"The Perfect Enemy": How Authorities in Belarus Target LGBTQ+ People

"I was stunned when the very first question was about my sexual orientation. I expected anything but that. It was clear that LGBTQ+ rights are in a dire state here, but to lure someone to a district police department and question them about their private life… it was surreal.

A serious adult man sits across from you and asks about your personal life instead of doing his job and catching real criminals."

Anton cannot describe what happened next: even recounting this short part of his story could expose him to several years in prison. For now, he has decided not to leave Belarus.
 

"A Real Gay Man Who Has No Place in the Ranks of the Belarusian Army"

Unlike Anton, 30-year-old Mikalai is now in a safe country. Whether that makes things easier for him is another question.

In Belarus, Mikalai worked as a schoolteacher while also engaging in queer and environmental activism on Instagram.

Like most Belarusian men, military service loomed over him. Initially, everything went smoothly: medical checks every six months and deferments due to illness. However, just six months before he aged out of conscription, the government suddenly removed his condition from the list of exemptions.

"I did not want to go into the army. I knew about the conditions — the food, hygiene… and as for human rights, especially if you are queer, there is nothing to talk about. People who served told me that it does not take long for others to realise you are gay — and that year turns into hell. It is no better than prison."

Mikalai read online that vegetarians — which he was — could apply for alternative civilian service. But the military enlistment office was adamant: only a commission could approve such a request.

"I was forced to say that I could not do compulsory military service because of my diet and my sexual orientation. They sent me to a psychiatric hospital. And there, nobody cares that you are not actually ill — only that you are 'under examination for the enlistment office'. You end up in an ordinary male ward alongside people with serious mental illnesses. Your belongings are taken away, and you can call your family only once a day."

Mikalai is convinced that the use of psychiatric hospitals in Belarus is intended to force people to renounce their identity — the sooner, the better.

"They constantly pressured me to retract my own words. They threatened me, saying, 'This will stay with you for the rest of your life' and 'Do you really need this stigma?' Every day I woke up at six in the morning and went to bed at ten. You sleep with the lights on, and the toilet doors never close. The atmosphere is one of total humiliation. But I passed this 'test' and even received confirmation that I am a real gay man who has 'no place in the ranks of the Belarusian army'."

That piece of paper, however, effectively marked the end of any chance of a normal life in Belarus.

"I lost my job immediately. My supervisor said, 'If you want problems, we can arrange them for you.' And I left. Finding a new job proved almost impossible. When I applied to work as a flight attendant for Belavia, I was rejected because my military documents contained the diagnosis' sexual behaviour disorder'. A doctor told me that people like me are unpredictable and capable of anything."

Mikalai reflects bitterly that there is no place for him in Belarus. What hurts most, he says, is that the problem is not only the state, but society itself, which views LGBTQ+ people as sick and as a threat to the existing order.

"I emigrated not only because of the political situation, but it was the catalyst. It brings to mind 1930s Germany — even such an educated country turned, within a few years, to sending queer people (along with other 'undesirables') to gas chambers. You are given only one life, and you do not choose where you are born. But you do choose how you respond to challenges. I chose life, not hiding."
 

"If You Do Not Produce Proof of Visiting a Sexologist, We Will Class Your Children as at Risk"

Marat also left Belarus, together with his four children. They became the first Belarusians to receive a French humanitarian visa. The children attend school, are learning the language, and making friends.

But this life could easily never have happened.

Several years ago, Marat began a gender transition in Belarus. He gathered all the necessary documents and even passed the first commission. (The transition procedure consists of two stages: the first allows a legal transition — a change of name and gender marker — and the second permits medical transition.)

To Marat's surprise, the decision was favourable: he was allowed to change his documents from female to male.

"To attend the second commission, you have to demonstrate successful social integration. But doing that while appearing female and presenting as male is difficult. So I began buying hormones in Russia — legally and with a doctor's prescription. Once I started to look male, I changed my documents."

After Marat received his new passport, inspections at home intensified: social services, the school, the education department, and the local council. Under the pretext of protecting the children, state bodies left the family no peace and then began to threaten them.

One day, Marat was urgently summoned to the school after a complaint was filed about his son.

"My son has autism. During the summer, he attended a camp, from which a complaint was sent alleging domestic violence in our family. I laughed in the headteacher's face. I said: 'You have seen my children — they are afraid of nothing! What are you talking about?' The complaint came from a psychologist who claimed my son had confided in her. No matter how many complaints I filed, it was useless. They said they were opening an investigation into classifying my children as being in a socially dangerous situation."

Inspections followed one another relentlessly, even involving emergency services. At one point, inspectors arrived in the middle of the working day and later demanded proof explaining why Marat had not been at home.

At a school meeting on classifying the children as at risk, none of the accusations were proven. Yet the school seized on matters entirely outside its remit.

"The headteacher asked why I did not see a sexologist. I replied that this was private information and none of their business. They responded: 'If you do not produce proof of visiting a sexologist, we will classify your children as at risk — and that is the first step towards stripping you of parental rights.' They gave me until four o'clock that same day. I managed to bring the document, and for the moment, we could breathe."

Soon afterwards, problems with his transition began. Marat was summoned to the Novinki psychiatric centre on a fabricated pretext, where a commission awaited him.

"They suddenly remembered that twenty years earlier, I had been treated there. I had told the sexologist everything, but he did not consider it relevant. Then they said I was missing certain certificates — although without them I would never have been admitted to the first commission. All arguments were dismissed. I was accused of deceiving the commission and of illegally taking hormones."

Marat was then presented with two options, in the best traditions of the Belarusian regime: either he signed a document reverting to a female identity, or he would be taken to court for misleading the commission.

"I tried to argue, but they had an unbeatable weapon: they threatened that, in addition to annulling the decision, my children would automatically be classed as at risk. There was no choice. I signed the document. I was paralysed. My life was falling apart."

Within days, Marat sought legal help and contacted various organisations to challenge the unlawful decision, but nothing worked. No lawyer was willing to take the case.

Suing the Belarusian system, he concluded, is pointless. He decided to leave Belarus for good.

"They Entered the Flat and Asked: 'Are You a Lesbian?'"

Kira's story resembles that of thousands of Belarusians who have been forced to flee abroad due to repression. Beyond political persecution, she understood that her sexual orientation also left her without a future in Belarus. She worked in marketing and was active as a feminist and human rights activist.

"I volunteered, helped organise events. It was mostly behind-the-scenes work, but I felt useful to the community. Unfortunately, attention from the security services towards anyone linked to civic activism is routine in Belarus."

Kira knew that the police periodically visit LGBTQ+ people at home. One day, they came for her.

"People in plain clothes arrived, along with masked officers carrying automatic weapons, and 'witnesses'. They did not properly explain the reason, present any documents, warrants, or protocols, or introduce themselves. They entered the flat asking, 'Are you a lesbian?' They deliberately searched everything connected to queer topics — events, messages, photos, contacts — and asked questions about my orientation, communities, and people I might know."