As part of the grant support for documentary photographers from UAPP, we are sharing documentary projects by finalists who received grant support in the previous season. This time, we present the project “Unicorn Battalion” by Ukrainian documentarian Sasha Maslov.
We remind you that applications for the mentoring and micro-grant program from the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers are open until August 28. For details on how to participate, please follow the link.
Below is the narrative from Sasha Maslov's perspective.
On a rainy June day in downtown Kyiv, pride flags, Ukrainian flags, and European Union flags soaked in the rain. About 500 people gathered for the Pride march, which lasted only an hour and covered approximately one hundred meters. The city of Kyiv and the police permitted the march but restricted it to a block and a half, citing security concerns.
This was not the typical Pride event that residents of New York, Berlin, or Amsterdam might expect to see in their cities. The first two rows of parade participants consisted of military personnel and veterans holding signs calling on the EU and other Ukrainian partners to provide more weapons. Other signs urged an end to the Russian genocide of Ukrainians, called for mine-clearing systems, and demanded the release of "Azovstal" defenders—prisoners of war held in Russia and subjected to torture. Slogans advocating for equality, legislation on civil partnerships, and the protection of LGBTQ+ rights were also voiced.
Now, alongside her fiancée Diana Harashko, Maria embodies resilience and defiance after enduring intense trials on the front lines and facing pervasive homophobia.
Maria Volya, 31, and her fiancée Diana Harashko, 25, stood hand in hand in the front rows. For Maria, a member of the 47th Brigade, this moment was long-awaited.
Last year, on October 24, 2022, Maria had surrendered. She had spoken on the phone with Diana and said she intended to end her life. She planned to do so by overdosing on diazepam, a selective anxiolytic benzodiazepine typically prescribed for treating anxiety and panic attacks.
Maria and Diana had been dating for only a few weeks. It had been about three months since Diana, a civilian volunteer from Bila Tserkva, had messaged Maria on Instagram in response to one of Maria's stories from the muddy trenches near Bakhmut. "How are you? Although, I suppose that's a silly question given your circumstances," the message read. After several weeks of online correspondence, Diana traveled to Kramatorsk and proposed on their first date.
Now, she listened to Maria's raspy voice delivering her final farewell. In a panic, Diana called Maria's commander. Fortunately, he answered the call. Within minutes, medics were rushing to Maria.
Three weeks after her suicide attempt, I met Maria for the first time. In the visitors' room of the acute psychiatric ward for women at a large hospital complex outside Dnipro, she sat at a table with a plastic tablecloth, wearing a fleece jacket adorned with a rainbow pin, not quite understanding how she had ended up there.
“I no longer have a home, I have no rights. What am I fighting for?” she asked me. Her frustration stemmed from feeling rejected and misunderstood by her people and her country, even after nearly a decade of service.
Maria had joined the army as a volunteer at 22, when she saw Russia seize Crimea and ignite the war in eastern Ukraine. Her hometown, Mariupol, was briefly occupied by pro-Russian separatists, and its liberation became one of the significant victories for Ukrainians in the summer of 2014. After signing a contract, she quickly noticed signs of sexism among the soldiers around her. She heard phrases like “war is no place for a woman” and saw that male soldiers were given more trust and respect by commanders.
She wanted to prove her capability. Full of idealism, Maria fought for the right to be sent to the front lines. Eventually, she was assigned to Pisky as a radio specialist with the 56th Brigade, where some of the fiercest battles for Donetsk Airport took place.
After active service, she remained in the army and was stationed in her hometown with the 56th Brigade until the winter of 2022. At that time, Mariupol became the site of brutal confrontation between encircled Ukrainian troops and the massive, dominant force of the invading Russian army. After heavy losses, her unit, along with troops from the 36th Marine Brigade and the 1st Marine Battalion, barricaded themselves at the Illich Steel Plant. They tried to break the encirclement and leave the city. The first attempt using armored vehicles failed. The second attempt, on foot, succeeded. They managed to bypass Russian patrols and checkpoints unnoticed and escape the besieged city shortly after midnight on March 12.
There were 45 soldiers silently walking through the night. Ahead lay a difficult journey through the forests and steppes of Donetsk Oblast to reach Ukrainian-controlled territory. Without mobile communication, limited supplies, and no information on where exactly the front line was, they moved through the icy darkness.
The group spent the night in abandoned houses, hunted rabbits, and cooked chickens stolen from deserted farms. They divided into three groups of fifteen to avoid detection—one group was later captured by the Russians. Maria’s group was spotted by Russian soldiers on the eighth day of their march as they tried to cross a river near the village of Staromayorske, a few kilometers from Ukrainian-controlled territory at the time. A firefight ensued, and Maria was injured in her left arm. But they succeeded in crossing the river. Five hours after the battle, they reached Velyka Novosilka and a Ukrainian checkpoint.
Barely conscious with a tourniquet on her arm, Maria was taken to the hospital. On March 21, she sat in her hospital bed, filmed by her friend Nastya: Maria was smiling and saying she couldn’t wait to go to Dnipro and order takeout from McDonald’s.
But McDonald’s in Dnipro was closed, as were most other establishments. The country was grappling with a massive invasion by a neighboring state that sought to seize territory, and the constantly shifting front line was on fire. Ukraine needed its soldiers, and Maria was sent back to the front lines, this time to Bakhmut in Donetsk Oblast.
The previous experience made Maria rethink many things, and she decided to speak openly about her sexuality. Her injury and the realization of how fragile everything around her was pushed her to disregard others' opinions.
Maria came out as gay to her fellow soldiers and then began publicly sharing her experience of being a queer person in the army. Her social media posts about life in the trenches near Bakhmut attracted both supporters and critics.
Homophobic comments and messages piled up, overwhelming her to the point of depression. The girl's vulnerability due to her recent experience in Mariupol, coming out, and returning to the front pushed her to attempt suicide. “I couldn’t handle it anymore. I didn’t even want to try…” she said.
After receiving support from Diana, Maria gradually recovered and recently transferred to the 47th Brigade. She now serves on the eastern front but took leave to attend Kyiv Pride. The day before the Pride march in Kyiv, she encountered a group of young people, mostly teenagers, holding signs supporting "traditional values," and engaged them in a debate while filming herself. The next day at Pride, she held hands with her fiancée, disregarding the disapproval of those who questioned her way of loving someone.
When the speeches concluded and the flags and banners were packed away, the crowd began to disperse. No more than five blocks away, on Khreshchatyk Street, several hundred people—mostly young men in black T-shirts and hoodies—emerged from another gathering in support of "traditional values." Upon learning about the location of the Pride event, they ran and attempted to breach the Pride participants, clashing with the police. These young men seemed indifferent to the fact that they were confronting people actively defending their country.
Before the war, most Ukrainians generally had unfavorable views of same-sex unions, but surveys show that public opinion has shifted significantly during the full-scale invasion. A recent poll by the National Democratic Institute, published in February 2024, showed that over 70 percent answered positively to the question: "Should LGBTQ+ people have the same rights as others?" In 2019, this figure was below 30%.
