Centre Kapwa: the safe space I wish I had growing up

When I think about Centre Kapwa’s work with queer Filipinx youth, I always want to begin by clarifying something: Centre Kapwa is not exclusively a queer non-profit. But the truth is, most of us—members, volunteers, and organizers—are queer ourselves. That shapes everything we do. Our lived experiences naturally bring queer perspectives into the programs, gatherings, and spaces we create. 

Take the monthly Kapwa Walk, for example. We started it in the cold months of 2022, when isolation was hitting hard. The idea was simple: let’s go outside, let’s walk through different neighborhoods together. With so many Filipinos rooted in Côte-des-Neiges, we thought it’d be meaningful to bring our community—quite literally—into different boroughs. 

What began as an excuse to leave the house became something more: about taking up space and claiming visibility. We proudly carried both the Philippine and pride flags wherever we went—whether to a random café, a neighborhood restaurant, a quiet park, or even a museum. Each time, it felt like claiming joy and visibility in spaces where our presence as queer Filipinx youth is so often overlooked. 

Then there’s Ka-artehan, a monthly creative gathering hosted by Ka Collective, an amazing group of Filipinx artists practicing many different forms of artistry. You don’t have to call yourself an artist to show up—just come, bring yourself, and create alongside others. It’s such a beautiful safe place to talk, laugh, or sit in quiet focus while making art. 

What Centre Kapwa does is simple: we create safe spaces. But for queer Filipinx youth, that’s not small—it’s life-changing.

Last month, Ka Collective celebrated the programming’s two-year anniversary, which we marked by hosting a zine fair at Frigo Vert. It was a vibrant and successful event that showed how far we’ve come in building platforms where Filipinx creativity—and queerness—can be visible, celebrated, and shared with the wider community. 

Another milestone was Queer Kuwentuhan, part of Dr. Jacqueline Colting Stol’s dissertation in 2022. Seven of us with Filipino heritage and queer identities gathered over four workshops, using photography and storytelling to explore who we are. We later presented our stories in an art exhibit, celebrated together, and kept reconnecting in different ways. For me, that’s actually where I first crossed paths with many of the people who would later become the heart of Centre Kapwa. 

(You can see the zine that was written and compiled by Dr. Stol, the main researcher of the project, here.) 

Growing up queer and Filipinx 

In many ways, what Centre Kapwa does is simple: we create safe spaces. But for queer Filipinx youth, that’s not small—it’s life-changing. 

Growing up Filipino and queer, there’s a stereotype we know too well: we’re the joyful ones, the family clowns, always ready with a joke. People think of us as the fun ones in the parlors doing hair, styling beauty queens, or entertaining crowds. Always the resilient, successful ones. 

But resilience isn’t just a compliment—it’s also a burden. Nobody talks about the emotional weight behind that laughter. Nobody talks about the burden of being closeted, or the scars of harassment, or the way we are fetishized. Nobody talks about how hard it is when your own family doesn’t support you. 

I’ll never forget watching an episode of Drag Race Philippines Season 3 and seeing a queen break down in tears about being sexually harassed. She had never spoken about it publicly, because in our culture, there’s no real space for that conversation. People assume queer bodies are always meant for pleasure. But we carry pain too. 

And yet—we keep going. We keep showing up. We keep creating joy. That’s the resilience queer Filipinos are forced to carry, whether we want to or not. 

Within Montreal’s Filipinx community, things are slowly shifting. Some families are more accepting now, but Catholic conservatism still shapes many households.

When you add migration into the picture, the struggles deepen—and mental health becomes an even more pressing concern. First-generation immigrants like me often come from conservative environments where coming out feels impossible, carrying stress, fear, and isolation. On top of that, many of us are adjusting to family reunification, navigating relationships with relatives we may not have seen in years while also learning to live in a new country. 

Then we move to cities like Montreal, which seem open and liberating, but can also feel overwhelming and disorienting. For me, it was almost a culture shock—coming from a small, conservative town in the Philippines to a city where queerness is so visible. I’m lucky to have a supportive family, but that’s not always the case in our community. The constant navigation between home culture, family expectations, and new environments can place a heavy burden on mental well-being. 

That’s why spaces like Centre Kapwa matter. Here, you don’t have to explain yourself or define who you are before being accepted. You just show up, and people hold you in community. We look out for one another, we check in, and we make mental health and well-being a priority. We recognize the richness of our queerness—not just gay, but non-binary, lesbian, trans, and beyond. 

Within Montreal’s Filipinx community, things are slowly shifting. Some families are more accepting now, but Catholic conservatism still shapes many households. At the same time, queer communities here can sometimes fall into homonormativity, leaving little room for the complexities of being racialized, immigrant, and queer all at once. 

Centre Kapwa's impact

That’s why Centre Kapwa’s presence is so necessary: it fills a gap that no other organization really addresses. Despite the growing number of Filipinos in Montreal, there is still no group dedicated to addressing the complex needs—particularly the mental health and well-being—of queer Filipino youth in the city. 

The impact shows in the way people respond. Over and over, youth tell us how grateful they are for the safe space we create. They tell us they finally feel part of a community, that it’s the first time they’ve been able to show up without needing to explain or defend themselves. 

Looking forward, my hope for Centre Kapwa is simple but powerful: that we remain a place people can turn to whenever they feel excluded elsewhere. We remind ourselves that we are not a monolith—we come from different places, with different stories, but we can unlearn colonial mentalities, uplift our community, and unite together. 

What excites me most is watching members grow. Some who once only came to our events now lead their own programming, bringing their talents and expertise to share with newer faces. I love seeing people who are freshly out—baklas finding their footing—step into the community and blossom in their own ways. 

In Filipino culture, the word bakla  is often used to mean “gay,” but it’s much more expansive than that. It can describe someone effeminate, someone queer, someone gender non-conforming. For many, it’s both an identity and a cultural category—complicated, sometimes stigmatized, but also reclaimed with pride. 

Welcoming baklas into our space, and seeing them bloom in their own ways, is a reminder of how vibrant and diverse our community is. 

This is the safe space I wish I had growing up, and it means everything to me to be able to offer it now. 

To live in 'kapwa' is to see yourself in others, and others in yourself. It’s about community care, accountability, and collective belonging.

Personally, this work is deeply tied to who I am. I’ve been with Centre Kapwa since the beginning—as a volunteer, the first paid intern, and now as someone who continues to give support. I stay because it feels like home. 

If you ever wondered what kapwa means, it’s a Tagalog word that speaks to a shared sense of self—recognizing that our humanity is bound up in one another. To live in kapwa is to see yourself in others, and others in yourself. It’s about community care, accountability, and collective belonging. 

At its core, my commitment comes from doing what my younger self needed. When I was questioning my identity, I longed for a space like this—for people who would see me, celebrate me fully, and remind me that I was enough. 

Centre Kapwa gave me that. And because of it, I’ve learned to love myself in ways I never thought possible.