The Pink Line Under Siege

In the dusky glow of Lisbon’s miradouros, the rainbow once shimmered. Portugal—the Catholic country that legalized same-sex marriage in 2010, that saw the first openly lesbian parliamentary leader in Europe, that welcomed queer tourism with pastéis and pride—has long been hailed as a surprising haven for LGBTQ+ rights. But these days, beneath the tiled facades and sunset Aperols, there’s a different kind of tension. You can feel it on the dance floor, at public libraries, in the voting booths. Something has shifted. The pink line that once signaled progress is flickering under siege.

We are witnessing the slow corrosion of queer safety in Portugal—not through outright bans or constitutional amendments, but through something far more insidious: fear.

It comes in waves, and it comes with names. Chega. Reconquista. Habeas Corpus. Djalme dos Santos. These are no longer fringe actors yelling at clouds. They are now coordinated, emboldened, and dangerously visible. A book club at a public library, co-hosted by ILGA Portugal, is interrupted by far-right agitators citing “alternative opinions” on queer love—opinions that include medicalizing homosexuality, denying rights, or shouting down discussion. Riot police are summoned not to protect queer space, but to defuse conflict that never should have ignited.

Meanwhile, at Planeta Manas, a queer safe space and nightclub, riot police burst in during a dance party—helmets gleaming, boots stomping. Not once, but four times in five months. No warrants, no clear justification, only the echo of boots in basslines and the aftermath of trauma. Queer bodies, already carrying the weight of history, now brace for rubber and repression in spaces once built as sanctuaries.

The growing normalization of these incidents signals more than social discomfort—it marks the return of political homophobia, cloaked in the banal language of “public order” and “family values.” Portugal is not alone in this. The trend mirrors movements across Europe: Giorgia Meloni in Italy, Vox in Spain, AfD in Germany. But Portugal had been different. Portugal had been hopeful. And this betrayal stings precisely because of that hope.

There is a paradox here: Portugal’s laws remain some of the most progressive in Europe. Marriage, adoption, gender recognition—all legal. On paper, we are free. But queer freedom is not built on statutes alone. It’s built on trust—on feeling safe to kiss in public, to read queer stories in schools, to throw a party without fearing that the state will crash it in riot gear. That trust is cracking.

And yet, amidst the fractures, there is resistance. Quiet, constant, collective.

Activists are organizing rapid legal responses. Libraries and cultural centers are refusing to cancel events. The dancers return to Planeta Manas. The marchers still take over the Avenida da Liberdade each June. Queer spaces emerge like wildflowers in cement—soft but unyielding. It is the familiar rhythm of queer life: build, break, rebuild.

Portugal must wake up. It must stop assuming that progress is inevitable. That marriage equality means safety. That queer liberation is irreversible. It is not. The backlash is real. And if we do not name it, if we do not vote against it, if we do not fund and protect the institutions that shelter us, then we will lose not only clubs and book readings—but the very idea of what Portugal aspired to be.

The new right doesn’t need to outlaw queerness. It only needs to make us afraid.

And fear, unchallenged, does the rest.