However, Ukrainian legislation lags behind. Despite years of advocacy by various human rights and LGBTQ+ organizations, and pressure from the EU, the Verkhovna Rada of Ukraine has yet to pass hate crime laws that include acts against gays or transgender people. Additionally, no same-sex unions are legally recognized, and the Ukrainian Constitution defines marriage as a union between a man and a woman.
Inna Sovsun, a 39-year-old member of the Ukrainian Parliament from the "Holos" party, is working to address the most urgent issue for same-sex couples during the war, especially those serving in the military—passing a law that would grant them the same rights as a traditionally married couple. One of the most pressing needs for LGBTQ+ servicemembers in wartime Ukraine is basic legal recognition of their partners or spouses as family members.
Currently, same-sex couples, or any non-heterosexual pairs, have no legal recognition as a unit. For military families, this is particularly significant in cases of death, disappearance, captivity, or serious injury. Legally, your partner is considered a stranger, and therefore cannot make legal, medical, posthumous, or other decisions that a heterosexual partner would have the right to make in a crisis.
The draft bill numbered 9103 was registered in the Ukrainian Parliament in March 2023, but it has still not reached a vote in the chamber. It has passed several important stages, receiving approval from the Minister of Justice and the Ministry of Defense. However, a year and a half after its registration, it remains unclear when, if ever, this bill will be brought to a vote. Currently, it seems to be hopelessly stuck in the Verkhovna Rada's Committee on Legal Policy, which is supposed to provide a legal assessment and decide whether to forward it to Parliament, another committee, or reject it altogether.
Inna Sovsun co-wrote this bill with lawyer Maria Klyus, whose close friend Petro Zhyruha is bisexual and serves in the Ukrainian army. Petro is part of a small group of Ukrainian servicemen who openly and publicly declare their sexual orientation.
Petro, a 28-year-old musician with a classical education, never imagined he would end up in the army. However, he felt the need to defend his homeland from Russian aggression and voluntarily enlisted in the Ukrainian Armed Forces after the invasion began.
Initially, his sexual orientation did not pose any problems, but as homophobic jokes emerged, Petro felt the need to adapt his behavior to fit into the new environment. He laughed at the jokes and tried to be part of the team. On one occasion, the commander said he hoped there were no “such people” in his unit. Petro felt unwell. On another occasion, one of the soldiers in his unit said he would “kill a faggot” if he saw one.
Petro’s parents did not know about his sexual orientation, nor did his fellow soldiers. But at some point, the young man grew tired of hiding this part of his identity and decided to come out. “I had adopted this hetero-mask and had to change my language, my behavior... I didn’t want to do it anymore,” he says. In June 2022, after four months of service, Petro confessed to his unit members. The reaction was negative—there were stares and whispers. Soldiers didn’t want to stand in line for the shower with him or sit next to him. But gradually, conversation by conversation, things began to change. The soldier who had said he would "kill a faggot" if he saw one later told Petro that he would not do that now, explaining that he had never met a gay person before.
Maria Klyus, Petro's friend and deputy to Inna Sovsun, was worried about him. Petro thought his friend was losing sleep over his coming out. One day, Maria called Petro and told him about the bill she and Inna were working on. The young man was shocked. He could not believe that someone was willing to do such monumental work to protect him and other LGBTQ+ people. Although the bill covers a broad range and benefits any civil partnership, he took this gesture very personally and wanted to support it as soon as he could.
At that time, only his fellow soldiers knew about his sexual orientation, and initially, Petro had planned to keep it that way. But after the phone call with Maria, he decided to initiate a state petition in support of Bill No. 9103. This meant putting his name on a document that would reveal his sexual orientation to everyone. “If not now, then when?” he asked himself.
However, Petro did not tell his parents. Understanding the potential impact and publicity of this gesture, he knew that his name would become known and didn’t want his parents to find out from the news. Petro called his father and asked him to turn on the speakerphone. After a brief exchange of news, he said, “I need to tell you something very important,” and paused before saying that he liked both men and women. His mother immediately screamed, “Petro, oh my God, I thought someone had died!” And his father calmly said that he would always shake his hand, regardless of whom he liked.
Petro’s heart soared. All his adult life, he had feared this moment, and now it had come—a huge weight was lifted from his soul.
With the help of an NGO, he created a petition in support of Bill No. 9103 and registered it on the President’s website. Such petitions have no legal consequences, but they are meant to demonstrate public support. Once a petition reaches 25,000 signatures, it goes to the president, who writes his recommendations and comments. When the petition appeared online, a social media frenzy began. Petro’s phone lit up every few minutes—dozens of messages and calls with words of support, gratitude, and sometimes disbelief. Now Petro had come out to the entire country.
“I felt free,” recalls Petro. The soldier who had wanted to “kill a faggot” said he would sign the petition.
Military representatives tend to avoid the topic of LGBTQ+ rights as if it were an infectious disease, and when circumstances require addressing issues regarding gay or transgender service members, the Ministry of Defense and military representatives usually try to deny everything. In a note of non-support for Bill No. 9103, which the Ministry of Defense published shortly after its introduction, it was initially stated that “the information about thousands of service members who cannot officially formalize their relationships with same-sex partners, as outlined in the explanatory note to the draft law, requires further examination due to the lack of relevant data in the Ministry of Defense of Ukraine.”
During this additional examination, which many LGBTQ+ activists called clumsy and horrific, the Ministry of Defense decided to conduct a survey by asking some service members essentially: “Are you gay?”
The “survey on the issues of sexual orientation, the need for the registration of civil partnerships, and issues in this specific area” was a printed form containing seven questions about gender discrimination in the respondent’s unit, sexual preferences in choosing a partner, and whether the respondent, who is in a relationship with someone of the same sex, might face “problems” with inheritance if they are injured, killed, or declared missing.
Maxim was one of the service members who received this survey. From his description of the survey process, a picture emerges of a lack of education, empathy, and basic decency among those conducting the survey.
Maxim, a closeted gay member of the Ukrainian Air Force, describes how one morning a senior officer in his unit distributed the surveys without any explanation. The atmosphere was such that offensive jokes about gays emerged. Several aviators refused to complete the survey. Later, Maxim saw one survey lying on a table with the large letters “I AM NOT A FAGGOT” written on it. The officer later returned to collect the surveys, sometimes looking into them as he took them from the pilots. “It was mocking anonymity,” recalls Maxim. Later, the same officer came back with several additional surveys, claiming they needed to be filled out to meet the quota. Some aviators were absent—either injured or on leave—and the command demanded the exact number of surveys. “Who wants to help with the gay test?” asked the officer.
It is unclear what happened to this survey and whether it led to any results. The body responsible for equality issues in the Ukrainian Armed Forces—the Department of Humanitarian Support of the Ministry of Defense of Ukraine—did not respond to numerous attempts to contact them regarding this article. After speaking with four Ministry employees, none of whom wanted to speak openly, and reviewing the Ministry's online documents, I found no official program dedicated to combating discrimination against LGBTQ+ personnel or educating service members about LGBTQ+ issues. The Ministry of Defense has a hotline for sexual violence and violence in general, as well as mechanisms for addressing it.
An open gay employee of the Ministry of Defense, who also did not want to speak openly, said that those responsible for equality and gender issues often lack basic knowledge about anything beyond the Ministry’s guidelines.
