The freedoms people have fought for are not permanent
Each summer, London's streets become a living argument for visibility and dignity, as tens of thousands march where protest and celebration have long been inseparable. This year, more than 35,000 people from 600 organisations moved through the capital's heart, joined by the city's mayor, carrying both rainbow flags and the weight of unfinished business. The parade traces its roots to 1972 and the defiance of Stonewall, but the freedoms it commemorates remain fragile — measured today in four-year waiting lists, unclosed legislative promises, and over 18,000 hate crimes recorded in a single year. What endures is the question every generation must answer anew: who does the march truly serve, and at what cost does celebration come?
- Over 35,000 people flooded central London in a procession stretching from Hyde Park Corner to Whitehall, making visible a community that still faces daily hostility — more than 18,000 hate crimes motivated by sexual orientation were reported to police in 2025 alone.
- The organisers used the occasion not merely to celebrate but to indict: NHS gender-affirming care waiting lists have ballooned to four years, a conversion therapy ban promised in 2018 remains unlegislated, and nearly 60% of London's LGBTQ+ venues have shuttered since 2006.
- A fracture runs through the parade itself — a growing number of LGBTQ+ activists have withdrawn, accusing the event of 'pinkwashing' and pointing to sponsors with ties to the arms industry and the conflict in Gaza.
- The tension between protest and pageant, between corporate visibility and genuine solidarity, now defines Pride as much as the flags and the crowds — the march that once unified is increasingly a mirror of the community's own internal reckoning.
On a Saturday afternoon in central London, more than 35,000 people moved through the streets in a river of colour and defiance, drawn from roughly 600 organisations. They marched from Hyde Park Corner through Piccadilly toward Whitehall, many carrying rainbow flags in the summer light. Among them was Mayor Sadiq Khan, walking alongside the crowd.
At the front was Julian Hows, a 70-year-old activist who has watched Pride transform over decades. His message was unambiguous: Pride must carry protest in its bones, because the freedoms people have fought for are not permanent. Somewhere in the world, rights are always being stripped away. That is why you keep marching.
The organisers made the stakes plain. NHS waiting lists for gender-affirming care have stretched to four years in parts of the country. A ban on conversion therapy, promised in 2018, still has not become law. And since 2006, nearly six in ten of London's LGBTQ+ venues have closed — the infrastructure of belonging quietly disappearing. Behind every flag on Saturday stood a starker number: more than 18,000 hate crimes motivated by sexual orientation recorded by police in 2025 alone.
Yet the parade has become contested ground. A growing number of LGBTQ+ activists have stepped back, troubled by what they call 'pinkwashing' — corporations wrapping themselves in Pride's symbolism without genuine commitment to equality. Others have raised concerns about sponsors linked to the arms industry and the event's relationship to the war in Gaza. The march that was meant to be a unified front has fractured along lines of principle.
Britain's first official Pride took place in London in July 1972, born from the Stonewall uprising in New York, when a community fought back against decades of police harassment. Fifty-four years on, tens of thousands still march. But the question that now shadows the celebration is whether the parade can remain what it was always meant to be — a space where the most marginalised are centred, where protest outweighs profit, and where the community's own needs come first.
On a Saturday afternoon in central London, more than 35,000 people moved through the streets in a river of color and defiance. They came from roughly 600 organizations, marching from Hyde Park Corner down through Piccadilly toward Whitehall, many carrying rainbow flags that caught the summer light. Among them was Sadiq Khan, the city's mayor, walking alongside the crowd as it made its way through the capital.
At the front of the parade was Julian Hows, a 70-year-old activist who has watched Pride evolve over decades. When he spoke to journalists, he was direct about what the day meant. Pride, he said, has to carry protest in its bones. The freedoms people have fought for are not permanent—they can vanish. And the work is never finished. Somewhere in the world, he noted, rights are being stripped away. That's why you keep marching.
The organizers had prepared a statement about what they saw as the real stakes. The NHS waiting lists for gender-affirming care had stretched to four years in some parts of the country. A promised ban on conversion therapy, pledged back in 2018, still hadn't become law. Meanwhile, the physical spaces where LGBTQ+ people gathered and built community were disappearing. Since 2006, nearly six in ten of London's LGBTQ+ venues had closed. The infrastructure of belonging was shrinking.
Then there was the violence. In 2025 alone, police recorded more than 18,000 hate crimes motivated by sexual orientation. That number sits behind every march, every flag, every person who showed up on Saturday. Rebecca Paisis, the interim chief executive of Pride in London, had spoken before the event about wanting to create the most inclusive Pride yet. She framed it as continuity—from the people who marched in 1972, inspired by Stonewall three years before, to anyone joining for the first time this year. Power comes from many voices becoming one.
But the event itself has become contested ground. Some LGBTQ+ activists no longer feel the parade represents them. They've accused it of "pinkwashing"—allowing corporations to benefit from association with Pride without making real commitments to equality. Others have pointed out that the event lacks diversity. Since 2024, several LGBTQ+ groups have deliberately stepped back, troubled by sponsors' ties to the arms industry and by the parade's relationship to the war in Gaza. The march that was supposed to be a unified front has fractured along lines of principle and conscience.
The history is worth holding. Britain's first official Pride march happened in London in July 1972, born from the Stonewall uprising in New York—when police raided a gay bar and the community fought back against decades of harassment. That uprising became a movement. Fifty-four years later, tens of thousands still march. But the question now is whether the march itself can stay true to what it was supposed to be: a space where the most marginalized are centered, where protest matters more than profit, where the community's own needs come first.
Citas Notables
Pride is important because it needs to have an underlying level of protest, and you can see the freedoms that we have can so easily be taken away.— Julian Hows, 70-year-old activist at the front of the parade
Our movement has always been built on many voices becoming one united front—from the people who marched in 1972 to those joining us for the first time this year. That's where our power lies.— Rebecca Paisis, interim chief executive of Pride in London
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does a Pride parade still matter in 2026, when so much has changed legally?
Because the legal wins are fragile, and they're incomplete. A four-year wait for care is a form of denial. Conversion therapy is still happening. And 18,000 hate crimes in a single year means the hostility hasn't gone anywhere—it's just taken different shapes.
The parade seems to be splitting, though. Some groups are leaving. What does that fracture mean?
It means the movement is being honest about who it serves. If a corporation gets to use your struggle as a marketing tool while profiting from weapons or war, that's not solidarity. That's extraction. Some people are saying: not in our name.
Is the parade losing power because of that?
Maybe it's gaining it. When you stop pretending everyone's on the same side, you can actually see who's committed and who's just performing. That clarity is uncomfortable, but it's necessary.
What would Julian Hows say about all this?
He'd probably say it's exactly what Pride was always supposed to do—push, question, refuse to settle. The moment it stops being protest is the moment it stops being Pride.
So what happens next?
The march continues, but it has to reckon with itself. The organizers say they want the most inclusive event yet. But inclusion means listening to the people saying the current version doesn't work for them. That's harder than just marching.