Stonewall’s Lesson: Rights Are Never Safe Without Resistance

Stonewall’s Lesson: Rights Are Never Safe Without Resistance | by Heather Paterson | Jun, 2026 | Medium Today marks the anniversary of the Stonewall uprising. For many people, Stonewall has become shorthand for the birth of the modern LGBTQIA+ rights movement. It is spoken about as the moment queer people finally fought back. As the spark. As the beginning.

But that version of history is too neat. It risks flattening a much longer story of resistance, and it can give the false impression that LGBTQIA+ liberation began with one night, in one bar, in one city, before moving steadily and inevitably towards progress.

The truth is more powerful than that.

Stonewall was not the beginning of queer resistance. It was part of a much longer chain of anger, courage, organising and survival. In the early hours of 28 June 1969, police raided the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village, New York. Raids on LGBTQIA+ venues were common. Police harassment, public humiliation, violence, arrest and exposure were part of the machinery used to keep queer and trans people afraid. But that night, people fought back. Drag queens, trans people, street youth, lesbians, gay men, bisexual people, Black and Latinx queer people, sex workers, homeless young people and others pushed back against the police. The resistance continued over several nights and became a defining moment in LGBTQIA+ history.

But Stonewall did not appear from nowhere.

A decade earlier, in 1959, the Cooper Do-nuts riot in Los Angeles saw queer and trans people resist police harassment. In 1966, trans women, drag queens, gender-nonconforming people and sex workers fought back at Compton’s Cafeteria in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district. In 1967, after police raided the Black Cat Tavern in Los Angeles, following men kissing at midnight on New Year’s Eve, hundreds joined one of the earliest organised LGBTQIA+ protests against police violence. There were countless other acts of resistance too: quieter, less recorded, often led by people pushed to the margins of society and then pushed to the margins of our own history.

Stonewall matters deeply. But it matters more, not less, when we place it in its proper context. It was not a single spark in a dark room. It was one eruption in a landscape already full of heat.

The lesson is not that one riot gave us our rights. The lesson is that people who had been criminalised, pathologised, mocked, beaten and ignored reached a point where fear was no longer enough to keep them silent.

Since then, we have won things our predecessors were told were impossible. Across the UK, we have seen the partial decriminalisation of homosexuality, the equalisation of the age of consent, the repeal of Section 28, protections against discrimination, civil partnerships, equal marriage, adoption rights, recognition of gender reassignment as a protected characteristic, and legal gender recognition. We have seen Pride marches grow from acts of defiance into major public events. We have seen LGBTQIA+ people become politicians, teachers, parents, artists, CEOs, athletes, journalists, faith leaders and community organisers. We have seen schools, workplaces, public services and charities begin to recognise that LGBTQIA+ people are not problems to be solved, but people entitled to dignity, safety and joy.

None of that was inevitable. None of it was gifted.

Every right we have was won because people organised. People marched. People wrote. People litigated. People built services when the state failed them. People cared for each other through HIV and AIDS when governments looked away. People came out at risk to themselves. People challenged employers, churches, schools, doctors, newspapers, police forces, councils and parliaments. People kept going when the cost was high.

And because rights were won, they can also be lost.

That is the part of Stonewall’s legacy we cannot afford to soften. The fight was never finished. It was not won once and banked forever. Progress is not a straight line. It moves because people push it. It stalls when institutions retreat. It reverses when hate is organised, funded and normalised.

We are living through one of those moments now.

Globally, we can see the backlash clearly. In the United States under Donald Trump, attacks on trans people, diversity initiatives, inclusive education and LGBTQIA+ visibility have accelerated. Even the Stonewall National Monument became a site of political erasure, with trans references removed and the Pride flag targeted. What happens in the US does not stay in the US. The tactics, language, legal strategies and funding networks travel.

But we do not need to look across the Atlantic to see danger. The UK is already in it.

The For Women Scotland Supreme Court ruling has reshaped the legal and political terrain for trans people in the UK. The Court was clear that trans people still have protections under the Equality Act, including through the protected characteristic of gender reassignment. But the interpretation of “sex”, “man” and “woman” has already been seized on by politicians, campaigners, institutions and commentators in ways that go far beyond calm legal clarification. The subsequent EHRC guidance and revised Code of Practice have created fear, confusion and exclusion in everyday life. Toilets, changing rooms, services, workplaces, schools, sport, prisons and healthcare have all become sites of argument about whether trans people can participate in public life with dignity.