At the same time, this person said that they understand there are much more urgent issues for the country in wartime, and if a problem for the Armed Forces is not considered critical and does not require immediate resolution, it is often pushed to the back burner.
Issues concerning the LGBTQ+ community in Ukraine have already created some problems for the current government. A recent decision by the European Court of Human Rights involved two Ukrainians, Andriy Maymulyakhin and Andriy Markiv, who claimed that the Ukrainian government had denied them the same rights as heterosexual couples. The couple has been living together since 2010 but has been unable to register as a household. According to their submission, they attempted to register as a couple seven times, but all applications were rejected. After the Russian invasion in February 2022, Mr. Maymulyakhin joined the National Guard and served for a year before resigning due to health issues.
Ukrainian judge Mykola Hnatovskyi at the European Court ruled in favor of the claimants. In its defense, the Ukrainian government used Bill No. 9103, arguing that Ukraine is already implementing necessary laws to protect same-sex couples. However, the court rejected this argument, noting that the bill had not yet become law. The European Court's decision is now a serious issue for the Ukrainian government. In addition to compensation they must pay to the couple, it represents a significant challenge to Ukraine's desired EU membership.
But from Brussels’ courts to Kyiv's government corridors and to the grim trenches near Avdiivka, there is a vast distance. While legislators, generals, and judges deliberate, LGBTQ+ Ukrainians who serve face not only a lack of legal recognition but also severe discrimination. Their stories and personal suffering often get lost in the abyss of endless death and destruction shaking the country every day. “It’s not the time,” critics comment on social media. “It’s not the time,” lawmakers repeat in the Legal Policy Committee, according to minutes from the latest meetings on Bill No. 9103 in July 2024. Despite being under consideration for over a year, the bill has still not been voted on.
For people like Gennady Apromizov, the personal trauma of lacking recognition or respect for their identity is profoundly relevant. These issues are ever-present.
Gennady Apromizov, a 25-year-old bisexual Belarusian and soldier in the International Legion, crossed the Ukrainian border on a warm July night in 2020. He carried documents for medical procedures and packed only a small bag with slippers, shampoo, and a few pairs of underwear.
Five days before, while at home in Minsk, he had received a call from the local police station requesting him to come for a "friendly chat." He knew what that meant. Several of his friends who had been called in for such chats had faced imprisonment threats if they continued any "recidivist" activities, with some already detained.
The Belarusian government had intensified its crackdown on any form of opposition after prolonged anti-government protests that summer, arresting activists one by one. Journalists, students, doctors, and college professors were detained from their apartments or on the streets, starting with the most prominent figures.
Gennady was an active participant in the protests and had been marked as an organizer in several social media posts. He knew what the Belarusian authorities had in store for him. So, he packed a bag and, with the help of BYSOL, an organization aiding Belarusian dissidents in leaving the country, set off for Kyiv.
The new home suited Gennady. Within a few months, he stopped fearing black trucks and people in police uniforms. He found accommodation and continued his activism from Kyiv, surrounding himself with members of the diaspora, which had grown significantly after the new wave of repression in Belarus. “I continued fighting for Belarus,” he says of his time in Kyiv.
However, Gennady did not plan to fight for Ukraine. The Ukrainian government had continued to flirt with Lukashenko’s dictatorship, and while many Belarusian émigrés sought refuge in Kyiv from the regime, it was not entirely safe. The visa-free regime and lax security allowed Russian and Belarusian intelligence agencies to operate almost unhindered in Kyiv. In August 2021, one of the most active Belarusian activists, Vitaly Shishov, was found hanged in a forest near his home. His death was classified as a murder, and the crime remains unsolved. In 2022, Denis Staj, a Belarusian journalist critical of the Belarusian regime, living in Ukraine since 2018, was beaten, tortured, and drugged over several days in his Kyiv apartment. When Denis stopped answering his wife’s calls, she traveled to Kyiv from their family shelter in western Ukraine and found him unconscious, bound, and wrapped in plastic bags, just steps away from death. Their apartment was ransacked, and electronic devices were stolen. Suspicions fell on Belarusian agents, but Ukrainian police did not arrest anyone in connection with the attack and torture.
Gennady viewed the war in Ukraine as the beginning of Belarus's liberation. In March 2023, he joined the International Legion, partly motivated by the thought that he would gain experience for continuing the fight to free Belarus from dictatorship when the time came. After three months of training, he was deployed to the northern border with Russia and then joined the fight on the Eastern Front.
Gennady was open about his sexual orientation with people. This had caused problems in the past, especially conflicts with his religious family. But within the military structure, he felt it was dangerous to speak openly about this side of his life. The International Legion’s composition is mostly foreign volunteers, mainly Americans and Europeans, who tend to have more progressive views, while Ukrainian commanders are significantly more conservative and, according to Gennady, sometimes openly homophobic. “I try to avoid the topic altogether,” he told me, “I don’t want to be shot in the back.”
This might seem like an overly dramatic fear, but in an environment accustomed to violence and where homophobia is common, being gay can be a real threat. In war, you rely on the person next to you for your well-being and often for your survival.
Therefore, in addition to being brave and setting an example, being an openly gay soldier often means carrying a target on one’s back.
When Gennady was transferred to a new post in December 2023, the new deputy battalion commander noticed a unicorn patch on his uniform — the emblem of the “Ukrainian LGBTQ+ Military for Equal Rights” organization — and asked, “What is this thing on your clothes?”
Gennady chose not to comment. His life depended on the decisions this commander would make in the future.
The unicorn patches have become a unifying symbol and identification mark for the LGBTQ+ community among Ukrainian Armed Forces personnel. They were created by the organization "Ukrainian LGBTQ+ Military for Equal Rights," a public group fighting for the rights of both openly LGBTQ+ and closeted members of the Ukrainian military. The organization has around 400 members, with less than a quarter being openly LGBTQ+. Viktor Pylypenko, the founder and the first openly gay member of the Ukrainian military, is at the forefront of supporting both those who have come out and those who are not yet ready to do so.
These patches carry no specific meaning other than indicating openness about one's sexual orientation. However, they open doors to both allies and homophobes. By wearing such patches on their uniforms, these soldiers accept a certain level of risk of becoming targets.
"I know that there are gay soldiers in the army who are not interested in joining our group, perhaps because they are unaware of us or do not want potential unwanted publicity," says Viktor. Being open himself, he has faced numerous public attacks, primarily from conservative groups, right-wing organizations, commentators, and members of the clergy.
The latest scandal involved the revocation of an award that the Ukrainian Orthodox Church had previously given to several members of Viktor's unit from the 72nd Mechanized Brigade for "self-sacrifice and love for Ukraine." The medal was later rescinded with the Church stating that Filaret "was unaware of the sinful tendencies" of one of the awardees. It was then emphasized that "Patriarch Filaret and the Ukrainian Orthodox Church, without exception, take a principled negative stance on the sin of Sodom and condemn the promotion of so-called same-sex marriages." Following this disgraceful turn regarding the medal, several members of the 72nd Brigade returned the award, most with strong public criticism of the Church.
