Standing with: What Solidarity Means

A reflection on the International Day of Pink

In 2007, at Central Kings Rural High School in Nova Scotia, Canada, two high school students, David Shepherd and Travis Price, witnessed a classmate being bullied for wearing a pink polo shirt to school. Shepherd and Travis Price, witnessed a classmate being bullied for wearing a pink polo shirt to school.

What happened next was simple. They went to a discount store and they bought 50 pink shirts. They engaged their classmates and distributed the shirts, and they all wore them to school the next day. They didn't wait for a response from the faculty, they didn't pull the bully aside and try to counsel him, they took it upon themselves to make their own response, to stand on their principles and in solidarity with the bullied.

The message was clear: You are not alone. We are standing with you.

This act of solidarity sparked a real movement—including here in the Netherlands. Not a marketing campaign, not a diversity memo or corporate DEI training module, but two teenagers deciding that solidarity and visibility mattered more than their own comfort.

What those students understood, without needing anyone to say it, is what solidarity is: the refusal to remain neutral when someone is being harmed.

So let's be clear what solidarity is, and what it is not.

• Solidarity is not a thoughtful diversity training day or module.
• It is not a carefully worded statement of values.
• It is not a recognition that bullying and discrimination is bad.
• It is not about making the bullies feel included or heard.

Solidarity, as exemplified by David and Travis, is an act of resistance.

It said: "This is what we believe. This is what we are willing to give up a little bit of our own comfort in order to be visible about. This matters more than fitting in. When you bully one of us, you bully all of us."

Discrimination and violence against LGBTQIA+ people remains deeply embedded in many cultures around the world, and we find some form of it everywhere. This is not a problem that ends with "kindness," "tolerance," or "acceptance." It requires active, visible, collective refusal to participate in exclusion, and a willingness to accept a bit of discomfort for another, as a matter of principle.

That's what those kids did, and whether they realized it or not in that moment, they showed the world what solidarity demands of us.

It is not just a word we use because it sounds nice. Solidarity. Solid. Strong. Together. Empowering words, those are. But it is more than just words—it is an act, a commitment, and a promise grounded in the fact that we recognize that the bullying, discrimination, and fear you are faced with day in and day out is not just yours alone, that if we do nothing in those moments, then the next time it could be done to me or someone I love.

Solidarity is the promise that we will stand together because we recognize that when bullying, discrimination, and hate hurts one of us, it hurts all of us.

So why does this moment matter so deeply for us here, today, in the Netherlands?

Because we didn't just witness this movement from the sidelines. On April 1, 2001, the Mayor of Amsterdam married four gay couples, the first being two women I might add, making the Netherlands the first country in the world to legalize same-sex marriage. COC Netherlands, founded in 1946, is the oldest still-operating LGBTQ+ organization in the world. We didn't just accept the pink shirt moment, we were already building something concrete. Legal frameworks. Constitutional protections. We have a heritage of activism here in the Netherlands.

That's why solidarity isn't abstract for us. It's something more, it's about defending what we built.

The pink shirt movement is powerful precisely because it's intimate—two friends standing up for one vulnerable peer, engaging their fellow student body in the process. But that solidarity doesn't stop there. It scales.

When we move from schoolyards to workplaces, from individual gestures to organized systems, solidarity becomes more complex, consequential, and essential.

And often times, particularly in corporate systems and governments, a gap will take root and grow—a gap between saying and doing.

So what can we do?

We can start by recognizing the patterns. Anti-LGBTQ+ attacks are rarely random acts of intolerance in a vacuum. Those seemingly random acts are the result of deliberate, politically organized efforts directed at achieving ideological ends and reversing policies that protect us. Understanding this helps us recognize it when it is happening—in media narratives, in policy discussions, in "concerned" voices that sound reasonable while proposing and advocating for harm. These all filter down to that prejudiced bully who takes it upon themselves to act on it this time.

We need to understand the cost. When anti-LGBTQ+ policies are enacted, 64% of trans and non-binary youth report feeling angry, 44% sad, 39% stressed, and 30% feel hopeless. This is not abstract debate or empty rhetoric. These are measurable impacts on real people's wellbeing. Our colleagues, our friends, our neighbours, our family and children. Sadly, we all know someone who has been impacted by this, and we are all too well aware that these metrics reflect a cost measured in lives.

We should examine where we stand. In 2024 alone, in the US, around 533 anti-LGBTQ+ bills were tracked, with more introduced. In the United Kingdom, hate crimes against trans people have risen sharply, and anti-transgender rhetoric is pervasive in news media with a near blackout on trans voices. Anti-LGBTQ+ hate crimes have increased dramatically. These may seem like distant problems, but they are not.

And right now, we're watching these patterns arrive here. In our country. At our door.

