A Jamaican LGBTQ rights group is raising funds to help victims of Hurricane Melissa.

The funds that Equality for All Foundation Jamaica is raising through the Rustin Fund for Global Equality will “provide emergency housing, transportation, essentials, and rebuilding support for those in our community most in need.”

“Hurricane Melissa has caused extensive devastation across Jamaica, leaving many families and communities struggling to recover,” said the Equality for All Foundation Jamaica in a social media post that announced the fund. “Among those affected are LGBTQI+ Jamaicans, many of whom already experience homelessness, displacement, and further barriers to accessing public relief and safe shelter due to fear or past experiences of discrimination.”

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Melissa on Oct. 28 made landfall in Jamaica’s Westmoreland Parish with sustained winds of 185 mph.

The BBC notes the Category 5 hurricane that caused widespread destruction in western Jamaica killed at least 28 people on the island. Melissa also killed more than 30 people in Haiti and in the Dominican Republic.

Heavy rains and strong winds caused widespread damage in eastern Cuba after Melissa made landfall in the country’s Santiago de Cuba Province on Oct. 29. The hurricane also impacted the Bahamas, the Turks and Caicos Islands, and Bermuda.

Jamaica is among the countries in which consensual same-sex sexual relations remain criminalized. Discrimination and violence based on sexual orientation and gender identity is also commonplace in Jamaica, as the Washington Blade has previously reported.

“Jamaica has just endured one of its worst natural disasters with the passage of Category 5 Hurricane Melissa,” wrote Craig Rijkaard, a member of the Rustin Fund’s board of directors, on Oct. 29 in a post on the organization’s website. “The damage and disruptions across central and western parishes are immense — flooding, road blockages, power outages, loss of buildings/homes, mass evacuations, and tragic loss of life.”

“LGBTQI+ Jamaicans are especially vulnerable, as one in three has experienced homelessness or displacement,” added Rijkaard. “Unfortunately, government-led relief efforts do not always work well for our communities, as many LGBTQI+ Jamaicans are afraid to access public services due to fear and the lived reality of discrimination — over a third report they would avoid emergency aid for this reason.”

Click here to donate to the fund.

Across Latin America and the Caribbean, where LGBTQ rights advance and retreat with every political tide, there exists a reality that remains almost invisible: that of people who, in addition to belonging to the LGBTQ community, live with a physical, motor, or sensory disability. In them, two battles converge — one for recognition and another for accessibility — often fought in silence.

According to the World Bank, more than 85 million people with disabilities live in Latin America and the Caribbean. At the same time, the region is home to some of the most vibrant LGBTQ movements in the world, though deep-rooted violence and exclusion persist. Yet studies that cross both realities are almost nonexistent — and that lack of data is itself a form of violence.

Being LGBTQ in Latin America still often means facing family rejection, workplace discrimination, or religious exclusion. But when disability is added to the equation, the barriers multiply. As a Brazilian activist quoted by “CartaCapital” put it, “When I walk into an interview, they look at my wheelchair first, and then they find out I’m gay. That’s when the double filter begins.” This phenomenon, known as double prejudice, appears both outside and within the LGBTQ community itself. Disability is often invisible even at Pride marches or in diversity campaigns, where young, able-bodied imagery predominates. Ableism — the belief that only certain bodies are valid — seeps even into spaces that claim to celebrate inclusion.

The desexualization of people with disabilities is one of the most subtle and persistent forms of exclusion. The Argentine report Sex, Disability, and Pleasure, published by Distintas Latitudes, shows how society tends to deny the right to desire and love for those living with physical limitations. When that person is also LGBTQ, the denial doubles: they are stripped of their body, their desire, and a fundamental part of their human dignity. As Mexican psychologist María L. Aguilar states “the desexualization of people with disabilities is a form of symbolic violence. And when it intersects with sexual diversity, it becomes a denial of the right to pleasure and autonomy.”

One of the most visible examples of inclusion comes from the world of sports. 

At the 2024 Paris Paralympic Games, at least 38 LGBTQ athletes competed, according to a report by Agencia Presentes. Yet the question remains: how many LGBTQ people with disabilities outside the sports world have access to employment, relationships, or basic services? In a continent marked by inequality, the intersection of sexual orientation, disability, poverty, and gender creates a mix of vulnerabilities that few public policies address.

Various studies show that LGBTQ people in Latin America experience higher rates of depression and anxiety than the general population. Reports on disability in the region also point to high levels of isolation and lack of support. But there are no intersectional data to measure how these challenges unfold when both realities converge. In countries like Chile, the Disability and Inclusion Observatory reports a high prevalence of mental health issues and insufficient access to specialized services. In the U.S., the Trevor Project has found that Latine LGBTQ youth face a greater risk of suicide attempts when exposed to multiple forms of discrimination. Across Latin America and the Caribbean, the absence of such data does not just reflect neglect — it perpetuates invisibility.