This is not the first and likely not the last instance of misunderstandings and tensions due to divisions in Ukrainian society over LGBTQ+ issues. Viktor has become a target not only for critics within the country but also for Russian propaganda, which often portrays homosexuality as one of the toxic fruits of the sinister Western world.
In the summer of 2021, even before the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the rhetoric of Olga Skabeeva, a Russian propagandist and commentator on Russian TV, made a notable impression when she announced on her program that "President Volodymyr Zelensky, at the advice of American leader Joe Biden, is sending 'columns of Ukrainian homosexuals to Donbas'." This was based on an earlier statement on the Facebook page of the organization "Ukrainian LGBT Military for Equal Rights," which said: "We invite motivated LGBTQ+ individuals, servicemembers, specialists, and also friends of the LGBTQ+ community who want to sign a contract with one of the motorized infantry units of the Armed Forces."
The announcement was quickly picked up by right-wing and conservative forces in Ukraine and eventually made its way to Russian television. This led to the creation of a completely fabricated story about the "Unicorn Battalion."
Victor was harshly criticized in Ukraine as a "Kremlin agent," which further fueled Moscow's ongoing propaganda machine. Neither the "Unicorn Battalion" nor any LGBTQ-friendly unit was ever formed, but Victor continued his fight. He recalls the words of a commander he served with, who said, "If homosexuals create their own unit and call it the Unicorn Battalion, I'll accept them." In response to the criticism and fabrications, a logo for LGBTQ military members (LGBT Military) featuring a unicorn was created.
Victor's struggle is part of the broader fight by other members of the organization. One of the most notable cases involves former sailor Pavel Lahoyda.
Pavel is 23 years old and currently lives in Kyiv. He is one of the most active members of the LGBTQ Military Union, but, like Viktor, he has faced harassment and repression due to his openness. Like Viktor, he has suffered because of his desire to be open about his sexuality.
After his mother disowned him following his coming out, Pavel joined the Navy. This happened in September 2021 when he was only 19. A major war loomed over Ukraine. A few months later, as rockets rained down on cities and villages across the country, his mother called Pavel: “I accept you for who you are,” she said, crying, “just come home alive.” Pavel wondered why it took a war and his service to make his mother appreciate and accept him, but now he had to go to war.
According to Pavel, issues with his commander, Lieutenant Colonel Leonid Bondarenko, began soon after the commander learned of his sexual orientation. Pavel recounted that he was outed by other sailors in his cabin when he left his phone unlocked and open to messages with an ex. When he returned to the cabin, he saw his fellow sailors laughing. “So, you’re a fucking faggot?” one of them smirked at Pavel.
Soon, everyone, including his direct supervisors, knew. Lieutenant Bondarenko not only allowed other soldiers to beat Pavel but also became an abuser himself. Initially, this took the form of mockery about his sexuality and verbal harassment, but it eventually escalated into physical violence.
The first beating occurred during a night shift in the spring of 2022 when Lieutenant Bondarenko approached Pavel and verbally reprimanded him for looking at his phone. Pavel recounts that a quarrel ensued, and Bondarenko threw him to the floor and beat him. The second beating happened later, in November, in front of witnesses—this time over a dispute about the best way to unload a truck. Bondarenko’s command could not ignore this and transferred Pavel, but did not punish Bondarenko.
The correspondence between Pavel and his commander is unstable. Mr. Bondarenko calls Pavel a “sociopath” and says he should be studied for medical journals due to his “illness.” Pavel responds with profanity and threats of suing him and the unit. The conversation then shifts to a neutral tone discussing reports and issues about transfers and demobilization. Messages and calls from Pavel and Mr. Bondarenko remain unanswered.
From the telephone and written exchanges between them, it appears that Mr. Bondarenko does not want Pavel to transfer and enjoys his power over the subordinate, inflicting regular subtle torture. He sends Pavel on pointless tasks, various medical and psychological examinations but does not allow him to transfer or change his contract. Pavel says he was sent for two psychiatric evaluations, where doctors, without examination, diagnosed him as “unfit for active service.” Lieutenant Bondarenko claims that the psychiatric evaluations were not his initiative; they were conducted independently because sailor Lahoyda attempted to transfer to contract service and change units.
Pavel later appealed through the Ministry of Defense and was sent for evaluation in Kyiv, where the decision was overturned, and he was declared fit and healthy for active service. Pavel’s lawyer confirms his account.
Lieutenant Bondarenko claims he never saw the final psychiatric diagnosis Pavel received after the appeal, although in private correspondence with Pavel, he admits to seeing the results while accusing Pavel of forgery.
Lieutenant Bondarenko also told me that sailor Lahoyda was a bad and unruly soldier, and he was beaten not because he was gay, but due to his overall attitude and behavior. The lieutenant also accused the subordinate of having sex for money with other sailors, though he did not deny beating him.
In the spring of 2024, President Zelensky signed a law allowing the demobilization of all conscripts who started mandatory service before February 2024. At that time, Pavel had unsuccessfully attempted to change units. He took the opportunity to submit his resignation. A month later, leaving his base, he gave the finger. He was free from the tyrant.
Bullying, persecution, and even physical violence are not uncommon in the military. In many cases, the fate of a vulnerable person under someone's command depends on how the commander handles the situation. In the absence of LGBTQ+ education among the enlisted ranks of the Ukrainian Armed Forces, it often comes down to whether the commander allows abuse or, as in Pavel's case, perpetrates it himself.
But it doesn’t always turn out this way.
Alexander Zhuhan, 39, and Antonina Romanova, 38, met on a clear, warm September day in 2014. It was one of those autumn days when you’re still trying to catch the last shades of fading summer. It was a different era in Ukraine. They met through a Russian dating site, which was still quite popular in Ukraine even after Crimea was annexed and the war in Eastern Ukraine had begun.
Antonina had recently moved to Kyiv from Crimea, where, after active involvement in pro-Ukrainian protests, she ended up on arrest lists. One of her activist friends, Oleg Sentsov, advised her to leave the peninsula. She did, while Oleg stayed behind and was later arrested and imprisoned for five years on fabricated terrorism charges.
Alexander was not in a festive mood that evening. He was coming back from a meeting where he had comforted a friend whose child was diagnosed with a severe form of autism. Antonina was wearing an old-fashioned knitted jacket over a sweater. Alexander thought she looked funny. They strolled with large take-out cups, drinking lattes and talking. As it turned out, they had something in common: children with disabilities, their indifference to Kyiv’s broken infrastructure, and a love for theater and the arts. They talked about Antonina’s difficult childhood, the numerous surgeries she had undergone as a child, and her journey from a lost home in Crimea to the capital. They sat by a group of teenagers, enjoying their music from a portable speaker. They took the last metro home.
Ten years later, Antonina and Alexander share a room in a rundown house a few kilometers from the active front. It has been a long journey from their first date on that warm Kyiv evening. Behind them are an experimental theater troupe they founded, plays and performances they staged together and separately, endless parties, and long nights after premieres. Their life has been full: teaching, performing, loving. They had a small apartment together and were happy.
From this apartment, they called their actors to cancel the performance on February 24, 2022.
