Hope, love and rage: War through the eyes of Kyiv’s LGBTQIA+ community

Podil, one of the oldest neighborhoods of Kyiv, became a kaleidoscope of the new joys of post-Euromaidan Ukraine. Located on the west bank of the Dneiper River, the district blossomed with a mixture of smart coffee shops, lively bars, chic boutiques and independent galleries packed into the old brick buildings. A smattering of clubs, bars and creative spaces reclaimed what was once Soviet-era warehouses. And with it, a new community found a home.

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At K41, Kyiv’s queer-friendly scene thrived. K41 is a former beer factory, club and creative hub, rumored to have been designed and founded by those responsible for (the infamous Berlin club) Berghain. It’s a safe space—a gender-free with zero tolerance for discrimination or hate— where cameras aren’t allowed and all are welcome, regardless of sexuality. Podil has been at the center of pushback against police brutality and corruption, as well as the emergence of a vibrant queer community, where little had existed before.

In the first days of 2022, nearly a decade after Euromaidan, post-revolutionary energy was still burning brightly on the streets of Kyiv. Foreign visitors and residents alike could feel the changes in the air. 

Since the pandemic subdued scenes in established meccas like Berlin and Barcelona, Kyiv has attracted young people from across Europe, lured by the promise of freedom and self-expression in Kyiv’s interlocking techno, art and activist scenes. Even the New York Times caught wind of the bubbling energy, gushing over Kyiv as ‘the Pandemic’s Party Capital.’

Now, Russia’s invasion leaves all of the progress and this community’s achievements hanging in the balance.

“There was the feeling that every pair of hands able to hold a gun was needed. I am surrounded by entrepreneurs, taxi drivers, high school teachers, food couriers—people who usually have nothing to do with guns.”

- Andrii, Ukrainian citizen

On February 23, restaurants and bars in Podil were packed with bright young things making the most of their night—blissfully unaware things would soon never be the same again. 

“When Russia attacked at 5 am on February 24th, I got a wake-up call from the oldest friend of mine,” remembers Andrii, a psychotherapist who specializes in anxiety and mood disorders. “My friend said the words we had all been expecting since autumn: ‘It has begun.’” Andrii grabbed a pack of cigarettes and began smoking, going over the plan he had made back in January for when this moment came: visit parents, visit friends, visit a military recruitment center. “You could say it was an ‘expected surprise,’” he says. “But still, dreadful as hell.”

Andrii was just one of the millions of Ukrainians—most with little to no prior military training—who presented themselves for duty with the Territorial Defence Forces (TDF) in the first days of the invasion, being handed uniforms and weapons with little training. “There was the feeling that every pair of hands able to hold a gun was needed,” Andrii says. “I am surrounded by entrepreneurs, taxi drivers, high school teachers, food couriers—people who usually have nothing to do with guns.”

It took just a matter of days before the TDF got organized and formed into a formidable obstacle to any possible assault on Kyiv. Andrii went from working with patients and planning outings to concerts and galleries to an entirely new normal.

Right now, each day looks something like this: eat, sleep, build fortifications and guard a checkpoint. “We man the checkpoint 24/7 and are on the lookout for spies and saboteurs,” Andrii says. “We will give them hell if the Russians dare advance: everyone military and civilian is so heavily motivated, conscious and angry.”

Andrii looks just like the other armed volunteers in his unit—until you spot the rainbow sticker on the stock of his Kalashnikov that reads: ‘Make Kyiv Queer Again’. Andrii identifies as polyamorous and pansexual. In his day job as a therapist, he welcomes poly and LGBTQIA+ clients. His partner, Cay, is a non-binary artist and activist who runs Rebel Queers, a subversive group that paints slogans such as ‘Gay sex and class war’ on walls around the city. Both Andrii and Cay belong to the same Ukrainian queer community that has created a new character in neighborhoods like Podil—and are now on the front lines in Kyiv and around the country, fighting to defend their home, and way of life.

On a television appearance in February, Vladimir Putin declared his ‘special military operation’ was due to the need to ‘de-Nazify’ Ukraine. Much has been written about Ukraine’s neo-Nazi Azov Battalion, which is currently engaged in fierce fighting around besieged Mariupol. But Ukraine’s conventional and volunteer military forces also include Ukrainians of all identities, religions and races, including openly gay, lesbian, bisexual and trans soldiers—something which would be impossible in the Russian military.

Nationalism, Orthodox Christianity and homophobia have proved a potent mix for Putin to energize his base in Russia. Passed in 2013, the Russian federal law ‘for the Purpose of Protecting Children from Information Advocating for a Denial of Traditional Family Values,’ is often referred to as the ‘gay propaganda law’ and effectively bans any public discussion of LGBTQIA+ issues. As Putin’s military has floundered, he has drawn troops from Chechen warlord Ramzan Kadyrov, who turned Chechnya into a Stalinist Islamic state and targeted gay people with forced disappearances, secret abductions, imprisonment, torture and extrajudicial killings. 

Ukraine is currently waging a battle for its survival. But for queer Ukrainians, the level of existential threat is even more palpable. If Putin succeeds in establishing the puppet state he reportedly dreams of, queer Ukrainians could very well face the same level of repression as in Russia or even Chechnya. 

“I love Kyiv and I miss it so much. After our victory, I’m sure the queer community in Ukraine will flourish. We are fighting for freedom.”

