In a classroom in Kandy, a student stares out the window while the rest of the class recites poetry. In Jaffna, another carefully lowers her voice so that no one hears the way that she speaks. In Colombo, a boy practises walking ‘normally’, afraid that his gait might betray him.
Their stories are scattered across the country like whispers; quiet, invisible, and too often ignored.
While the rainbow flag has begun to flutter in parts of the Sri Lankan society, on Instagram bios, at protests, and in the language of youth, inside the classroom however, the silence is deafening. For queer students, school is often not a place of growth, but of concealment. They don’t just survive tests and timetables; they survive being themselves.
Where bullying lives in the shadows
Many queer students recall their earliest school memories not with nostalgia but dread, not because of the curriculum, but because of the casual cruelty that echoed in the corridors.
“I was called names every day,” says a 17-year-old from a Government school in Colombo, Jude*. “Some teachers even smirked.”
There were no bruises, but the wounds were real. A sideways glance, a comment muttered loud enough to sting, and the slow loss of friends who once sat beside you. Bullies didn’t need fists. All they needed was your difference.
In all-boys or all-girls schools, still the dominant model across Sri Lanka, gender roles are tightly policed. Step outside the box, and punishment follows, whether from peers or the adults who are meant to protect you and guide you.
An education without mirrors
In all their years in school, many lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersex, queer/questioning plus (LGBTIQ+) students never once see themselves reflected.
There are no stories of queer love in the Sinhala literature class. No mention of same-sex relationships in health education. No discussions of gender beyond the binary. Not even the vocabulary to describe who they are. The message is subtle, but suffocating: People like you don’t exist or shouldn’t.
For some, the first time that they hear the word ‘gay’ is as an insult shouted across the schoolyard. What’s left is confusion, shame, and silence.
“By the time that I understood who I was,” says Sasha*, now 20, “I already hated myself for it.”
It is important to say this clearly: This is not about promoting romance or encouraging relationships among schoolchildren. Queer students are not being targeted because they are ‘in love’. They are being bullied for something far deeper, for simply existing outside the norm. They are harassed not for what they do, but for who they are, for how they speak, and for the way they sit. For not fitting neatly into someone else’s idea of what a boy or a girl should be.
The real issue is not romance, it is invisibility. It is the complete absence of inclusive education. When schools fail to teach about gender equality, identity and respect, they don’t just leave LGBTIQ+ students unprotected; they leave all students unequipped to understand difference.
And, in that silence, shame grows. Not just for queer youth, but for anyone who feels that they don’t belong.
University: Freedom or more hiding?
University is often seen as the great escape. And, for some, it is. Urban campuses offer slightly more room to breathe. But, the fear does not vanish with age. The fear does not vanish with a change of address.
“I’m out to my closest friends,” says a third-year student at a State university, Heshan*, “but, I still check over my shoulder when I talk about it in public.”
While there is no widespread public network of officially recognised safe spaces in Sri Lankan universities, some institutions have taken small steps through gender-equality initiatives or student-led centres that quietly offer support. Still, these spaces are rare. Most queer students continue to navigate university life with caution, carefully choosing what to reveal and to whom.
And, for trans students, even basic dignity remains out of reach. Gender-neutral bathrooms are almost unheard of, and being addressed by a chosen name can feel like asking for too much. Institutions may pride themselves on academic excellence, but remain blind to the human cost of exclusion. University may open doors, but for many queer students, the closet might just become more and more spacious.
The weight that no one sees
Behind the polished shoes and neat uniforms, many queer students carry invisible burdens. Anxiety, loneliness, and thoughts that they are too afraid to speak aloud. Without support, many suffer in silence. Few schools offer trained counsellors and even when they do, queer students fear being judged, misunderstood, or worse, ‘corrected’. Some are told to pray. Others are advised to be less ‘noticeable’. Few are ever told: ‘You are okay as you are.’
“I just wanted one adult to say that I wasn’t broken,” says Sonali*, now 22. “I never got that.”
Teachers: Hope and harm
Teachers can make all the difference. A single supportive adult, someone who listens, who doesn’t laugh, and who notices when a student is struggling, can be the lifeline that a queer child clings to. But, that kind of teacher is rare. More often, these students encounter educators who look away. Some even become part of the problem: mocking, dismissing, or punishing difference under the guise of discipline.
Until teachers are trained to understand and support LGBTIQ+ youth, the silence in the classroom will remain a form of violence.
The mental health toll
Behind every quiet child who flinches at a joke, and every teen who withdraws into silence, is a story that we often fail to see. For queer youth, the emotional toll of growing up in hostile or indifferent environments can last far beyond school walls. Anxiety, depression, and thoughts of self-harm are far more common among LGBTIQ+ students, not because of who they are, but because of how they are treated.
These are not just fleeting struggles. The school years are when children are building not just academic skills, but emotional foundations, beliefs about the world, about safety, and about themselves. If the classroom is a place of fear instead of belonging, that fear can become part of how they learn to move through the world.
When a child is taught directly or indirectly that who they are is wrong, that belief can sink in so deeply that it shapes their self-worth for years to come. And, when mental-health support is available, it is often not equipped to provide adequate help. Many school counsellors are untrained in LGBTIQ+ issues.
And so, many suffer in isolation, quietly, for years. Because sometimes, the scars left by a childhood spent in hiding do not show up until much later, when the world expects you to be whole, but when you have spent your entire youth being told that you are not.
What if schools chose kindness?
Change does not have to be loud to be powerful.
A revised lesson that includes a queer character. A poster that says, “You are safe here”. A counsellor who listens without judgment. A principal who says, “Bullying for any reason will not be tolerated”. These are small acts, but to the young mind, they can mean everything. It is not about turning schools into political spaces. It is about turning them into humane ones.
The cost of silence
We often speak proudly about tradition, discipline, and excellence. But how excellent is an education that teaches a child that they must hide to survive? Queer students are not asking to be celebrated. They are asking to exist. To learn, grow, and laugh without fear. To see themselves in a story. To be asked, not just what they want to be when they grow up, but who they already are.
And maybe, one day
Maybe, one day, a student in a small-town school will be able to simply say, “I’m gay”, and no one will laugh. Maybe a teacher will ask their class what pronouns that they prefer. Maybe, school uniforms will reflect comfort instead of conformity.
Until then, queer children across Sri Lanka will keep walking into classrooms carrying truths too heavy for their age.
They deserve better.
And, it begins by breaking the silence.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the individual
(The writer is the Project and Communications Assistant at a Sri Lanka-based, non-profit organisation dedicated to human rights, comprehensive sexuality education, sexual health, and reproductive health and rights, Équité. This article was written as part of the Media Fellowship supported by Équité)
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The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect those of this publication