The Great War had come into their lives. That night, Antonina asked, “Shall we join?” and Alexander reluctantly agreed. The next day, they signed up as volunteers with the local territorial defense. There were men and women of different ages—some looked as if they had come straight from work; someone brought their belongings in a suitcase, a burly man in a cowboy hat, and one guy brought a hunting rifle.
Looking at this diverse crowd, Alexander thought, “If they can do it, so can we.”
The fear of not being understood was certainly present. “I thought: there will be these combat meat grinders, and I’m just a small theater teacher,” says Alexander. But to their surprise, their status as a queer couple was met with understanding. They had been open from the beginning of their service, and rumors had spread. By the time they were sent south after the campaign in Kyiv, their commanders and fellow soldiers already knew that “these gays” were serving with them.
In late May 2022, their unit was sent to Mykolaiv. Antonina and Alexander reported at the morning lineup, where a new sergeant major was introduced. “I know there are gays among you,” he growled. Antonina’s heart sank. “I don’t care! If you’re good soldiers, there will be no problems.” He added, “I will not tolerate any discrimination.”
Without an official policy on same-sex couples from the Ministry of Defense, such matters are left to the discretion of lower-ranking commanders. Some, like the senior sergeant, view it as a potential issue among their troops and set things straight from the beginning, but more often it falls on people like Alexander and Antonina to educate their fellow soldiers on LGBTQ+ issues.
"It's not our job to teach them," says Alexander. But when he talks about the LGBTQ+ community online, he faces criticism, often from military personnel, accusing him of using his uniform to promote LGBTQ+ values. This frustrates him. "I would have a much broader platform elsewhere to fight for equal rights," Alexander notes, "and my goal in the army is the same as everyone else's here: to win this war."
Thus, each individual experience varies and depends on the education and biases of the commander. Antonina and Alexander have been fortunate at every stage of their service. In June 2022, they were introduced to a new commander who asked Antonina which pronouns he should use when addressing her. "That was his first question to me," Antonina recalls, "I was impressed."
Antonina is a non-binary person who uses "she/her" pronouns. She and Alexander are extremely close, even though they ended their relationship about a year ago. "We were together for 10 years, went through fire and water," says Antonina. "I’m sure I will never have a closer connection with anyone else in this life."
They sit together in a dimly lit room, just as they did ten years ago on the cold asphalt, listening to teenagers playing music with lattes in paper cups on that warm Kyiv evening. The active front, where they were just hours ago, is a short trip away. They will make this trip again soon after my departure, not as a couple, lovers, or old friends, but as two Ukrainian Armed Forces personnel heading for another assignment, fighting for their country and their right to be who they are, for themselves and for future generations. Despite the hardships they’ve endured, their love helps them persevere. It fights for them as they fight for their country.
Love has also supported Anna Kazhan throughout her life. Anna is a medic in the 47th Brigade and a person who has always gone against the grain. Her call sign, Kazhan, is not by chance. She likes the sound of it and, more importantly, she likes bats themselves. Anna, now 31, has studied nocturnal flying creatures since her early 20s—she earned a bachelor’s degree in molecular biology and biotechnology and completed a master’s in vertebrate zoology. She was in her 4th semester in Ghent, Belgium, studying tropical biodiversity and ecosystems when the full-scale invasion began. This event compelled her to return to Ukraine and join the army, something she would never have considered before.
If there were an illustration for a leftist activist in Ukraine, it would likely be Anna. Since her teenage years, she has been actively involved in the leftist movement in her native Kharkiv. She helped organize an anarchist squat (which also housed LGBTQ+ activists and displaced persons from annexed Crimea and eastern Ukraine in 2014), co-founded Kharkiv Pride, an organization that defends LGBTQ+ rights in Ukraine, and participated in organizing the first Pride in Kharkiv in 2019.
That first Pride was a turning point in her life. In Freedom Square in central Kharkiv, she stood among about 2,000 other activists who came to support the event. Surrounded by police with shields and a row of trucks separating them from another group of people—right-wing activists from various organizations, including Freikorps, "National Corps," and "Tradition and Order." "Every Pride, these right-wing guys use it as a training event," says Anna with a touch of dark humor. "They gather, meet, have fun, and show what they're capable of."
And that day, they were capable of a lot of violence. They clashed with police and LGBTQ+ activists, a teenager sustained severe injuries in a nearby park, and several people were arrested. It made waves in Ukrainian media, the US Embassy in Ukraine issued a condemnation statement, and Amnesty International wrote a public statement.
Four years later, when Anna was already in the 47th Brigade, she met Kostya, who served in her medical unit. Kostya was also at Freedom Square in 2019, but on the other side of the barricades. Enthralled by right-wing views, he was part of Freikorps—a far-right group that fought with the police and targeted parade participants that day. Kostya and Anna spoke, trying to maintain a safe distance. These conversations became regular. Kostya was an intellectual who wrote poetry, sharply contrasting with other right-wing people Anna had encountered through her service.
One day, trying to summarize one of their conversations, Kostya pointed to a battle map hanging on the wall of their medical headquarters. "This is the only thing that matters now," he said.
They were discussing an incident involving one of the founders of Kharkiv Pride, Anna Sharygina, who publicly opposed renaming a street in Kharkiv in honor of Georgiy Tarasenko, a member of Freikorps who died in the battles near Kharkiv in March 2022. Sharygina had posted on Facebook that Tarasenko was a well-known right-wing figure and had violently persecuted LGBTQ+ activists several times. Her post also raised questions about who Ukrainians should immortalize in the pantheon of heroes of this war and what can be forgiven or overlooked for those who give their lives to defend the country.
It was a nuanced post that sparked a lively but complex debate, filled with hatred and threats, as well as words of support for Ms. Sharygina. Her motivation is understandable—people like Georgiy Tarasenko were a threat to her personally. He wasn't just opposed to same-sex marriage or equal rights for LGBTQ+ people—he committed violence and persecuted her and those she fought for. But Georgiy Tarasenko also died fighting against the Russians who had invaded their city to occupy it and make it part of Russia, where any LGBTQ+ activity is now criminalized.
In wartime Ukraine, the army has become a reflection of Ukrainian society itself; it's a country within a country—with all its complexities and internal conflicts, many voices and camps. Tens of thousands of people from all walks of life have voluntarily enlisted, been mobilized, and drafted over the past two and a half years. And just like in Ukrainian society, LGBTQ+ people in the Ukrainian Armed Forces are a minority—a minority that is easier to bully and discriminate against, but one that needs protection.
Anna Kazhan disagreed with the Facebook post of her former colleague, with whom she had organized Kharkiv Pride in 2019. But she understands what it means to be threatened, criticized, and to argue about who she is. Recently, she found herself in a car with another far-right supporter on the way to the Azov medical base. Her ex-girlfriend worked there and had arranged the visit. Anna joked that it was the LGBT community bringing far-right extremists to the Azov base. They talked about issues and values, argued, and joked.
"At the next Pride, we’ll drop a drone bomb on you," the far-right guy said, laughing. "We’ll set up jammers," Anna replied. And then there was silence. They both knew they might not make it to the next Pride. They continued driving.
