Why segregated restrooms hurt us all

By Noel Galon de Leon

The idea of building separate restrooms for trans people often comes up as a “solution.” On the surface, it sounds progressive, an attempt to create a safe space. But in reality, it echoes a dangerous philosophy we know too well: “separate but equal.” In practice, these facilities are rarely equal. In Iloilo, for example, I’ve seen cafés introduce single-use restrooms labeled as “all-gender.” While this is a step forward, too often these are hidden in corners, harder to find, or poorly maintained compared to the main facilities. What is presented as inclusion often becomes isolation, reinforcing the notion that trans people must be set aside, that their existence is a problem needing its own box. This isn’t dignity. This isn’t equity. It is segregation with a modern face.

And the cost of this exclusion isn’t just inconvenience, it’s devastating. Denying people something as basic as restroom access has profound effects on mental and physical health. Studies show that trans students who are denied restroom access are more likely to skip classes, perform poorly, or even drop out of school. Among adults, the impact stretches into workplaces, leading to daily stress, health risks from avoiding restroom use, and long-term trauma. In the Philippines, where LGBTQ+ youth already face high rates of bullying and discrimination, the message they receive when barred from a restroom is painfully clear: you don’t belong, not even in the most basic human spaces. Imagine being a teenager in Iloilo, already struggling to assert your identity in a conservative environment, and then being told that even the act of urinating must be policed. That message is crushing, and it plants wounds that can last a lifetime.

Much of the push for separate restrooms is fueled by the idea of protecting women and children. This argument, repeated endlessly in public discourse, collapses under scrutiny. What is really being protected is not safety, but comfort, the comfort of cisgender people who would rather not confront differences. In our culture, where hiya (shame) and pakikisama (the desire for smooth relations) often shape interactions, discomfort is often treated as more important than justice. And yet justice, not comfort, should be the standard.

Instead of building separate restrooms, we should be building facilities that serve everyone equally. Gender-neutral restrooms are not only for trans or nonbinary people; they also benefit parents caring for children of another gender, people with disabilities who require assistance, and even families moving together through public spaces. In a city like Iloilo, which brands itself as “The City of Love” and one of the most livable cities in the country, embracing inclusive design should be part of our progress. The gleaming developments rising in Mandurriao and Iloilo Business Park could lead the way by adopting restroom designs that reflect compassion and inclusivity, not outdated gender binaries.

It is also worth remembering that restroom segregation was never rooted in biology in the first place. In the late 19th century, Western countries began separating restrooms by gender under the guise of protecting women in public spaces. The idea wasn’t about science; it was about enforcing gender roles and keeping women confined to “delicate” spheres. As a former colony, we inherited much of this infrastructure without questioning its purpose. But as our culture changes, as women lead companies and trans leaders run for public office, shouldn’t our architecture and public facilities change too? To keep holding onto old rules is to betray the spirit of a society that claims to evolve.

Of course, the debate over restrooms is not only about bricks and tiles, it is cultural. In Iloilo, where devotion to tradition and religion runs deep, many will instinctively resist gender-neutral restrooms, saying such spaces violate Christian values. But I have also spoken to younger Ilonggos, students at UP Visayas and West Visayas State University, who see the issue differently. They grew up in a world where Pride parades, social media advocacy, and queer visibility are more common, and many of them believe inclusivity should no longer be up for debate. This generational divide shows us that the battleground is as much cultural as it is architectural. And as with many cultural battles, the younger generation’s voices will eventually shape the future.

At the heart of this debate lies a simple truth, separate restrooms for trans people are not liberation. They may be offered with good intentions, but they only deepen alienation. They soothe the discomfort of the majority while forcing the marginalized to bear the weight of segregation. Iloilo City, which calls itself “The City of Love,” cannot afford love to remain a slogan. Love must be visible in our public spaces, our policies, and our compassion. If trans people cannot safely use a restroom, then we cannot claim to be a city, or even a country, moving toward equality.

As a gay advocate, I know that my liberation is tied to the liberation of my trans siblings. If they are excluded, then none of us are free. The lesson of Stonewall was clear, our struggles are interconnected, our dignity indivisible. What we need is not more separation, but more humanity. We don’t need special restrooms for trans people, we need restrooms, period, designed with everyone in mind. That is not just a kind gesture; it is the only just, fair, and humane path forward. In the end, what we need is not separate spaces but one shared world, where dignity is never questioned and belonging is never up for debate.

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Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.