Disability Pride Month: Loud, proud, and still misunderstood

Every July, Disability Pride Month quietly arrives, not with the fanfare of fireworks or national campaigns, but with a quiet and determined force. It is a month that calls for visibility, truth-telling, and celebration. Yet in a place like Gibraltar, where conversations about disability remain limited or behind closed doors, this month still goes largely unnoticed by the broader public. And that silence speaks volumes.

Disability Pride Month isn’t about pretending everything is perfect. It’s not a PR campaign to “uplift” those with disabilities with hollow words. It is a declaration of presence and an assertion of human justice, the right to exist fully and visibly in society. It is about showing up as we are loud, proud, complicated, and fully human. It is about reclaiming space in a world that too often forgets us, or worse, only remembers us when it wants to feel good about itself.

Unlike other awareness months, Disability Pride is barely seen in public spaces or workplaces here. Rarely do offices or companies raise the Disability Pride flag or engage in meaningful conversations about it. Last year, we had one flag raised, but that was the exception rather than the rule; other public discussions, events, or campaigns followed. This invisibility is a problem because what is not talked about remains misunderstood or ignored.

Talking openly about Disability Pride is essential not only to educate people and challenge harmful stereotypes, but also to create a culture where disabled people feel valued and visible every day. Without public recognition, the message that disability is a natural and important part of human diversity fails to reach wider society, keeping stigma and exclusion firmly in place.
Where is Disability Pride?

Unlike the vibrant and visible celebrations of other movements, such as LGBT Pride, Disability Pride remains virtually absent in Gibraltar and worldwide. There is no widespread celebration, no buzzing conversations, no mainstream visibility. While last year a few Disability Pride flags appeared locally, it was a rare sight and did not spark ongoing dialogue or community engagement.
Disability Pride does not get the same recognition as other awareness months, where people wear themed shirts, post quick photos on LinkedIn, and then move on. There is no widespread public or corporate acknowledgement, no fireworks or social media campaigns. This silence around Disability Pride reinforces invisibility and misunderstanding. Without celebration and visibility, the powerful message of pride, dignity, and belonging struggles to reach the broader community. It is more than just a hashtag, or a month is about reclaiming space and demanding recognition every single day.

In Gibraltar, phrases like “la pobre” or “el pobre” still follow disabled people around like a shadow. Meant to express empathy or tenderness, they carry a deeply patronising undertone that reduces our existence to an object of pity. It may not be said with malice, but the effect is no less damaging. We become “the poor thing,” not the person with agency, ambition, or autonomy.
These phrases reflect a wider cultural discomfort with seeing disabled people as full adults, capable of working, dating, living independently, and making choices, even mistakes. We are often not allowed to just be. Our disability becomes the first and last thing people see. It becomes a lens through which everything about us is interpreted, from our achievements to our missteps. And while people might think they're being kind, the subtext is clear: you’re not seen as an equal. You’re pitied, not empowered.
This persistent infantilisation of disabled people is one of the most overlooked but harmful forms of ableism. Even as we grow into adulthood, many of us are not allowed to fully inhabit it. Our choices are questioned, our privacy is disregarded, and our independence is often doubted. We are seen as perpetual children in need of supervision, rather than adults navigating the world like everyone else.

In Gibraltar, where community ties run deep and everyone knows everyone, this infantilisation can become particularly suffocating. A disabled adult going out alone may still be met with unsolicited concern: “Are you okay?” “Where’s your helper?” “Does your mother know you’re here?” These may seem like small comments, but they are constant reminders that we are not yet seen as whole adults in our own right.

Another issue that Disability Pride Month lays bare is performative inclusion. Disabled people are often included in conversations only during awareness campaigns or symbolic months: March for International Women’s Day, December for the International Day of Persons with Disabilities, and now July for Disability Pride.
Yet even within these broader awareness moments, disabled voices, especially those of women with disabilities, are often invisible. Within feminist movements, disabled women frequently face exclusion or marginalisation, as if disability and womanhood cannot coexist in the same struggle. Disabled women’s experiences, needs, and achievements are sidelined, denying us full participation in conversations about gender equality.

Similarly, disabled men are often overlooked during Men’s Day celebrations, their stories and struggles erased or ignored. This leaves disabled people of all genders without a platform to be heard or celebrated during key moments dedicated to their gender identity.

Being reduced to a theme or a one-month campaign does not translate into real equality or social justice. It does not fix the inaccessible infrastructure or the underrepresentation in politics and media. Token gestures may temporarily soothe guilt or offer visibility, but they do not change systems. We do not vanish once the month ends. We are here, every single day, and inclusion must reflect that reality by amplifying disabled people’s voices and embracing our full diversity.

Social justice, not sympathy
Disability Pride is not a feel-good initiative. It is a civil rights movement. It demands justice, equity, and space. It challenges deep societal norms that tie value to productivity and perfection, and it calls out the discomfort that many feel when faced with bodies and minds that do not conform to the expected.

It is long overdue for Gibraltar to recognise that disability rights are not separate from human rights. Ensuring access to public spaces, schools, healthcare, housing, and meaningful employment is not charity; it is a necessity. We should not have to “earn” our place in society by being extraordinary or inspirational. We are part of this community. We always have been.
True social justice requires recognising and celebrating the full spectrum of human experience, including disability, as an integral part of our shared humanity.

What would it look like for Gibraltar to celebrate disabled people openly, not just acknowledge our existence? To go beyond tolerance and embrace real allyship? It would mean featuring disabled voices in local media regularly, not just as “special interest” stories. It would mean accessibility audits of every public building out of obligation, but out of respect. It would mean inviting us into decision-making rooms, not just support groups.

It would mean showing pride, not pity.

The future of inclusion depends not only on laws or ramps, but also on connection. The kind of connection that allows us to listen to one another, to question long-held assumptions, and to embrace the richness of diversity. Gibraltar, with its closeness and layered identities, has the perfect conditions to lead by example in this. But it requires us to shift from seeing disability as something unfortunate to be managed to understanding it as a vital part of our human community.
That shift starts with how we speak, how we design our world, and how we choose to show up.