The material was worked on:
Topic researcher, author: Sasha Maslov
Translation: Marusya Maruzhenko
Literary editor: Yulia Futei
Website manager: Vladislav Kukhar
Sasha Maslov was born in Kharkiv. He lives and works in New York. His works have been featured in various European and American venues. He collaborates with prominent publications, including The New Yorker, The Guardian, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Esquire, Forbes, and others. In his free time, he works on personal projects, the most ambitious of which is the "Veterans" project, for which he has traveled to over 20 countries in the past 5 years.
As part of the grant support for documentary photographers from UAPP, we are sharing documentary projects by finalists who received grant support in the previous season. This time, we present the project “Unicorn Battalion” by Ukrainian documentarian Sasha Maslov.
We remind you that applications for the mentoring and micro-grant program from the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers are open until August 28. For details on how to participate, please follow the link.
Below is the narrative from Sasha Maslov's perspective.
On a rainy June day in downtown Kyiv, pride flags, Ukrainian flags, and European Union flags soaked in the rain. About 500 people gathered for the Pride march, which lasted only an hour and covered approximately one hundred meters. The city of Kyiv and the police permitted the march but restricted it to a block and a half, citing security concerns.
This was not the typical Pride event that residents of New York, Berlin, or Amsterdam might expect to see in their cities. The first two rows of parade participants consisted of military personnel and veterans holding signs calling on the EU and other Ukrainian partners to provide more weapons. Other signs urged an end to the Russian genocide of Ukrainians, called for mine-clearing systems, and demanded the release of "Azovstal" defenders—prisoners of war held in Russia and subjected to torture. Slogans advocating for equality, legislation on civil partnerships, and the protection of LGBTQ+ rights were also voiced.
Now, alongside her fiancée Diana Harashko, Maria embodies resilience and defiance after enduring intense trials on the front lines and facing pervasive homophobia.
Maria Volya, 31, and her fiancée Diana Harashko, 25, stood hand in hand in the front rows. For Maria, a member of the 47th Brigade, this moment was long-awaited.
Last year, on October 24, 2022, Maria had surrendered. She had spoken on the phone with Diana and said she intended to end her life. She planned to do so by overdosing on diazepam, a selective anxiolytic benzodiazepine typically prescribed for treating anxiety and panic attacks.
Maria and Diana had been dating for only a few weeks. It had been about three months since Diana, a civilian volunteer from Bila Tserkva, had messaged Maria on Instagram in response to one of Maria's stories from the muddy trenches near Bakhmut. "How are you? Although, I suppose that's a silly question given your circumstances," the message read. After several weeks of online correspondence, Diana traveled to Kramatorsk and proposed on their first date.
Now, she listened to Maria's raspy voice delivering her final farewell. In a panic, Diana called Maria's commander. Fortunately, he answered the call. Within minutes, medics were rushing to Maria.
Three weeks after her suicide attempt, I met Maria for the first time. In the visitors' room of the acute psychiatric ward for women at a large hospital complex outside Dnipro, she sat at a table with a plastic tablecloth, wearing a fleece jacket adorned with a rainbow pin, not quite understanding how she had ended up there.
“I no longer have a home, I have no rights. What am I fighting for?” she asked me. Her frustration stemmed from feeling rejected and misunderstood by her people and her country, even after nearly a decade of service.
Maria had joined the army as a volunteer at 22, when she saw Russia seize Crimea and ignite the war in eastern Ukraine. Her hometown, Mariupol, was briefly occupied by pro-Russian separatists, and its liberation became one of the significant victories for Ukrainians in the summer of 2014. After signing a contract, she quickly noticed signs of sexism among the soldiers around her. She heard phrases like “war is no place for a woman” and saw that male soldiers were given more trust and respect by commanders.
She wanted to prove her capability. Full of idealism, Maria fought for the right to be sent to the front lines. Eventually, she was assigned to Pisky as a radio specialist with the 56th Brigade, where some of the fiercest battles for Donetsk Airport took place.
After active service, she remained in the army and was stationed in her hometown with the 56th Brigade until the winter of 2022. At that time, Mariupol became the site of brutal confrontation between encircled Ukrainian troops and the massive, dominant force of the invading Russian army. After heavy losses, her unit, along with troops from the 36th Marine Brigade and the 1st Marine Battalion, barricaded themselves at the Illich Steel Plant. They tried to break the encirclement and leave the city. The first attempt using armored vehicles failed. The second attempt, on foot, succeeded. They managed to bypass Russian patrols and checkpoints unnoticed and escape the besieged city shortly after midnight on March 12.
There were 45 soldiers silently walking through the night. Ahead lay a difficult journey through the forests and steppes of Donetsk Oblast to reach Ukrainian-controlled territory. Without mobile communication, limited supplies, and no information on where exactly the front line was, they moved through the icy darkness.
The group spent the night in abandoned houses, hunted rabbits, and cooked chickens stolen from deserted farms. They divided into three groups of fifteen to avoid detection—one group was later captured by the Russians. Maria’s group was spotted by Russian soldiers on the eighth day of their march as they tried to cross a river near the village of Staromayorske, a few kilometers from Ukrainian-controlled territory at the time. A firefight ensued, and Maria was injured in her left arm. But they succeeded in crossing the river. Five hours after the battle, they reached Velyka Novosilka and a Ukrainian checkpoint.
Barely conscious with a tourniquet on her arm, Maria was taken to the hospital. On March 21, she sat in her hospital bed, filmed by her friend Nastya: Maria was smiling and saying she couldn’t wait to go to Dnipro and order takeout from McDonald’s.
But McDonald’s in Dnipro was closed, as were most other establishments. The country was grappling with a massive invasion by a neighboring state that sought to seize territory, and the constantly shifting front line was on fire. Ukraine needed its soldiers, and Maria was sent back to the front lines, this time to Bakhmut in Donetsk Oblast.
The previous experience made Maria rethink many things, and she decided to speak openly about her sexuality. Her injury and the realization of how fragile everything around her was pushed her to disregard others' opinions.
Maria came out as gay to her fellow soldiers and then began publicly sharing her experience of being a queer person in the army. Her social media posts about life in the trenches near Bakhmut attracted both supporters and critics.
Homophobic comments and messages piled up, overwhelming her to the point of depression. The girl's vulnerability due to her recent experience in Mariupol, coming out, and returning to the front pushed her to attempt suicide. “I couldn’t handle it anymore. I didn’t even want to try…” she said.
After receiving support from Diana, Maria gradually recovered and recently transferred to the 47th Brigade. She now serves on the eastern front but took leave to attend Kyiv Pride. The day before the Pride march in Kyiv, she encountered a group of young people, mostly teenagers, holding signs supporting "traditional values," and engaged them in a debate while filming herself. The next day at Pride, she held hands with her fiancée, disregarding the disapproval of those who questioned her way of loving someone.
When the speeches concluded and the flags and banners were packed away, the crowd began to disperse. No more than five blocks away, on Khreshchatyk Street, several hundred people—mostly young men in black T-shirts and hoodies—emerged from another gathering in support of "traditional values." Upon learning about the location of the Pride event, they ran and attempted to breach the Pride participants, clashing with the police. These young men seemed indifferent to the fact that they were confronting people actively defending their country.