The law may speak in careful terms. The culture does not.

The impact on trans people is not theoretical. It is not a debate topic. It is people wondering whether they can use a toilet without being challenged. It is people fearing that a hospital ward, a gym changing room, a workplace policy or a school trip will become a battleground. It is people already facing long waits, hostile media, politicised healthcare and rising social suspicion being told, again, that their lives are up for public negotiation.

This week’s publication of a draft Conversion Practices Bill should also be understood in that context. On one level, it is a potential step towards the long-promised ban LGBTQIA+ communities have been demanding since 2018. But it must not be treated as the end of the fight, or even as a victory in its current form. A ban that leaves major loopholes is not a ban that protects people.

Most concerningly, the draft appears to carve out conversion practices when they are framed as legitimate healthcare or therapeutic practice. In the current climate, where trans healthcare is already being restricted, politicised and weaponised, that kind of exemption could render the legislation ineffective at best and actively harmful at worst.

The danger is obvious. The very settings where some LGBTQIA+ people, especially trans and gender-diverse people, are most vulnerable to coercion, delay, denial or pathologisation could become the places most insulated from scrutiny. A conversion practices ban must not create a two-tier system where religious or family-based abuse is recognised, but clinical or therapeutic attempts to suppress, redirect or undermine someone’s sexual orientation or gender identity are protected by professional language.

If conversion practices can be reframed as “exploratory” care, safeguarding, clinical neutrality or professional judgement, then the ban risks failing precisely the people most at risk. If the bill is to mean anything, it must protect LGBTQIA+ people from conversion practices wherever they occur, including when they are dressed up in the language of care.

That is why this draft should be understood as the beginning of a parliamentary and movement process, not the conclusion of one. It needs scrutiny, amendment and pressure from survivors, LGBTQIA+ organisations, healthcare experts, legal specialists and communities themselves. The goal was never simply to publish a bill. The goal is a fully inclusive, effective ban that protects people in practice, not just in principle.

At the same time, hate crime remains a constant part of the landscape. Official figures never tell the whole story, because so much abuse is never reported, but LGBTQIA+ people know what the climate feels like. People know when they stop holding hands. When they choose different clothes. When they avoid public transport at night. When they take the rainbow lanyard off for the journey home. When they calculate whether visibility is worth the risk.

Social attitudes are shifting too. Support for trans rights has fallen in recent years. The endless churn of hostile headlines, bad-faith “debate”, misinformation and political scapegoating has consequences. It changes what people feel licensed to say. It changes what institutions feel brave enough to defend. It changes what employers, funders, councils and public bodies decide is too controversial to touch.

That retreat is already visible.

Reform-led councils have removed Pride flags, withdrawn funding from Pride events, and restricted Pride activity in public spaces such as libraries. In places including Durham, Essex, Kent, Leicestershire, Gateshead and Sunderland, LGBTQIA+ visibility has been treated not as a basic expression of civic inclusion, but as a political problem to be managed or erased. Statutory organisations that once participated proudly in Pride events are looking at the political weather and stepping back. Corporate support for Pride and LGBTQIA+ charities is also shrinking, as wider attacks on DEI make companies less willing to stand by the values they once marketed.

This is how rollback often works. Not always through one dramatic law. Sometimes through a flag not raised. A grant not renewed. A sponsor quietly disappearing. A public body deciding not to attend Pride this year. A school cancelling training. A council calling neutrality what is actually abandonment.

And then there is the use of strategic litigation and legal pressure. Around the world, anti-rights movements have learned that courts, regulators and complaints systems can be used to narrow rights even where public opinion is mixed. The same pattern is visible in attacks on reproductive rights, trans healthcare, inclusive education, conversion practice bans, migration rights and women’s rights.

