Foreign Policy, August 6, 2024
In March, a little-known volunteer organization dedicated to “reviving the religious and secular unity of the Russian people” escorted agents from the Internal Affairs Ministry and the Russian National Guard on a raid in the remote city of Orenburg, a city of 500,000 near the Kazakh border.
Their target was a bar called Pose, which was locally famous for its drag shows. The volunteer organization, called Russian Community Orenburg, posted videos of the raid online, highlighting people in skimpy outfits, asking attendees why they were in a “faggot bar,” and showing clubgoers cowering on the floor as agents conducted their search.
“This is not [a scene from] the decaying West, this is from within the ranks of a country that is at war for a third year,” the group lamented when it posted the video online.
Conservatives in Orenburg had been outraged about Pose since it opened in 2021, according to the Russian outlet Mediazona, and a local media outlet published a sensationalist article about the club, complaining that laws like Russia’s longstanding “gay propaganda ban” did not give local law enforcement the tools to shut it down. That law, enacted in 2013, only bans materials made available to minors and carries light penalties.
The agents in Pose that night were armed with a major new weapon in Russia’s long crusade against its queer citizens. Last November, in a secret proceeding sealed to observers, Russia’s Supreme Court decreed the “international LGBT movement” to be an “extremist” organization, adding it to a list of banned entities that includes terrorist groups and the political operation of the late opposition politician Alexei Navalny. The decision is so broad that it can potentially be used against anyone who has—or simply “promotes”—a “nontraditional sexual orientation,” including people who are not LGBTQ but support queer people’s rights. People convicted under the law face up to 10 years in some of Russia’s harshest prisons, where queer people fear sexual violence or worse.
“This is not a decision to punish you for a few years. This is the death penalty, and it’s clear for everybody,” one longtime activist said, referring to the harsh conditions in Russian prisons. (The activist asked not to be named due to security concerns.) “We will not have a chance to survive there.”
Pose’s owner and two of its employees are now awaiting trial. A court announcement on Telegram notes they are accused of “being persons with nontraditional sexual orientation … who also support the views and activities of the international public LGBT association banned in our country.”
Others close to the bar are now living in fear. Only one regular Pose patron would agree to speak with me, and he said his friends had mostly stopped communicating with one another, afraid they could be discovered. Several had left the city or the country. He thinks he should maybe leave the country, too, but doesn’t have a passport or the money to go into exile, nor a safe place to flee to.
Pose, the patron said, “was my whole life. It was the only place where they accepted me.”
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Homophobia became a major part of President Vladimir Putin’s political strategy in 2013. That’s when the Duma passed a national version of the “gay propaganda law.” The legislation was domestically useful to Putin, who was seeking to reinforce his political support by cozying up to the Russian Orthodox Church.
The law, which went into effect just before Russia was due to host the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, provoked an international outcry, and Putin detected homophobia could also be a tool of foreign policy. His government leaned into the controversy, portraying Russia as a defender of traditional values against a degenerate West that had lost its way. Kremlin allies also began using it in a more targeted way in Ukraine, where an oligarch close to Putin ran an ad campaign warning closer ties to the European Union would force the recognition of same-sex marriages. His decade-long strategy has used homophobia to try to drive a wedge between Eastern Europeans and the West, as well as to delegitimize fundamental notions of human rights and democracy.
To some Russian LGBTQ activists, it was inevitable that the Russian government would double down on going after queer people following Putin’s invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. Swiftly, the Russian government made a broad effort to dismantle the last spaces for opposition to his regime. Other steps have included shuttering Russia’s remaining independent media outlets and effectively banning any speech critical of the war or of Putin.
The organization Coming Out, which held an eight-day annual public event in St. Petersburg as recently as 2021, decided to move its whole team outside the country almost as soon as Russian tanks rolled across Ukraine’s borders.
“A few weeks after the war started, I understood that things were not going according to the plan,” said Aleksandr Voronov, Coming Out’s former director, who led its relocation to Lithuania. “I understood that they were going to start looking for new enemies.”
Putin also justified the war partly as a crusade against the LGBTQ movement, which he initially derided in a speech announcing the full-scale invasion as part of a Western plot to “destroy” Russia’s traditional values. Then, in September 2022, he referred to the movement as “satanic” in a speech illegally annexing four Ukrainian regions.
As the war continued, the regime’s propaganda machine pushed outlandish stories, rushing a state television crew to an LGBTQ center in decimated Mariupol that it claimed was “practically under the direct patronage” of U.S. President Joe Biden. Russian lawmakers also responded, expanding the gay propaganda ban in November 2022 and enacting a draconian anti-trans bill in 2023 that would outlaw gender confirming medical treatment, prohibit people from changing their gender on legal documents, and prohibit trans people from adopting children.
“A special military operation is taking place not only on the battlefields, but also in the consciousness, in the minds and souls of people,” said Aleksander Khinshtein, a member of the Russian parliament and an author of the updated gay propaganda law, in a speech to the Duma in October 2022. “LGBT today is a tool of hybrid warfare. And in this hybrid warfare, we must protect our values. We must protect our society and we must protect our children.”
Despite many threats to Russia’s queer movement—the original gay propaganda law, a state requirement that forced many LGBTQ organizations to register as “foreign agents,” growing vigilante violence—Russia’s queer movement had remained vital throughout most of Russia for most of the past decade. (A notable exception is Chechnya, where local officials have detained, tortured, or murdered dozens of queer people.) Queer organizations continued to work and even hold major public events like St. Petersburg’s long-running QueerFest, a multiday festival of LGBTQ-themed talks and exhibitions ending with a large public concert. But the extremism designation is far more dangerous than any previous threat.