Before the war, most Ukrainians generally had unfavorable views of same-sex unions, but surveys show that public opinion has shifted significantly during the full-scale invasion. A recent poll by the National Democratic Institute, published in February 2024, showed that over 70 percent answered positively to the question: "Should LGBTQ+ people have the same rights as others?" In 2019, this figure was below 30%.
However, Ukrainian legislation lags behind. Despite years of advocacy by various human rights and LGBTQ+ organizations, and pressure from the EU, the Verkhovna Rada of Ukraine has yet to pass hate crime laws that include acts against gays or transgender people. Additionally, no same-sex unions are legally recognized, and the Ukrainian Constitution defines marriage as a union between a man and a woman.
Inna Sovsun, a 39-year-old member of the Ukrainian Parliament from the "Holos" party, is working to address the most urgent issue for same-sex couples during the war, especially those serving in the military—passing a law that would grant them the same rights as a traditionally married couple. One of the most pressing needs for LGBTQ+ servicemembers in wartime Ukraine is basic legal recognition of their partners or spouses as family members.
Currently, same-sex couples, or any non-heterosexual pairs, have no legal recognition as a unit. For military families, this is particularly significant in cases of death, disappearance, captivity, or serious injury. Legally, your partner is considered a stranger, and therefore cannot make legal, medical, posthumous, or other decisions that a heterosexual partner would have the right to make in a crisis.
The draft bill numbered 9103 was registered in the Ukrainian Parliament in March 2023, but it has still not reached a vote in the chamber. It has passed several important stages, receiving approval from the Minister of Justice and the Ministry of Defense. However, a year and a half after its registration, it remains unclear when, if ever, this bill will be brought to a vote. Currently, it seems to be hopelessly stuck in the Verkhovna Rada's Committee on Legal Policy, which is supposed to provide a legal assessment and decide whether to forward it to Parliament, another committee, or reject it altogether.
Inna Sovsun co-wrote this bill with lawyer Maria Klyus, whose close friend Petro Zhyruha is bisexual and serves in the Ukrainian army. Petro is part of a small group of Ukrainian servicemen who openly and publicly declare their sexual orientation.
Petro, a 28-year-old musician with a classical education, never imagined he would end up in the army. However, he felt the need to defend his homeland from Russian aggression and voluntarily enlisted in the Ukrainian Armed Forces after the invasion began.
Initially, his sexual orientation did not pose any problems, but as homophobic jokes emerged, Petro felt the need to adapt his behavior to fit into the new environment. He laughed at the jokes and tried to be part of the team. On one occasion, the commander said he hoped there were no “such people” in his unit. Petro felt unwell. On another occasion, one of the soldiers in his unit said he would “kill a faggot” if he saw one.
Petro’s parents did not know about his sexual orientation, nor did his fellow soldiers. But at some point, the young man grew tired of hiding this part of his identity and decided to come out. “I had adopted this hetero-mask and had to change my language, my behavior... I didn’t want to do it anymore,” he says. In June 2022, after four months of service, Petro confessed to his unit members. The reaction was negative—there were stares and whispers. Soldiers didn’t want to stand in line for the shower with him or sit next to him. But gradually, conversation by conversation, things began to change. The soldier who had said he would "kill a faggot" if he saw one later told Petro that he would not do that now, explaining that he had never met a gay person before.
Maria Klyus, Petro's friend and deputy to Inna Sovsun, was worried about him. Petro thought his friend was losing sleep over his coming out. One day, Maria called Petro and told him about the bill she and Inna were working on. The young man was shocked. He could not believe that someone was willing to do such monumental work to protect him and other LGBTQ+ people. Although the bill covers a broad range and benefits any civil partnership, he took this gesture very personally and wanted to support it as soon as he could.
At that time, only his fellow soldiers knew about his sexual orientation, and initially, Petro had planned to keep it that way. But after the phone call with Maria, he decided to initiate a state petition in support of Bill No. 9103. This meant putting his name on a document that would reveal his sexual orientation to everyone. “If not now, then when?” he asked himself.
However, Petro did not tell his parents. Understanding the potential impact and publicity of this gesture, he knew that his name would become known and didn’t want his parents to find out from the news. Petro called his father and asked him to turn on the speakerphone. After a brief exchange of news, he said, “I need to tell you something very important,” and paused before saying that he liked both men and women. His mother immediately screamed, “Petro, oh my God, I thought someone had died!” And his father calmly said that he would always shake his hand, regardless of whom he liked.
Petro’s heart soared. All his adult life, he had feared this moment, and now it had come—a huge weight was lifted from his soul.
With the help of an NGO, he created a petition in support of Bill No. 9103 and registered it on the President’s website. Such petitions have no legal consequences, but they are meant to demonstrate public support. Once a petition reaches 25,000 signatures, it goes to the president, who writes his recommendations and comments. When the petition appeared online, a social media frenzy began. Petro’s phone lit up every few minutes—dozens of messages and calls with words of support, gratitude, and sometimes disbelief. Now Petro had come out to the entire country.
“I felt free,” recalls Petro. The soldier who had wanted to “kill a faggot” said he would sign the petition.
Military representatives tend to avoid the topic of LGBTQ+ rights as if it were an infectious disease, and when circumstances require addressing issues regarding gay or transgender service members, the Ministry of Defense and military representatives usually try to deny everything. In a note of non-support for Bill No. 9103, which the Ministry of Defense published shortly after its introduction, it was initially stated that “the information about thousands of service members who cannot officially formalize their relationships with same-sex partners, as outlined in the explanatory note to the draft law, requires further examination due to the lack of relevant data in the Ministry of Defense of Ukraine.”
During this additional examination, which many LGBTQ+ activists called clumsy and horrific, the Ministry of Defense decided to conduct a survey by asking some service members essentially: “Are you gay?”
The “survey on the issues of sexual orientation, the need for the registration of civil partnerships, and issues in this specific area” was a printed form containing seven questions about gender discrimination in the respondent’s unit, sexual preferences in choosing a partner, and whether the respondent, who is in a relationship with someone of the same sex, might face “problems” with inheritance if they are injured, killed, or declared missing.
Maxim was one of the service members who received this survey. From his description of the survey process, a picture emerges of a lack of education, empathy, and basic decency among those conducting the survey.
Maxim, a closeted gay member of the Ukrainian Air Force, describes how one morning a senior officer in his unit distributed the surveys without any explanation. The atmosphere was such that offensive jokes about gays emerged. Several aviators refused to complete the survey. Later, Maxim saw one survey lying on a table with the large letters “I AM NOT A FAGGOT” written on it. The officer later returned to collect the surveys, sometimes looking into them as he took them from the pilots. “It was mocking anonymity,” recalls Maxim. Later, the same officer came back with several additional surveys, claiming they needed to be filled out to meet the quota. Some aviators were absent—either injured or on leave—and the command demanded the exact number of surveys. “Who wants to help with the gay test?” asked the officer.