Consider that just five years ago, nearly two-thirds of LGBTQ+ Dutch people reported feeling accepted by society. Today, that number has plummeted to less than half (62% to 43% respectively). We are watching it happen in real time. We are watching the country that pioneered gay marriage begin to feel less safe for the people we claim to support.

Why is this happening? The playbooks that are destroying progress elsewhere are being deliberately imported here. U.S. and UK-based activist groups are organizing summits in the European Parliament. They're recruiting Dutch influencers to amplify anti-LGBTQ+ messaging. They're using the same talking points and strategies that worked in London and Washington, D.C.—dressing up discrimination in the language of "family values," "societal stability," and "protection" of women and children. Again.

The backsliding we're seeing in our country, the budget cuts to LGBTQ+ programs, the indefinite postponement of the Transgender Law (Transwet), these are not inevitable. They're the result of allowing these imported tactics to take root here. We are not immune to this pattern. We are actively importing the very dynamics that are destroying progress elsewhere.

To put it bluntly, we are not making progress. We are facing regression.

So we can say that solidarity at the organizational level means asking hard questions: Do our policies protect or exclude? Did we talk to those we are trying to protect first? Do our resource allocations reflect our stated values and principles? When we make decisions, whose interests are centered and whose are marginalized, or forgotten? Are we willing to be true to our values, or are we seeking the path of least resistance?

That leads me to the next major point—the gap between saying and doing.

This is often where institutional solidarity gets messy. It gets complicated.

Over 200 major companies have signed statements opposing anti-LGBTQ+ legislation. Dozens more have signed pledges of solidarity. There is that word again, and how is it being used? What do statements and pledges cost? I ask because many of those same corporations maintain 100% or near enough ratings on the corporate equality indices, while simultaneously donating to politicians or supporting political groups who actively undermine our rights.

That is not solidarity. That is performance.

Real authentic solidarity is not comfortable. It's not about looking good. It's about alignment between what we say we believe and what we do, what we fund, what we support and what we prioritize.

For us in the community? That means asking: When we say we stand with LGBTQIA+ colleagues, what does that actually cost us? Are we willing to push back internally when we see exclusion, discrimination, or harassment? Are we willing to make decisions that prioritize inclusion over comfort? Are we willing to take risks—and I don't mean the risk of offending the bullies, or the colleague with "concerns" and "just asking questions" - but the risk of actually standing up for something, or someone at personal cost?

In spite of the ease in which we can ask these questions, in spite of how obvious the answer may seem to us in this setting, it is much more difficult when you are faced with answering in the heat of the moment. It is good to have these talks and really play this out before hand, so in the moment you already know what to do, and how to do it.

So we have touched upon what sparked this movement and this day, we have an idea what solidarity is and isn't, why this matters, and how to recognize it at a high level. So what are we really up against? What is it that this inspired day of solidarity requires us to stand up against and resist?

That is not primarily about individual prejudice. Yes, they exist, and yes we deal with them in some shape, way, or form—but individual bullies will always exist. They are a symptom of a larger problem. What matters more is understanding that anti-LGBTQIA+ movements operate with a deliberate political purpose, using violence and fear as tools to achieve their ideological ends.

When we see anti-LGBTQIA+ messaging in the news, in legislation, in policy proposals, we're not seeing organic expressions of Dutch concern. We're seeing organized campaigns. We're seeing arguments and strategies designed to make discrimination and intimidation acts sound reasonable. We're seeing that exclusionary language being wrapped up in the blanket of protection. We're seeing these anti-rainbow groups creating false arguments that equate inclusion and equality with risk and harm. We're seeing that this drives the LGBTQ+ community to file ourselves down, to make ourselves smaller, quieter, less visible. We're seeing an effort from outside the community to sow division within the community.

To put this in perspective, when we see some bad actors tear down a pride flag or two from a shop owner's store, and the entire block raises pride flags of their own, that resonates with the act of those two teens that brought about this day of awareness and solidarity, and that is awesome. That settles it for those bad actors and sends the message that resisting equality and inclusion here, on this street, is a futile act. Until the next time, on a different street.

But that doesn't happen in a vacuum. Those bad actors come from homes that either taught those values, or from a community that did. We trace that line further, and we will see it comes from the rhetoric in the news and media, in legislation and political rhetoric, policy proposals, that stem from specific organizations and groups—many of which are being deliberately exported here from abroad.

Solidarity means being able to recognize these patterns. It means not being fooled by reasonable-sounding language that drives a wedge amongst our own, that masks exclusion and discrimination in false security and pretense.

What does this mean for our own rainbow community?