Part of the danger comes from the court’s secrecy around the ruling. It not only closed the proceedings, but also barred LGBTQ organizations from participating when they tried to challenge the Ministry of Justice’s petition. Technically, any group the government seeks to declare extremist has a right to respond to the allegations against it, but the Ministry of Justice brought its petition against the “international LGBT movement,” which meant no specific organization would have standing to respond. And even when a group of LGBTQ activists formed an organization called the International LGBT Movement in an effort to intervene, the court refused to allow them to participate.
In fact, the Supreme Court never officially made the order public. It only reached LGBTQ activists in their lawyers when prosecutors in the city of Nizhny Novgorod attached it to their filings in a case against a woman who was arrested for wearing rainbow-colored earrings. (The six-color pride flag and other LGBTQ symbols were banned by the order, and the court sentenced the woman to administrative detention, despite the fact that the woman’s earrings were not discernible pride symbols—they had seven colors and were shaped like frogs.)
Olga Baranova, who has been executive director of an LGBTQ community center in Moscow since 2015, told me that the movement is now backpedaling after years of encouraging people to come out. They used to believe visibility would gradually make Russian society more supportive of LGBTQ people. Now it’s just dangerous.“We’ve worked all these years just to be [out] and to be in the mainstream. And now we just say, ‘Okay, stop, stop, stop!’” Baranova said. Most people she knows who were visibly out have left the country, Baranova said—as has she—and she and other activists now advise people living in Russia to stay in the closet for their own safety.
Natalia Soloviova, chair of the Russian LGBT Network, a federation of more than 20 queer organizations from across the country, called the decision “absolutely horrifying,” but said that even despite it, the reality is that most queer people are not able or don’t want to flee Russia. The war has made it harder for LGBTQ people to reach countries that promise the most safety to LGBTQ refugees—like the United States or members of the European Union—because those countries have radically restricted visas for Russians. Georgia, which allows Russians to enter without visas, has become an important haven for Russian dissidents of many kinds in the past two years. But Georgia’s ruling party has advanced its own laws attacking LGBTQ people, one of many initiatives to bring the country closer to Moscow’s orbit.
Still, Soloviova estimates a significant exodus, with “hundreds” going abroad. Almost 40 percent of the Russian LGBT Network’s member organizations have relocated at least some members of their team abroad, generally visible activists or people in senior management. And many other queer people have been displaced internally, fleeing threats in their hometowns for larger cities where their pursuers are less likely to find them. Baranova acknowledged that if queer people all either leave the country or live in the closet, as she and others counsel them to do, “the movement will expire.”
Soloviova is one of those who’ve left the country. She first spoke to me in April from Georgia’s capital, Tbilisi, but has since left Georgia. (She feared that country’s new propaganda law and also knew of three queer Russians who were attacked on the street.) She is from the Siberian city of Novosibirsk—Russia’s third-largest city—and said she’d never thought she’d live outside Russia until the extremism designation.
“We’ve worked all these years just to be [out] and to be in the mainstream. And now we just say, ‘Okay, stop, stop, stop!’” Baranova said. Most people she knows who were visibly out have left the country, Baranova said—as has she—and she and other activists now advise people living in Russia to stay in the closet for their own safety.
Natalia Soloviova, chair of the Russian LGBT Network, a federation of more than 20 queer organizations from across the country, called the decision “absolutely horrifying,” but said that even despite it, the reality is that most queer people are not able or don’t want to flee Russia. The war has made it harder for LGBTQ people to reach countries that promise the most safety to LGBTQ refugees—like the United States or members of the European Union—because those countries have radically restricted visas for Russians. Georgia, which allows Russians to enter without visas, has become an important haven for Russian dissidents of many kinds in the past two years. But Georgia’s ruling party has advanced its own laws attacking LGBTQ people, one of many initiatives to bring the country closer to Moscow’s orbit.
Still, Soloviova estimates a significant exodus, with “hundreds” going abroad. Almost 40 percent of the Russian LGBT Network’s member organizations have relocated at least some members of their team abroad, generally visible activists or people in senior management. And many other queer people have been displaced internally, fleeing threats in their hometowns for larger cities where their pursuers are less likely to find them. Baranova acknowledged that if queer people all either leave the country or live in the closet, as she and others counsel them to do, “the movement will expire.”
Soloviova is one of those who’ve left the country. She first spoke to me in April from Georgia’s capital, Tbilisi, but has since left Georgia. (She feared that country’s new propaganda law and also knew of three queer Russians who were attacked on the street.) She is from the Siberian city of Novosibirsk—Russia’s third-largest city—and said she’d never thought she’d live outside Russia until the extremism designation.
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Even today, key details about the Supreme Court order remain secret. For example, the order refers to a list of 281 individuals and 40 organizations considered part of the outlawed movement, but no one knows who is on those lists.
“The hardest thing here is that you have no opportunities to protect yourself,” Soloviova said. “You never know if you’re going to be prosecuted or not, and you will know only when the police come to your house directly and get you to prison directly.”
The charges in Orenburg are the first to reach court, but police appear to be flexing their new muscles across the country. In February alone, Mediazona reported several raids on “private parties” and a night club. LGBTQ activists told me they knew about several other similar incidents but didn’t want to share details, fearing publicity would put those involved in greater danger.
The arrests in Orenburg are just the beginning, worries Stanislav Seleznev, a lawyer with the Russian human rights organization Net Freedoms Project. Regional security officials generally have quotas for making significant arrests, and now LGBTQ people are an untapped pool of so-called “extremists” that can help them reach their goals.
“I’m compelled to assume that we are currently witnessing a model process that will be spread as much as possible all over the Russian regions,” Seleznev said. “Many more people are in a very dangerous situation now.”
Additional reporting contributed by a Russian reporter who asked not to be named, fearing that this article could lead to their arrest under the extremism law.