En El Salvador, la violencia contra la población LGBTQ no ha disminuido: ha mutado. Lo que antes se expresaba en crímenes de odio, hoy se manifiesta en discriminación institucional, abandono y silencio estatal. Mientras el discurso oficial evita cualquier referencia a inclusión o diversidad, las cifras muestran un panorama alarmante.

Según el Informe 2025 sobre las vulneraciones de los derechos humanos de las personas LGBTQ en El Salvador, elaborado por el Observatorio de Derechos Humanos LGBTIQ+ de ASPIDH, con el apoyo de HIVOS y ARCUS Foundation, desde el 1 de enero al 22 de septiembre de 2025 se registraron 301 denuncias de vulneraciones de derechos.

El departamento de San Salvador concentra 155 de esas denuncias, reflejando la magnitud del problema en la capital.

Violencia institucionalizada: el Estado como principal agresor

El informe revela que las formas más recurrentes de violencia son la discriminación (57 por ciento), seguida de intimidaciones y amenazas (13 por ciento), y agresiones físicas (10 por ciento). Pero el dato más inquietante está en quiénes ejercen esa violencia.

Los cuerpos uniformados, encargados de proteger a la población, son los principales perpetradores:

• 31.1 por ciento corresponde a la Policía Nacional Civil (PNC),

• 26.67 por ciento al Cuerpo de Agentes Municipales (CAM),

• 12.22 por ciento a militares desplegados en las calles bajo el régimen de excepción.

A ello se suma un 21.11 por ciento de agresiones cometidas por personal de salud pública, especialmente por enfermeras, lo que demuestra que la discriminación alcanza incluso los espacios que deberían garantizar la vida y la dignidad.

Loidi Guardado, representante de ASPIDH, comparte con Washington Blade un caso que retrata la cotidianidad de estas violencias:

“Una enfermera en la clínica VICITS de San Miguel, en la primera visita me reconoció que la persona era hijo de un promotor de salud y fue amable. Pero luego de realizarle un hisopado cambió su actitud a algo despectiva y discriminativa. Esto le sucedió a un hombre gay.”

Este tipo de episodios reflejan un deterioro en la atención pública, impulsado por una postura gubernamental que rechaza abiertamente cualquier enfoque de inclusión, y tacha la educación de género como una “ideología” a combatir.

El discurso del Ejecutivo, que se opone a toda iniciativa con perspectiva de diversidad, ha tenido consecuencias directas: el retroceso en derechos humanos, el cierre de espacios de denuncia, y una mayor vulnerabilidad para quienes pertenecen a comunidades diversas.

El miedo, la desconfianza y el exilio silencioso

El estudio también señala que el 53.49 por ciento de las víctimas son mujeres trans, seguidas por hombres gays (26.58 por ciento). Sin embargo, la mayoría de las agresiones no llega a conocimiento de las autoridades.

“En todos los ámbitos de la vida —salud, trabajo, esparcimiento— las personas LGBT nos vemos intimidadas, violentadas por parte de muchas personas. Sin embargo, las amenazas y el miedo a la revictimización nos lleva a que no denunciemos. De los casos registrados en el observatorio, el 95.35 por ciento no denunció ante las autoridades competentes”, explica Guardado.

La organización ASPIDH atribuye esta falta de denuncia a varios factores: miedo a represalias, desconfianza en las autoridades, falta de sensibilidad institucional, barreras económicas y sociales, estigma y discriminación.

Además, la ausencia de acompañamiento agrava la situación, producto del cierre de numerosas organizaciones defensoras por falta de fondos y por las nuevas normativas que las obligan a registrarse como “agentes extranjeros”.

Varias de estas organizaciones —antes vitales para el acompañamiento psicológico, legal y educativo— han migrado hacia Guatemala y Costa Rica ante la imposibilidad de operar en territorio salvadoreño.

Educación negada, derechos anulados

Mónica Linares, directora ejecutiva de ASPIDH, lamenta el deterioro de los programas educativos que antes ofrecían una oportunidad de superación para las personas trans:

“Hubo un programa del ACNUR que lamentablemente, con todo el cierre de fondos que hubo a partir de las declaraciones del presidente Trump y del presidente Bukele, pues muchas de estas instancias cerraron por el retiro de fondos del USAID.”

Ese programa —añade— beneficiaba a personas LGBTQ desde la educación primaria hasta el nivel universitario, abriendo puertas que hoy permanecen cerradas.

Actualmente, muchas personas trans apenas logran completar la primaria o el bachillerato, en un sistema educativo donde la discriminación y el acoso escolar siguen siendo frecuentes.

Organizaciones en resistencia

Las pocas organizaciones que aún operan en el país han optado por trabajar en silencio, procurando no llamar la atención del gobierno. “Buscan pasar desapercibidas”, señala Linares, “para evitar conflictos con autoridades que las ven como si no fueran sujetas de derechos”.