ADF International’s growing UK presence should be seen in that wider context. So too should the escalating pressure around sport, including campaigns targeting inclusive policies in spaces such as Parkrun. A Saturday morning 5k may seem a small thing to those not paying attention. But these arguments are rarely only about the specific setting in front of us. They are about creating test cases, shifting norms, exhausting organisations, frightening decision-makers and establishing the idea that trans inclusion is always a legal risk.

This is not separate from the far right. Hope Not Hate’s State of Hate work has shown a far right that is increasingly confident, increasingly networked and increasingly able to push its ideas into mainstream political debate. Anti-migrant racism, Islamophobia, antisemitism, misogyny, anti-trans campaigning, attacks on reproductive rights and hostility to LGBTQIA+ equality do not exist in separate boxes. They feed each other. They share slogans, platforms, funders, media ecosystems and enemies.

That is why we must reject the comforting lie that “they won’t come for you”.

They will.

Those who oppose trans rights are not defending gay rights. Those who attack migrants are not protecting women. Those who target Muslims today will not safeguard Jews tomorrow. Those who mock pronouns will not stop at pronouns. Those who want to control gender will control bodies. Those who want to control bodies will control families. Those who want to control families will control love.

Our freedoms are bound together, whether we recognise it or not.

Melba’s Powerful Speech — Tip Toe (Channel 4)

That is part of what made Melba’s speech in TipToe so powerful. It cut through the polite language of gradualism and respectability. It named the danger of waiting too long, softening our words too much, and pretending the threat is not as serious as it is. Sometimes communities do not need another reassurance that everything will be fine. Sometimes we need someone to say clearly: look at what is happening. Look at who is being targeted. Look at what history tells us comes next.

Knowing our history is not nostalgia. It is preparation.

If we remember Stonewall only as a rainbow origin story, we miss its warning. Stonewall tells us that police violence, state control, social stigma and political cowardice can combine to make ordinary life impossible. Cooper Do-nuts, Compton’s Cafeteria and the Black Cat Tavern tell us the same. They remind us that the people most likely to resist first are often the people with the least institutional protection: trans people, racialised people, sex workers, homeless people, working-class people, migrants, disabled people, young people and those already treated as disposable.

They also remind us that resistance is possible before victory is visible.

That matters now.

Because even in this frightening moment, there are signs of courage everywhere. When Durham County Council withdrew funding from Durham Pride, trade unions and community supporters stepped in, raising far more than the council had cut. That act of solidarity matters. It echoes the long history of alliances between LGBTQIA+ communities and labour movements, from Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners to today’s trade unions standing up for Pride, trans rights and anti-fascist organising.

Across the country, LGBTQIA+ organisations are still supporting people through crisis. Grassroots groups are still creating safe spaces on shoestring budgets. Pride organisers are still finding ways to march. Lawyers are still challenging harmful policy. Journalists and writers are still documenting what is happening. Parents are still standing by their trans children. Teachers are still creating safer classrooms. Faith leaders are still preaching love. Drag artists, musicians, campaigners, fundraisers, youth workers, healthcare workers, community organisers and ordinary neighbours are still refusing to let fear have the final word.

So what now?

We need to be honest about the severity of the situation without giving in to despair.

We need a fully inclusive conversion practices ban with no loopholes that allow harm to continue under the guise of healthcare, therapy, safeguarding or professional judgement. We need timely, accessible and depathologised trans healthcare. We need legal gender recognition that respects people’s dignity. We need public services that protect LGBTQIA+ people in practice, not just in policy documents. We need hate crime strategies that recognise the scale of abuse and the reality of underreporting. We need funding for LGBTQIA+ organisations, especially those led by and for trans people, Black and racialised communities, disabled people, migrants, older people, young people and people facing poverty.

We need councils, public bodies, charities, companies and funders to stop treating LGBTQIA+ inclusion as optional when the backlash gets louder. Pride flags matter. Funding matters. Participation matters. DEI work matters. Training matters. Public solidarity matters. None of these things are sufficient on their own, but their removal sends a message. So does defending them.

We need to recognise strategic litigation and anti-rights campaigning for what they are. These are not isolated disputes. They are part of a coordinated effort to narrow the space in which LGBTQIA+ people, especially trans people, can live freely. We need legal defence, movement coordination, public education and the courage to challenge disinformation before it becomes policy.

