Disaster studies scholars such as Anthony Oliver Smith and Ben Wisner have long argued that disasters are not simply the result of natural hazards; they emerge from structural conditions such as poverty, unequal access to resources, and the legacies of colonisation. This argument has direct implications for the humanitarian sector, especially in how it uses the term “vulnerable groups” to describe certain populations, including women, people with disabilities (PwD), and LGBTQ+ individuals. The term is often used to signal higher exposure to risk. However, it is not neutral in practice. It operates as colonial debris, meaning a leftover from older systems of classification that ranked people based on “worthiness” and assumed capacity. When used without reflection, the label can reinforce deficit-based narratives and shift attention away from the structural and political drivers that place people at risk in the first place.
“Vulnerable” Label as Colonial Debris
The term “vulnerable” derives from the Latin words, vulnerare and vulnerabilis, meaning “wounded.” Its modern administrative use can be traced to early state efforts to identify those considered physically or socially “wounded” and not economically productive (Bourdelais & Chircop, 2010).
Recognising that some groups face a higher risk is important. The problem is how the label is used and what it enables in policy and practice. In many contexts, “vulnerable” carries connotations of weakness, incapability, and dependency. It can reduce people to deficits and position them as passive recipients, rather than recognising them as individuals and groups with knowledge, lived experience, and capabilities (Gaillard, 2019).
The effects of such categorisation can be observed across contexts, including Indonesia, where certain groups face structural exclusion. One report has indicated that around 5,200 people with psychosocial disabilities were subjected to shackling, known as pasung (Tempo, 2021). Employment participation for people with disabilities has also been reported as very low (0.55%) relative to the national workforce (Kemensos, 2024). In parallel, LGBTQ+ communities have faced criminalisation, including reports of arrests linked to sexual orientation and gender identity (Asmarani, 2018).
When hazards strike, these pre-existing exclusions predictably translate into higher harm - not because PwD or LGBTQ+ people lack capacity, but because systems are built around stigma, uneven enforcement, inaccessible information and infrastructure, and discriminatory service delivery. Evidence consistently shows that PwD face a higher mortality rate in disasters when preparedness and response are not inclusive, and LGBTQ+ communities face specific disaster risks that are shaped by policies, particularly where discrimination and barriers to services limit their access to resources. (Mann et al., 2024; Stein & Stein, 2022).
Recalling Indigenous Knowledge
“The true and original values of Indonesia are reflected in the pre-colonial era” – Peter Carey
Indonesia’s cultural diversity includes knowledge systems that challenge gender rigid binaries and deficit framings, specifically for PwD and LGBTQ+ communities. In South Sulawesi, Bugis society recognises five gender categories: makkunrai (cis women), orowane (cis men), calalai (trans men), calabai (trans women), and bissu (neither men nor women). Bissu historically held a respected position as a spiritual leader. This suggests that gender diversity has long been understood through locally grounded social and spiritual roles rather than treated solely as a modern identity category.
A similar idea can also be seen in Java, where differences were not automatically viewed as abnormal. In the Javanese royal courts, abdi dalem palawija referred to a distinct group of courtiers with physical impairments, such as dwarfism, hunchbacks, or other physical characteristics. Within the kraton, they were granted close proximity to the king, which signals that their presence carried a recognised and sacred social role (Amalia, 2020).
These Indigenous knowledges from Sulawesi and Java challenge the assumption that inclusion is a modern and Western-derived solution. Instead, it shows that it was a pre-colonial and locally grounded social reality. PwD and LGBTQ+ are recognised for their spiritual, social, and functional roles within communal life. It shows that local concepts of personhood and contribution have long existed.
This matters for the aid system today. Global debates on ‘decolonising aid’ often take place in elite spaces and use familiar theoretical vocabularies. They diagnose coloniality in sophisticated ways, yet the categories used in practice, such as ‘vulnerable groups’, ‘beneficiaries’, and ‘target populations’, are still commonly defined in English, shaped in international forums, and decided by people who are not part of the communities being described. The Bugis and Javanese examples suggest a different starting point. Instead of asking only how to apply imported inclusion frameworks, humanitarian actors could first ask which local concepts of personhood and contribution they have been ignoring, and how these concepts could inform more grounded approaches to inclusion.