Speaking up. When you see discrimination or bullying at work, whether it is a colleague being misgendered, a policy that excludes one of us, or one of those jokes that doesn't land—solidarity is the choice to say something, to call that behavior out in the moment, and to engage whatever systems to address the problem. Not for comfort, not to feel virtuous, but because in these moments we recognize that silence is complicity.

Being visible. Like David and Travis, solidarity sometimes means making yourself visible. Use the correct pronouns, even if you stumble at first. Wear a pink shirt, a rainbow lanyard, a pride progress pin. Show up to organized events for the rainbow community here, and in your area. Not because you have to, but because being visible matters. Nothing bolsters our resilience or strengthens our community like seeing our numbers grow and showing up and being present and engaged.

Examining our own biases. We all carry internalized discrimination, some more than others. It is learned prejudices we absorbed from the world around us. Solidarity includes the uncomfortable work of examining where we perpetuate this exclusion without realizing it. Perhaps you are a straight ally who goes to pride, but always felt a bit strange when it comes to trans folks. Perhaps it is time to get to know a few for yourself! Perhaps you just don't really understand non-binary folks that well—now is always the right time to reflect, introspect, and challenge ourselves, to choose personal growth over comfort. If everyone was a little bit more comfortable with themselves and each other, much of this messaging would ring hollow and fall flat.

Centering LGBTQ+ voices and pushing back on organizational decisions. Not speaking for them. Not speaking over them. Not explaining their experiences, but making sure their voices are heard in decisions that affect them. Ask the uncomfortable questions. Whose voices are centered in this decision? Who does this benefit and who does it harm? Are we willing to argue for a different path, even if it's uncomfortable or goes against the prevailing wind? If we are to organize, let's organize with a lens that focuses on the most impacted by the decision, policy, or proposed action in question. And if we don't realize it yet, or if we have forgotten over time, we need to remind ourselves that when we focus on the most impacted and listen, if we center our policies, decisions or actions accordingly, the outcome of that effort makes progress for us all.

I have covered quite a bit of ground here, so on this International Day of Pink, what does it ask of us?

I think we are left with one question: What are we willing to stand for?

Not in comfortable moments. Not when it is convenient or at no personal cost. But when it matters. When it's visible. When we might be at risk doing so.

Those two teens in Nova Scotia didn't solve homophobic bullying with pink shirts, but they did something really important: they made it visible that people will not remain silent when someone is being harmed.

That's the solidarity we're called to. Not the false security of diversity statements and solidarity pledges that cost nothing. Not the performance of corporate equality indices. But the actual, visible, sometimes costly commitment to standing with LGBTQIA+ people, to stand with one of our own, be it in our teams, organization, in our neighborhood, town, or the world.

I know, I think we all know, there is still so much work to be done. Globally, anti-LGBTQ+ movements are on the rise. The work of equality and inclusion is never finished, and the push-back is constant and increasingly organized. It is becoming increasingly hostile here, in our neighborhoods and streets, here in Utrecht, and all over.

In the country that pioneered gay marriage as the first in the world, today we are feeling less safe. We're seeing organized campaigns, many of which are being imported from the UK and the US. We know these playbooks. We have seen them before, decades past, and they are making a comeback tour here.

And I think it is important that we recognize this truth: that regression is not inevitable. It is the result of choices. Our choices. Choices about whether we defend what we built or allow it to be dismantled.

And here is where I want to point out something that probably doesn't get talked about enough: resilience. Joy. The refusal to be broken by hatred.

When we stand in solidarity with our LGBTQ+ colleagues, we're not just resisting harm. We're affirming their right to exist fully, visibly, joyfully in our communities. We're saying your life matters, your safety matters, your dignity matters just as much as my own. We're lending them a small bit of ourselves as armor and scaffold from which they can be resilient in the face of oppression, bolstered by the knowledge that they are not alone, that we are standing up for and next to them, in solidarity.

That is what I believe those kids in that school understood, and that is what I believe we are called to understand here today.

So this International Day of Pink, be visible, wear pink, not as a symbol, but as a statement and as a promise. We are standing with you. Not because we feel obligated to, or due to some memo. But because we recognize that solidarity is not just a word, it is not a feel good moment, it is a promise that demands nothing less.

Those teens exemplified this, and gave us the minimum standard to meet. The question I leave you all with today is two-fold: What does solidarity mean to you? And will your actions reflect your words, values, and principles?

Those teens showed us that our actions speak far louder than any bully's words. So when we talk about what solidarity means—in our teams, in our rainbow community, in our neighborhoods and towns—understand that we're not just talking about one day or one gesture. We're talking about whether we're willing to defend what we built, the principles and values we say we hold, and whether we're building a better future or allowing it to be dismantled.

So let's talk about it. Let's come together in common defense of the values and principles we say we hold, united in our belief that we can build the better future we saw on the horizon in 2001. Let's build that better future together.