When sexuality on the run becomes a death sentence

This article was produced in the framework of the "Unprejudiced" project with the support of the Eastern Partnership Programme and the German Federal Foreign Office in autumn 2022.
Author: Cedrik Pelka


Fleeing the war is the last resort for many people from Ukraine. They do not want to die in the war. But what if even fleeing becomes a mortal danger? And only because some people don’t except others’ sexual orientation or way of life? Two examples of queer young people who have embarked on a dangerous flight out of fear of war.


"I had no life in Ukraine. It was hell and I don't want to remember that time." That's the verdict of Rem. She is 20 years old, Ukrainian from Odessa, studies IT and she is a trans woman. She has been all her life, only she could never live the way she wanted. The fear was too big. "In Ukraine, almost everyone is homophobic and transphobic. Even my family doesn't know about my started transition, only close friends." Half a year before the war, Rem starts to grow her hair and very slowly get used to the idea that soon she might be openly trans. Then came the war.

"In Mariupol, a man is supposed to be a man. That means: best is to work in a factory and create something with your hands. Many people there are homophobic." This is what 23-year-old Sasha reports. Even his parents don't know he's gay until today. And that, Sasha says, is best left that way. "They wouldn't understand. I've always played a role," Sasha says. A month after the war has started, the art student sets out to join his mother in Crimea, because he wants to escape and needs her support to do so. He arrives there completely starved. He earns money illegally by doing small jobs. He saves to be able to afford the escape. Later, when he moves on and arrives in Donetsk, he meets what should be his best friend. Today she is the ex-best friend. She was one of the few who knew about his sexuality and suddenly said things like, "You have to find a wife." Or, "Your sexuality is just a phase." She was pro-Russian, Sasha explains. And that was just a taste of what was to come.

Mortal fear at the border

Rem knew exactly what might be in store for her. Since the beginning of the war, many women from Ukraine have found shelter in Germany every day. But for Rem, the flight to her new home becomes a particularly big challenge that the others do not have. Her Ukrainian passport still shows the gender her parents assigned her: male. That's why she wasn't allowed to leave Ukraine and flee when the war began. "From the first day, I was thinking about how to get out of here. It was actually clear to me by then that it wouldn't be possible legally." The soldiers at the border rejected her. Rem was afraid to come out as trans, because she experienced the situation as very threatening: "It was very dangerous, because the Ukrainian soldiers are all very transphobic." She would not be allowed to leave the country because of her registered gender, and would probably have to fight herself soon. That's the law in Ukraine, they said. "We say in our country, the soldiers give you a ticket to war because sometimes they send you to a training camp right away. I was lucky to stop them," Rem recalls. While she has to accept the rejection, she sees other young women leaving the country. Among them are friends who are allowed to leave for the West without her. Quite legally. She herself, as a young woman, has to stay in Ukraine. Ten days after the war began, Rem decides to leave the country of her birth across the so-called green border. She runs across a field in the evening. Illegally.

Sasha was allowed to flee. He is a man. But his escape from Mariupol becomes almost his grave. Since his hometown is controlled by the Russians at that time, Ukraine could not forbid him to leave the country as a young man. However, when he arrived at the border between Russia and Latvia, Sasha was controlled by Chechen troops. He knew that crossing the border would be the most dangerous part of the escape. For hours, they detain him and question him. "That was the moment I was really scared to death," he says. "They asked me why my hair was dyed blond and why I had pierced ears. After all, men wouldn't have that." Sasha was also asked if he was "one of them." He's seen himself in prison or a labor camp. As a volunteer at a community center for LGBTQ in Mariupol, he heard daily from other gay men who were abducted and tortured. Some never resurfaced. But he accepted the danger, because he could not imagine a future in the Russian-occupied war zone. At the border, he talked his way out of it, as he put it, by saying that he was studying art. "That's what we students look like, I said." He wanted to go on to Poland and finish his studies there in peace, he said. The border guards finally let him pass.

Difficult start in Germany

Rem accepts a heavy fine and dangers by fleeing illegally. But it's better than life in the war, she says: "I took the risk because it was a chance. I was ready to die for it." Her path eventually takes her through Moldova to Nuremberg, where she meets friends who fled there to join their families. Finally, familiar faces again, Rem thought to herself. But the joy does not last long: Rem was not allowed to stay. "The families of my friends objected. To this day, I don't know why," she reports, and continues, "I was alone and lost." She reads on the Internet about aid organizations like Quarteera. A Berlin-based organization that targets Russian-speaking refugees from the LGBTQ community. Rem moves in with a family in Berlin thanks to their help and comes into contact with other queer refugees who understand her problems. Svetlana Shaytanova from the board of Quarteera is campaigning with her colleagues for more help. "Politicians make promises that the situation for queer refugees will improve. But due to bureaucracy, everything takes a long time. Many people who work with refugees also have no understanding for the special situation of queer people. They have often experienced additional trauma, as we can see through stories like Rem's, after all. It's all quite frustrating, but we are fighting to get things to change faster," says Shaytanova.

Sasha now lives in Cologne and has been with his boyfriend for a few months. People here don't attack him for his sexuality. He is happy, he says: "I know there is homophobia here, too. But in Mariupol, people have been murdered for being gay. There's no comparison." From the beginning, he received help and support from the Cologne-based Rubicon association, which works for and with queer people. "We immediately set up a Ukraine team with Russian-speaking staff. We received many of calls and emails every day," explains Tanya Parvez. She runs the Baraka group at Rubicon, which meets for smaller events and organizes, for example, initial kits for refugees. However, the group is not only open to refugees from Ukraine, but to everyone. "We want to connect all people, no matter what country they come from," says Parvez. The association also helps with bureaucratic or medical matters. Sasha has found friends there. Now he lives with a gay man and is looking for his own apartment.

Rem is also looking for her own apartment. She still lives with a family in Berlin and can finally live openly as a trans woman. "I am much freer here. I can be who I want." Still, in Berlin she repeatedly encounters hostility, she reports, especially in various departments: "I still have a photo from another life in my passport. I'm often accused of being someone else." When she asked in language class to please be addressed by her name, Rem, she even lost her place. "I wasn't allowed to participate for a month." Why? She doesn't know. They initially insisted that she be addressed by her deadname, the name with masculine connotations that her parents gave her. She probably can't go back to Ukraine, she says: "My parents don't respect my life like this. I don't think I have parents anymore." So for now, Rem is focusing all her concentration on her transition in Germany, she says: "I want to learn German and then quickly find a job to pay for my surgeries. I've made new friends and I think I can build a new life here."

© Goethe-Institut