piece on journalistic integrity in the 21st century. While it amounts to criminal negligence and insensitivity in this case, in reporting queer SGBV such lack of discretion could be fatal. Aritra pointed out that it is not only the survivor or victim, but ‘it might so happen that the perpetrator is also at a vulnerable position, because of their queerness.‘
Akhil has no hope from mainstream media on representation and reporting of queer violence, ‘Unless we have gay or lesbian [led] media conglomerate, I do not think the media is going to change any narrative about us.’ The young queer population would rather rely on alternative media channels than established media outlets to talk about these issues. Shreosi on the other hand believes that such institutions, an initial boost necessary for visibility, can lead to further queer ghettoisation – which perpetuates alienation and polarisation.
Aiswarya added, ‘There is a lack of linguistic framework‘ in relation to SGBV experienced by queer folx which in turn lends to both legal and media representation. While Aritra pointed out that ‘There are trans-affirmative guidelines for media reporting which need to be disseminated to the media outlets‘. Language, a central tool in both the judicial and media ecosystems, can perpetuate stereotypes or foster justice. It is also crucial that more in-depth research is conducted about the nuanced subcultures of violence, like IPV, for critical and marginalised communities – it is only then that we would have the necessary data and formulate a more robust language.
Through the many colours reflected in the voices of the respondents, there was an almost unanimous nod to restorative or remedial justice. The queer community has always questioned the status quo of power and the binaries of the patriarchal society – this political lens can lend a more positive and hopeful future for GBV. Breaking this binary would also allow us to investigate intersectionality in IPV, be it gender, sexuality, caste, or religion. Restorative justice also requires extreme care and consistent support from all stakeholders – to not revictimise, retraumatise, or enable power imbalances. Hence, accountability is crucial to ensure that the restorative process is not only just but also fair and equitable, where all individuals are respected, supported, and empowered to heal.
Interviewee/respondents:
Aiswarya Raj T (she/her), independent writer
Akhil (he/him), research scholar
Aritra Chatterjee (she/her), clinical psychologist, Rocket Health
Kaushik Gupta (he/him), human rights lawyer
Shreosi Ray (she/they), senior program officer and queer peer supporter, Sappho for Equality
Zahi (name and identity changed for anonymity)
