Diversity has never been more at risk. Ironically, we’ve also never had such an openly diverse set of leaders. Teja Adarsh Dodda examines the dilemma facing queer and neurodivergent people and what led to the weaponisation of representation.
The question of representation has long been central to the struggles of marginalized communities. For queer and neurodivergent individuals, visibility has often been a double-edged sword, a source of empowerment when it enables solidarity and progress, but a profound setback when it amplifies voices that work against the interests of their own communities. The recent actions of Elon Musk and Alice Weidel epitomize this troubling phenomenon, leaving us to grapple with how such individuals have become popular representatives of groups they seem intent on undermining, and why this problem is especially acute for queer and neurodivergent communities.
Elon Musk’s recent “Roman Salute” ignited fierce debate. The defence? Musk’s neurodivergence. For someone whose Asperger’s (now diagnosed as a part of Autism Spectrum Disorder) was barely, if ever, mentioned during his political ascent— even though Musk himself used it multiple times during his SNL appearances or TED talks, and to market himself as a “genius”— this sudden invocation of identity as a shield for harmful actions feels more like a calculated deflection than an earnest explanation. It posits neurodivergence as a somehow acceptable defence for imitating genocidal dictators and presenting active harm to people. It’s a grotesque inversion of the struggles faced by most neurodivergent people, who battle for everyday recognition, understanding, and basic respect.
This defence of Musk reinforces a dangerous narrative: that neurodivergence is only acknowledged when it can be exploited, whether to justify indefensible acts or to glorify economic productivity, whilst countless others are dismissed or ridiculed for the challenges they face. If that wasn’t enough, Musk is also an anti-DEI crusader, opposing the very programs that help many neurodivergent people access opportunities.
Alice Weidel’s case is equally disheartening. A lesbian mother and the Alternative for Germany (AfD) party’s candidate for Chancellor, Weidel’s opposition to same-sex marriage and adoption, as well as her infamous declaration “I am lesbian, not queer”, have been well documented. The ungodly amount of internalised homophobia required to be against your own marital rights notwithstanding, it underscores a troubling disconnect from the broader LGBTQIA+ community.
Weidel’s stance has provided far-right parties with the perfect smokescreen: a supposed testament to their inclusivity and non-discrimination. By parading such figures these parties can claim legitimacy for their oppressive policies while encouraging other LGBTQ+ individuals to join their ranks, further fracturing the community.
The phenomenon of marginalized individuals being weaponised to harm their own communities is not new. The Nazi Jews, Black people in favour of Slavery, and Indians in support of the British Empire were the Musks and Wiedels of their day. It’s not just a historical position either. Women have their Phyllis Schlaflys and Kemi Badenochs, Black people have their Mark Robinsons and Kanye Wests, and so forth.
However, history has shown that representation is rarely pure or straightforward. Figures that were once considered harmful or controversial have sometimes led to significant progress in the long run. For example, Margaret Thatcher, who rejected feminist ideas herself, has since been an inspiration to many, especially due to her journey. A bright light in the woefully short list of UK prime ministers who come from humble beginnings, she managed to take power in a heavily patriarchal British polity. Yet, just because these figures existed, does not mean they were correct. It needs to be possible to accept someone’s identity and maybe their achievements without agreeing with their views, especially when they harm whole communities.
But the impact of this weaponised representation is particularly acute for queer and neurodivergent communities. Unlike gender or race, these identities are not always visible, which has historically allowed many to live in the shadows, shielded from direct discrimination but also excluded from representation. While this carried the obvious benefit of not being openly scrutinised, it also brought with it the chance of silent erasure, whether through conversion therapies or exploitative mental health treatments.
The invisibility and the history of representation (or lack thereof), coupled with a societal tendency to frame these identities as abhorrent or inherently harmful for the sheer act of existing, has created fertile ground for the rise of harmful representatives. These individuals are not anomalies; they are actively cultivated by systems that seek to undermine the broader movements for equality and justice.
The voice of intersectional activist and thinker, bell hooks comes to mind in times like this: “There really is a conscious manipulation of representations and it’s not about magical thinking, it’s not about like pure imagination, creativity, it’s about people consciously knowing what kinds of images will produce a certain kind of impact”.
These words portray how the polarized world seems to be producing a far more dystopian symbol of representation for the queer and neurodivergent communities. As hooks emphasizes, this manipulation isn’t accidental; it reflects deeper power dynamics, where selective visibility serves the interests of dominant groups rather than fostering genuine liberation.
This skewed representation persists because of a systemic imbalance in how different political ideologies engage with marginalized voices. On the left, there is a tendency to stifle criticism. Activists who push for systemic change, such as Greta Thunberg, who has been vocal about the role of capitalism in the climate crisis, are often sidelined for fear of alienating “moderate” voters. Thunberg’s neurodivergence has become a target for relentless harassment and a convenient excuse to dismiss her critiques.
The left’s approach assumes that, because they offer nominal support for marginalized groups, they can take these votes for granted, effectively silencing voices that demand more substantial change. This way, they force people to stick with them despite actively working towards less representation, using the right as a common enemy. Borrowing the words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in his Birmingham Letters to express my feelings on the subject: “Shallow understanding from people of goodwill is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.”
Meanwhile, the right has mastered the art of weaponising representation. Figures like Weidel and Musk are elevated not despite their identities but because of them. Their prominence serves a dual purpose: to project a facade of inclusivity and to legitimize policies that harm the very communities they ostensibly represent.
The right’s strategy is weaponising because it uses these individuals to argue that discrimination doesn’t exist or isn’t harmful, as if one person’s success can erase systemic oppression. This tactic not only undermines collective solidarity but also sows division within marginalized groups, making it harder to mount unified resistance. Intersectional erasure, that’s what Kimberlé Crenshaw, the creator of intersectionality has called it, during the first Trump administration’s various attacks on diversity and that is what the right is trying to do. Except now, with these “representatives”, they legitimise their actions.
The consequences of this dynamic are far-reaching. When Musk and Weidel dominate the narrative, they drown out the voices of those who fight tirelessly for genuine progress. Their prominence allows governments and corporations to sidestep accountability, pointing to these “success stories” as proof that systemic barriers no longer exist. This narrative is particularly harmful for younger generations, who are left with few visible role models advocating for meaningful change. Instead, they are presented with a distorted picture of success, one that requires complicity in systems of oppression.
The rise of harmful representatives is a symptom of broader societal failings. It reflects our collective inability to move beyond superficial notions of representation and engage with the deeper work of systemic change. By confronting these failings head-on, we can start reclaiming the narrative and build a world where representation serves as a force for liberation, not oppression.
Whether Alice Weidel gets into government despite the “firewall” or if the United States’ Executive can survive the barrage of DOGE, weaponisation of different kinds will remain here for us to see.
In this fight, queer and neurodivergent communities deserve better. They deserve leaders who embody their struggles and aspirations, not individuals who exploit their identities for personal gain or to perpetuate systems of harm. The challenge is immense, but so is the potential for transformation. It’s time to demand more from our political leaders, from our movements, and from ourselves.
Teja Adarsh Dodda is a Master of Public Policy (MPP) student at the Hertie School.