Desde el Centro de Intercambio y Solidaridad (CIS), su cofundadora Leslie Schuld coincide. “Hay muchas organizaciones de derechos humanos y periodistas que están en el exilio. Felicito a las organizaciones que mantienen la lucha, la concientización. Porque hay que ver estrategias, porque se está siendo silenciado, nadie puede hablar; hay capturas injustas, no hay derechos.”

Schuld agrega que el CIS continuará apoyando con un programa de becas para personas trans, con el fin de fomentar su educación y autonomía económica. Sin embargo, admite que las oportunidades laborales en el país son escasas, y la exclusión estructural continúa.

Matar sin balas: la anulación de la existencia

“En efecto, no hay datos registrados de asesinatos a mujeres trans o personas LGBTIQ+ en general, pero ahora, con la vulneración de derechos que existe en El Salvador, se está matando a esta población con la anulación de esta.”, reflexiona Linares.

Esa “anulación” a la que se refiere Linares resume el panorama actual: una violencia que no siempre deja cuerpos, pero sí vacíos. La negación institucional, la falta de políticas públicas, y la exclusión social convierten la vida cotidiana en un acto de resistencia para miles de salvadoreños LGBTQ.

En un país donde el Ejecutivo ha transformado la narrativa de derechos en una supuesta “ideología”, la diversidad se ha convertido en una amenaza política, y los cuerpos diversos, en un campo de batalla. Mientras el gobierno exalta la “seguridad” como su mayor logro, la población LGBTQ vive una inseguridad constante, no solo física, sino también emocional y social.

El Salvador, dicen los activistas, no necesita más silencio. Necesita reconocer que la verdadera paz no se impone con fuerza de uniformados, sino con justicia, respeto y dignidad.

The U.S. Supreme Court has declined to hear an appeal from Kim Davis, the former Rowan County, Ky., clerk best known for refusing to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples after the landmark 2015 Obergefell v. Hodges decision legalized same-sex marriage nationwide.

Following the Obergefell ruling, Davis stopped issuing marriage licenses altogether and has since filed multiple appeals seeking to challenge same-sex marriage protections. The court once again rejected her efforts on Monday.

In this latest appeal, Davis sought to overturn a $100,000 monetary award she was ordered to pay to David Moore and David Ermold, a same-sex couple to whom she denied a marriage license. Her petition also urged the court to use the case as a vehicle to revisit the constitutional right to same-sex marriage.

The petition, along with the couple’s brief in opposition, was submitted to the Supreme Court on Oct. 22 and considered during the justices’ private conference on Nov. 7. Davis needed at least four votes for the court to take up her case, but Monday’s order shows she fell short.

Cathy Renna, the director of communications for the National LGBTQ Task Force, a non-profit organization that works towards supporting the LGBQ community through grassroots organizing told the Washington Blade:
“Today’s decision is not surprising given the longshot status of Davis’s claim, but it’s a relief that the Supreme Court will not hear it, given the current make up of the court itself. We hope that this settles the matter and marriage equality remains the law of the land for same-sex couples.”

Human Rights Campaign President Kelley Robinson released the following statement:

“Today, love won again. When public officials take an oath to serve their communities, that promise extends to everyone — including LGBTQ+ people. The Supreme Court made clear today that refusing to respect the constitutional rights of others does not come without consequences.

Thanks to the hard work of HRC and so many, marriage equality remains the law of the land through Obergefell v. Hodges and the Respect for Marriage Act. Even so, we must remain vigilant.

It’s no secret that there are many in power right now working to undermine our freedoms — including marriage equality — and attack the dignity of our community any chance they get. Last week, voters rejected the politics of fear, division, and hate, and chose leaders who believe in fairness, freedom, and the future. In race after race, the American people rejected anti-transgender attacks and made history electing pro-equality candidates up and down the ballot.

And from California to Virginia to New Jersey to New York City, LGBTQ+ voters and Equality Voters made the winning difference. We will never relent and will not stop fighting until all of us are free.”

The Log Cabin Republicans, a organization dedicated to conservative LGBTQ people, praising the Court’s decision.

“After months of hand-wringing and fear-mongering by Gay Inc., Democrats, and the media, the conservative majority on the Supreme Court sided with the American people and common sense and declined to revisit marriage equality,” Interim Executive Director Ed Williams said in a statement. “Just like Justice Amy Coney Barrett hinted at earlier this year, Obergefell is settled. Marriage equality has been, and will continue to be, the law of the land.”

This story is developing and will be updated as more information becomes available.

Uncloseted Media published this article on Nov. 8.

By ASHERAH BARTON | In July 2022, when I was 18, I was forced to come out as transgender.

I remember the car ride through Oregon, back from the DMV, where my state ID had my deadname and the wrong gender marker on it. My mom started interrogating me when I mentioned offhandedly that I didn’t want to have kids.

“Are you gay? Bi?” she pressed me.

I shook my head no.

“No? Well, then what the hell are you?”