- Cay

“We are fighting pure evil,” Andrii says. “This totalitarian fascist monster brings not only destruction and terror, but tremendous amounts of racism, sexism and homophobia—everything the queer community has been fighting against for decades. In my unit, I haven’t openly manifested my identity, yet, but I’m vibing with homoerotic cuteness to my comrades, and they are fine with that. I’m wearing rainbow stickers on my rifle and no one has questioned it.”

And although Ukraine was experiencing somewhat of a queer Renaissance before Russia’s invasion in February, things weren’t perfect. The queer community was actively fighting for legal rights and acceptance. Homophobia remains a real and pressing concern in Ukraine—as it does practically everywhere. Ukraine has yet to legalize same-sex marriage, even with equality and freedom from discrimination enshrined in the constitution. The everyday reality is one of opposites: queer joy and acceptance in clubs and cafes mirrored with experiences with discrimination, intolerance and sometimes (far-right) violence. 

This isn’t the first time queer Ukrainians have had to turn from their own battle for rights to war. In 2014, Ukrainian LGBTQIA+ soldiers fought Russia-backed separatists in eastern Ukraine, when the Crimean Penisula was annexed. Today, those LGBTQIA+ military veterans have emerged as some of the most effective voices in the battle for rights, acceptance and safety for LGBTQIA+ Ukrainians. 

Founded by Ukraine’s first openly gay military veteran, Viktor Pylypenko, LGBT Military has fought to improve the military’s treatment of and support for queer people. But courageous activists such as Pylypenko have also helped drive a transformation in social attitudes towards LGBTQIA+ people in Ukraine in recent years. Having fought for the country against Russia-backed separatists in the East commands respect from wider society and has helped overturned the far-right narrative that gay Ukrainians are not patriots. 

Since the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, Ukraine has struggled to develop its own, distinct modern identity. But the Revolution of Dignity in 2014 was perhaps the point when Ukrainian society permanently turned its back on being a failing country under the heel of Russia. Ukrainians decisively rejected the corrupt, reactionary and authoritarian path Putin has chosen for Russia and foisted on Ukraine by using friendly oligarchs to subvert the political process. During months of struggle in the depths of winter, over a hundred people—remembered as the Heavenly Hundred—were killed and injured in a fight for democracy, tolerance and human rights. 

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With the election of Jewish comedian-turned-politician Volodymyr Zelensky as president in 2019, Ukrainian voters resoundingly affirmed their support for the progressive ideals of the Euromaidan revolution. During his first major press conference in October 2019, Zelensky marked a decisive shift from his predecessors when he said all Ukrainians could freely choose their language, religion and sexual orientation: “Leave those people [the LGBTQIA+ community] alone, for God’s sake,” he said. 

Today, equality of gender and sexual orientation is a key part of what it means to be Ukrainian and a fundamental way to signal rejection of Putin’s values.

By 2021, Kyiv’s Equality March (aka Pride) had grown to around 7,000 attendees, while counter-protests dwindled to just a few hundred. In July 2021, UKRAINEPRIDE even organized Reyvakh Pride: a day rave outside the presidential palace, which served to cement Kyiv’s techno and queer scenes together.

“Putin simply didn’t like the Revolution of Dignity, when we chose European democratic, humanistic values over a Russian totalitarian nightmare,” Andrii says. “Europe and all of the western world should be aware that Ukraine is fighting for them. If we fall, they fall. That is why solidarity is important.”

For years, queer Ukrainians have been fighting for something better through acts of defiance, big and small. When we met Cay in November 2021, they were wearing a pink balaclava, a black ACAB sweater and standing in front of their latest piece, which read: ‘Be Queer, Do Crime, Hail Satan!’ But when bombs started falling on Kyiv, Cay eventually decided to join the millions of Ukrainians who fled the country as refugees. 

“I came to Berlin because I couldn’t find how to be useful in Ukraine,” Cay says. “When I went to the volunteer center they told me there are too many people who wanted to help and they didn’t need any more people at that moment. So, I decided to go to Berlin and organize a fundraising event and exhibition of my work and other queer artists from Ukraine.” 

While physically separated, Cay and Andrii have been in contact throughout the conflict. Kyiv has been severely damaged but is yet to succumb to the same level of destruction as some other cities, such as Kharkiv, Kherson and Mariupol. “The success of our much more humble and less numerous military forces has birthed a miraculous and extremely powerful wave of national unity and the faith that victory will be ours,” Andrii says. But despite the surges of unity and hope, war is a massive weight on the shoulders of those on the frontlines. “I’m not a person who enjoys military life. I’m getting tired and I hope the war will end soon.” 

When the fighting finally does stop, there will be much rebuilding to do. 

Many of the artists, activists and queer folks who made Kyiv such an exciting place to be before the invasion are now scattered around the country and across the continent. Many others have been killed. It will take a long time before life in Kyiv returns to anything akin to the pre-invasion buzz, but both Cay and Andrii are confident that the most precious achievements of recent years are not lost. “I love Kyiv and I miss it so much,” Cay says. “After our victory, I’m sure the queer community in Ukraine will flourish. We are fighting for freedom.”

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If you would like to donate to support Ukraine and queer Ukrainians during this time of need, Cay—one of the subjects of this story—recommends supporting Insight and Come Back Alive.