We need allies who understand that allyship is not a badge. It is behaviour. It is speaking when it would be easier to stay quiet. It is donating when funding is cut. It is showing up when Pride is attacked. It is challenging transphobia in gay spaces, racism in feminist spaces, misogyny in queer spaces, and anti-migrant rhetoric everywhere. It is refusing to let any part of our movement be traded away for temporary comfort.

And we need solidarity that is serious enough for the moment we are in.

Not the easy solidarity of slogans alone, but the harder solidarity of shared risk. The kind that understands that LGBTQIA+ rights, women’s rights, migrant rights, disability rights, racial justice, reproductive freedom and workers’ rights are connected. The kind that sees attacks on trans people as attacks on the whole architecture of bodily autonomy and equality. The kind that refuses to let the far right divide communities into the respectable and the disposable.

Stonewall was not the beginning. It was one moment in a much longer struggle. It was built on the courage of those who resisted before it, and it helped create space for those who came after.

Today, on its anniversary, we should honour Stonewall not by turning it into a safe story, but by remembering what it really was: a refusal.

A refusal to be policed into silence.

A refusal to be humiliated quietly.

A refusal to accept that the state, the press, the church, the family, the clinic or the mob had the final say over who we were allowed to be.

That refusal is still needed.

The situation is serious. Rights are being rolled back. Institutions are retreating. The far right is organising. Trans people are being targeted first and hardest, but they will not be the last. History tells us that clearly.

But history also tells us something else.

We have been here before. We have fought before. We have won before. We can win again.

Progress is not linear. Setbacks are real. Grief is real. Fear is real. Exhaustion is real. But so is resistance. So is solidarity. So is love. So is the stubborn, ordinary, extraordinary fact that LGBTQIA+ people and our allies keep building futures even when the present tells us not to.

Stonewall was not a single night that gave us freedom.

It was a reminder that freedom is made by people who refuse to stop fighting for it.

And we will not stop.

References

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Al-Othman, H. (2026). ‘Bigger and better than ever’: how Durham Pride beat Reform’s funding axe with help from the miners. The Guardian, 30 May. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2026/may/30/durham-pride-trade-unions-beat-reform-funding-axe

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ILGA-Europe. (2026). Rainbow Map and Index 2026. Available at: https://rainbowmap.ilga-europe.org/

Murray, J. (2026). Perpetrators of LGBTQ+ conversion practices could face prison under new bill. The Guardian, 25 June. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2026/jun/25/government-draft-bill-ban-conversion-practices-lgbtq-england-wales-historic-campaigners

Nowell, C. (2026). Trump administration removes LGBTQ+ Pride flag from Stonewall national monument. The Guardian, 10 February. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2026/feb/10/lgbtq-pride-flag-stonewall-trump-removal

Piepenburg, E. (2023). A Gay Riot at a Doughnut Shop? The Legend Has Some Holes. The New York Times, 5 June.

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Stryker, S. (2008). Transgender History. Berkeley: Seal Press.

The Guardian. (2026). Most Reform members believe non-white UK citizens born abroad should be forced or encouraged to leave, poll finds. The Guardian, 3 March. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2026/mar/03/half-reform-voters-believe-non-white-british-citizens-forced-encouraged-leave

The Guardian. (2026). Vandalism, taunts and hijabs torn off: Muslim leaders in UK say hate crime hitting new levels. The Guardian, 26 June. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/news/2026/jun/26/muslim-leaders-uk-hate-crime-islamophobia

UK Supreme Court. (2025). For Women Scotland Ltd (Appellant) v The Scottish Ministers (Respondent), UKSC/2024/0042. Judgment given 16 April 2025. Available at: https://www.supremecourt.uk/cases/uksc-2024-0042

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Further background sources

Los Angeles Conservancy. The Black Cat. Available at: https://www.laconservancy.org/

National Park Service. Stonewall National Monument. Available at: https://www.nps.gov/ston/

ONE Archives Foundation. Cooper Do-nuts and LGBTQ+ history. Available at: https://www.oneinstitute.org/

Screaming Queens: The Riot at Compton’s Cafeteria. (2005). Directed by Victor Silverman and Susan Stryker.