My mom kept questioning me until I told her I was trans. I didn’t want to come out to her. I knew her beliefs as an ex-Catholic, and I had already heard her misgendering her trans coworker and had even found a transphobic book, “Irreversible Damage,” on the kitchen counter.

She dismissed me. She told me it was a phase. When I started using my chosen name publicly, she told me she would never call me by it. Even now, after two years on hormones and my dual top surgery and hysterectomy in September, I’m still saved in her phone as my deadname and she doesn’t use my pronouns.

Since then, life has been hard. I moved out of my mom’s house to a suburb of Portland. I needed space to exist without constant tension.

On top of the familial estrangement, maintaining work has been tough. For a while, I had a seasonal job at a local grocery store, something stable enough to cover rent and bills but not a long-term contract. I worked hard, often taking extra shifts and covering for others, hoping to be kept on. But on Christmas Eve of last year, I got the call that my contract wouldn’t be renewed. It wasn’t about performance, they said, the store just “didn’t have room in the budget” to keep the seasonal hires. It felt like the ground had fallen out from under me.

I needed help, so I applied for SNAP in February and started receiving it the following month.

I am part of the 42 million Americans and the nearly 2.1 million LGBTQ adults in the U.S. who rely on SNAP, the federal safety net that helps low-income Americans like me afford the food they need to stay healthy and independent. I’m also one of the 10 percent of younger recipients with a physical or neurological disability, and one of the nearly 3 million 18‑24 year olds who need it to afford food.

When I was on it, SNAP helped me breathe a bit easier.

But all of that changed on Oct. 30, when I got the notification on my phone: “SNAP benefits are paused starting Nov. 1 because the federal government is closed.”

With the holidays approaching and the weather getting colder, this feels like the worst time to lose my stability. Since the Oct. 30 notification, whether I am going to receive these benefits is still so unclear. Earlier this week, Trump said half of the benefits would be issued. Then, early on Friday, it was reported that we would get them after a federal judge ordered the administration to issue full payments immediately.

While I did get my benefits on Nov 7, I saw headlines later that evening saying that the Supreme Court granted an emergency appeal by the Trump administration to temporarily block the court order for full SNAP funding during the shutdown. So, does this mean I’ll lose the benefits next month?

The past few weeks have been so stressful, uncertain and confusing. It feels like the government is playing chess with my ability to afford food.

Before I got my benefits, I had $77 from picking up bottles from gas stations and recycling containers that weren’t too sticky to clean. I have a tally on the notes app on my phone of how many I collect, but it was not enough for the food I need.

As an autistic person living in a residency with rotating caregivers, I’m grateful that some of them help with bulk trips to Costco. But they can’t cover everything. My independence, my physical and mental health and my ability to live safely in my own body all suddenly felt more fragile than ever before.

Every month without those benefits means $187 less for me to spend on groceries. It means giving up my favorite protein bars and starting to buy in bulk to save money.

I thought about reaching out to my parents for help, but I suspected they will use their financial assistance to reopen the conversation about my trans identity, which they could use as a form of debt if I decide to sever ties with them.

For me, SNAP benefits are more than being able to afford food. They allow me to buy meals that keep me healthy and don’t trigger my eating disorder. I’ve struggled with Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder from a very young age, which makes it hard to eat anything unfamiliar or unsafe.

Without receiving SNAP, I wouldn’t be able to buy the foods that help me live. Just $187 a month may not sound like much, but for LGBTQ young adults like myself — many of whom are estranged from family members and/or living with disabilities — it is a key element to our survival.

For the millions of people on benefits, the uncertainty the Trump administration has brought us is the last thing we need. For the hungry children, for the parents struggling to put food on the table, and for those like me who are searching tirelessly for a job and working hard, we need clear and consistent support. Not a chaotic and confusing back and forth.

I’m not lazy, I’m not doing this for my own benefit, nor to cheat the system. Being an autistic, transgender, and low-income young adult means navigating a triple whammy.

As many as 85 percent of college-educated autistic adults are unemployed or underemployed. At the same time, transgender workers experience unemployment at twice the national rate and are frequently passed over for promotions or fired through no fault of their own.

This week, I was terrified of what the uncertainty meant. Is the eating disorder that I’ve lived with since early childhood going to get worse again now that I have to go to food banks to get meals that I may not be comfortable eating? Will I have benefits over the holidays? What will Trump do next?

For those reading this who don’t have to think about where their next meal will come from and when, I would like you to know that these funding cuts are not merely abstract numbers. For myself, for other young LGBTQ adults, and for disabled people of any age, they are empty fridges. They are anxious thoughts before every meal. They are fears of what will come next. November is now here, and I feel more scared. I am worried not just for myself, but for the millions of LGBTQ and disabled people like me who rely on this lifeline to eat and survive in a world that often feels unsafe.

Uncloseted Media reached out to Asherah’s mom for comment but she did not respond.

Sam Donndelinger assisted with the writing and reporting in this story.