Decolonisation as a Practical Reform Agenda
In this context, humanitarian policy and practice face choices: continue relying on colonial ways of thinking, or deliberately redesign systems that recognise local agency and plural forms of knowledge. This choice matters because many common labels and templates in the aid system still reflect a colonial perspective. They draw on logics that classify and manage communities and speak on their behalf, rather than working with them as decision makers.
If localisation is genuinely understood as a redistribution of power, then decolonisation is mandatory, not optional. This also means that decolonisation cannot remain only a matter of language or style. Renaming policies or adding new terms to familiar strategies is insufficient. The real test is whether communities such as PwD and LGBTQ+ have meaningful influence over how risk is defined, how resources are allocated, and how their futures are imagined within disaster governance.
A practical reform agenda can begin with three shifts. First, humanitarian systems should decentre Western technocratic knowledge frameworks that currently dominate disaster governance, and recognise Indigenous and local knowledge as legitimate. Second, humanitarian actors should stop using language that can reinforce discrimination, including the use of terms such as “vulnerable.” The analytical focus should move to structural barriers, power relations, and exclusionary institutions that generate risk. Third, LGBTQ+ and PwD communities should be engaged as partners with expertise, meaning inclusion is operationalised through co-creation and co-action in policy and practice.
Conclusion
Decolonising knowledge on gender and disability should be assessed through concrete practice, not public performance. Humanitarian organisations increasingly speak the language of localisation and inclusion, yet these commitments remain symbolic when authority over definitions, priorities, and resources stays concentrated in international institutions and technical experts. When decolonisation is treated mainly as branding, revised terminology, or an updated strategy document, colonial debris continues to shape everyday decisions through the same categories, templates, and expert hierarchies.
A meaningful shift requires institutional reforms that are clearly reflected in how programmes are designed and governed. It also depends on whether Indigenous and local knowledge is recognised as evidence with equal standing to “scientific” evidence, rather than treated as background context added only after technical decisions have already been made. Without these changes, inclusion remains rhetorical.
Resources:
Amalia, A. N. (2020). Otoritas spiritual dan pergeseran fungsi polowijo-cebolan di keraton Yogyakarta [Spiritual authority and the shift in function of polowijo-cebolan in the Yogyakarta palace]. [Master’s thesis, UIN Sunan Kalijaga]. Electronic Thesis and Dissertation Repository. https://digilib.uin-suka.ac.id/id/eprint/39581. https://digilib.uin-suka.ac.id/id/eprint/39581/
Asmarani, D. (2018, August 14). Kepanikan Moral dan Persekusi atas Minoritas Seksual di Indonesia. From Magdalene: https://magdalene.co/story/tiada-tempat-untuk-lgbt-kepanikan-moral-dan-persekusi-atas-minoritas-seksual-di-indonesia/#google_vignette
Chircop, J., & Bourdelais, P. (2010). Introduction: Situating and defining vulnerability in historical perspective. In J. Chircop, & P. Bourdelais (Eds.), Vulnerability, social inequality and health (pp. 7–14). Edições Colibri. https://www.um.edu.mt/library/oar/handle/123456789/104090
Gaillard, J. (2019). Disaster studies inside out. Disasters, 43, S7–S17. https://doi.org/10.1111/disa.12323
Kementerian Sosial. (2024, December 24). Disabilitas dan Tantangan di Dunia Kerja. From Kementerian Sosial Direktorat Jenderal Pemberdayaan Sosial: https://kemensos.go.id/jurnal-dan-artikel/direktorat-jenderal-pemberdayaan-sosial/Disabilitas-dan-Tantangan-di-Dunia-Kerja
Mann, S., McKay, T., & Gonzales, G. (2024). Climate change-related disasters & the health of LGBTQ+ populations. The Journal of Climate Change and Health, 18, Article 100304. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.joclim.2024.100304
Stein, P. J. S., & Stein, M. A. (2022). Climate change and the right to health of people with disabilities. The Lancet Global Health, 10(1), e24–e25. https://doi.org/10.1016/S2214-109X(21)00542-8
Tempo. (2021, March 25). Angka Pemasungan Difabel Mental Bertambah 20 Persen Selama Pandemi Covid-19. From Tempo Politik: https://www.tempo.co/politik/angka-pemasungan-difabel-mental-bertambah-20-persen-selama-pandemi-covid-19-527858