Neither disability laws nor LGBTQ policies address this intersection. A report by the International Disability Alliance warns that LGBTQ people with disabilities “face multiple discrimination and lack specific protections.” Even so, signs of progress are emerging: in Mexico, the Collective of LGBTQ+ People with Disabilities works to raise visibility around double exclusion; in Brazil, Vale PCD promotes labor and cultural inclusion; and in the Eastern Caribbean, Project LIVITY, led by the Eastern Caribbean Alliance for Diversity and Equality, known by the acronym ECADE, strengthens the political participation of people with disabilities and LGBTQ communities.

True inclusion is not measured by ramps or tolerance speeches. It is measured by a society’s capacity to recognize human dignity in all its expressions — without pity, without voyeurism, and without conditions. It’s not about applauding stories of resilience but about ensuring the right to a full life. As one Caribbean leader quoted by ECADE put it, “inclusion is not a gesture; it is a moral and political decision.”

This issue calls for a continental conversation. Latin America and the Caribbean will only be able to speak of real equality when the body, desire, and freedom of LGBTQ people with disabilities are respected with the same passion with which diversity is proclaimed. Naming what remains unnamed is the first step toward justice. Because what is not measured is not addressed, and what is not seen does not exist.

Hace un siglo nació en Cuba una mujer que transformó el mapa sonoro del mundo. Celia Cruz fue más que una cantante: fue una embajadora de la alegría, una voz que rompió muros, y un símbolo de identidad para generaciones enteras que encontraron en su grito de ¡Azúcar! una manera de resistir y de celebrar la vida.

Desde sus inicios en Las Mulatas de Fuego hasta su consagración con La Sonora Matancera, su voz se volvió sinónimo de fiesta, de nostalgia y de dignidad. Con su risa grande y su presencia arrolladora, Celia enseñó que el arte no solo entretiene: sana, consuela y redime. “Mi voz quiere volar, quiere atravesar…” cantaba, y lo hizo. Atravesó océanos, dictaduras, fronteras y lenguas. Voló desde La Habana hasta Nueva York, desde el Caribe hasta los escenarios del mundo entero, llevando consigo el eco de una isla que amó hasta el último suspiro.

En los años 90, cuando la crisis de los balseros desgarraba el corazón de Cuba, Celia regresó a su tierra. Lo hizo cantando en la Base Naval de Guantánamo, suelo cubano bajo control estadounidense. Allí, frente a hombres, mujeres y niños que habían huido del dolor, su voz se alzó como un himno de esperanza. No fue una visita política: fue un regreso espiritual. Fue su manera de besar la tierra que la vio nacer, de cantar por quienes no podían hacerlo y de abrazar a su pueblo con el poder de su música. En ese escenario, cuando pronunció “Por si acaso no regreso…”, el aire se llenó de lágrimas y tambor.

Decir Celia Cruz es hablar de Cuba, incluso cuando Cuba no podía pronunciar su nombre. En cada salsa, guaracha o rumba, vibraba el latido de una patria que vivía en su garganta. Fue nominada a trece Premios Grammy y seis Latin Grammy, de los cuales ganó cinco, y recibió doctorados honoris causa de universidades como Yale y Florida. Pero más allá de los premios, su verdadero reconocimiento fue el amor del pueblo que la hizo inmortal.

Y es que Celia no cantaba solo para divertir: cantaba para levantar el espíritu. “Oh, no hay que llorar, porque la vida es un carnaval…”, nos dejó como legado, recordándonos que el dolor también puede bailarse, que las lágrimas pueden convertirse en tambor, y que mientras exista un poco de música en el alma, habrá esperanza.

El 16 de julio de 2003, Celia se despidió del mundo desde su hogar en Fort Lee, Nueva Jersey, pero su voz no se apagó. Viajó primero a Miami para recibir el homenaje de su gente del exilio y reposa finalmente en el Bronx, donde los suyos le llevan flores y canciones. Sin embargo, la verdad es que nunca se fue: Celia Cruz sigue viviendo en cada fiesta, en cada radio, en cada rincón donde suena una clave y alguien grita ¡Azúcar!

Celia fue más que una reina. Fue un puente entre lo que fuimos y lo que soñamos ser. Nos enseñó que se puede triunfar sin olvidar las raíces, que se puede cantar sin perder la fe, y que la alegría también es una forma de resistencia. Su voz no solo atravesó el tiempo: lo conquistó.

Porque donde hubo Celia, hubo luz. Donde hubo Celia, hubo vida. Y mientras el mundo siga bailando al compás de su “carnaval”, la Reina seguirá reinando… por siempre.