It is unclear what happened to this survey and whether it led to any results. The body responsible for equality issues in the Ukrainian Armed Forces—the Department of Humanitarian Support of the Ministry of Defense of Ukraine—did not respond to numerous attempts to contact them regarding this article. After speaking with four Ministry employees, none of whom wanted to speak openly, and reviewing the Ministry's online documents, I found no official program dedicated to combating discrimination against LGBTQ+ personnel or educating service members about LGBTQ+ issues. The Ministry of Defense has a hotline for sexual violence and violence in general, as well as mechanisms for addressing it.
An open gay employee of the Ministry of Defense, who also did not want to speak openly, said that those responsible for equality and gender issues often lack basic knowledge about anything beyond the Ministry’s guidelines.
At the same time, this person said that they understand there are much more urgent issues for the country in wartime, and if a problem for the Armed Forces is not considered critical and does not require immediate resolution, it is often pushed to the back burner.
Issues concerning the LGBTQ+ community in Ukraine have already created some problems for the current government. A recent decision by the European Court of Human Rights involved two Ukrainians, Andriy Maymulyakhin and Andriy Markiv, who claimed that the Ukrainian government had denied them the same rights as heterosexual couples. The couple has been living together since 2010 but has been unable to register as a household. According to their submission, they attempted to register as a couple seven times, but all applications were rejected. After the Russian invasion in February 2022, Mr. Maymulyakhin joined the National Guard and served for a year before resigning due to health issues.
Ukrainian judge Mykola Hnatovskyi at the European Court ruled in favor of the claimants. In its defense, the Ukrainian government used Bill No. 9103, arguing that Ukraine is already implementing necessary laws to protect same-sex couples. However, the court rejected this argument, noting that the bill had not yet become law. The European Court's decision is now a serious issue for the Ukrainian government. In addition to compensation they must pay to the couple, it represents a significant challenge to Ukraine's desired EU membership.
But from Brussels’ courts to Kyiv's government corridors and to the grim trenches near Avdiivka, there is a vast distance. While legislators, generals, and judges deliberate, LGBTQ+ Ukrainians who serve face not only a lack of legal recognition but also severe discrimination. Their stories and personal suffering often get lost in the abyss of endless death and destruction shaking the country every day. “It’s not the time,” critics comment on social media. “It’s not the time,” lawmakers repeat in the Legal Policy Committee, according to minutes from the latest meetings on Bill No. 9103 in July 2024. Despite being under consideration for over a year, the bill has still not been voted on.
For people like Gennady Apromizov, the personal trauma of lacking recognition or respect for their identity is profoundly relevant. These issues are ever-present.
Gennady Apromizov, a 25-year-old bisexual Belarusian and soldier in the International Legion, crossed the Ukrainian border on a warm July night in 2020. He carried documents for medical procedures and packed only a small bag with slippers, shampoo, and a few pairs of underwear.
Five days before, while at home in Minsk, he had received a call from the local police station requesting him to come for a "friendly chat." He knew what that meant. Several of his friends who had been called in for such chats had faced imprisonment threats if they continued any "recidivist" activities, with some already detained.
The Belarusian government had intensified its crackdown on any form of opposition after prolonged anti-government protests that summer, arresting activists one by one. Journalists, students, doctors, and college professors were detained from their apartments or on the streets, starting with the most prominent figures.
Gennady was an active participant in the protests and had been marked as an organizer in several social media posts. He knew what the Belarusian authorities had in store for him. So, he packed a bag and, with the help of BYSOL, an organization aiding Belarusian dissidents in leaving the country, set off for Kyiv.
The new home suited Gennady. Within a few months, he stopped fearing black trucks and people in police uniforms. He found accommodation and continued his activism from Kyiv, surrounding himself with members of the diaspora, which had grown significantly after the new wave of repression in Belarus. “I continued fighting for Belarus,” he says of his time in Kyiv.
However, Gennady did not plan to fight for Ukraine. The Ukrainian government had continued to flirt with Lukashenko’s dictatorship, and while many Belarusian émigrés sought refuge in Kyiv from the regime, it was not entirely safe. The visa-free regime and lax security allowed Russian and Belarusian intelligence agencies to operate almost unhindered in Kyiv. In August 2021, one of the most active Belarusian activists, Vitaly Shishov, was found hanged in a forest near his home. His death was classified as a murder, and the crime remains unsolved. In 2022, Denis Staj, a Belarusian journalist critical of the Belarusian regime, living in Ukraine since 2018, was beaten, tortured, and drugged over several days in his Kyiv apartment. When Denis stopped answering his wife’s calls, she traveled to Kyiv from their family shelter in western Ukraine and found him unconscious, bound, and wrapped in plastic bags, just steps away from death. Their apartment was ransacked, and electronic devices were stolen. Suspicions fell on Belarusian agents, but Ukrainian police did not arrest anyone in connection with the attack and torture.
Gennady viewed the war in Ukraine as the beginning of Belarus's liberation. In March 2023, he joined the International Legion, partly motivated by the thought that he would gain experience for continuing the fight to free Belarus from dictatorship when the time came. After three months of training, he was deployed to the northern border with Russia and then joined the fight on the Eastern Front.
Gennady was open about his sexual orientation with people. This had caused problems in the past, especially conflicts with his religious family. But within the military structure, he felt it was dangerous to speak openly about this side of his life. The International Legion’s composition is mostly foreign volunteers, mainly Americans and Europeans, who tend to have more progressive views, while Ukrainian commanders are significantly more conservative and, according to Gennady, sometimes openly homophobic. “I try to avoid the topic altogether,” he told me, “I don’t want to be shot in the back.”
This might seem like an overly dramatic fear, but in an environment accustomed to violence and where homophobia is common, being gay can be a real threat. In war, you rely on the person next to you for your well-being and often for your survival.
Therefore, in addition to being brave and setting an example, being an openly gay soldier often means carrying a target on one’s back.
When Gennady was transferred to a new post in December 2023, the new deputy battalion commander noticed a unicorn patch on his uniform — the emblem of the “Ukrainian LGBTQ+ Military for Equal Rights” organization — and asked, “What is this thing on your clothes?”
Gennady chose not to comment. His life depended on the decisions this commander would make in the future.
The unicorn patches have become a unifying symbol and identification mark for the LGBTQ+ community among Ukrainian Armed Forces personnel. They were created by the organization "Ukrainian LGBTQ+ Military for Equal Rights," a public group fighting for the rights of both openly LGBTQ+ and closeted members of the Ukrainian military. The organization has around 400 members, with less than a quarter being openly LGBTQ+. Viktor Pylypenko, the founder and the first openly gay member of the Ukrainian military, is at the forefront of supporting both those who have come out and those who are not yet ready to do so.
These patches carry no specific meaning other than indicating openness about one's sexual orientation. However, they open doors to both allies and homophobes. By wearing such patches on their uniforms, these soldiers accept a certain level of risk of becoming targets.
"I know that there are gay soldiers in the army who are not interested in joining our group, perhaps because they are unaware of us or do not want potential unwanted publicity," says Viktor. Being open himself, he has faced numerous public attacks, primarily from conservative groups, right-wing organizations, commentators, and members of the clergy.
The latest scandal involved the revocation of an award that the Ukrainian Orthodox Church had previously given to several members of Viktor's unit from the 72nd Mechanized Brigade for "self-sacrifice and love for Ukraine." The medal was later rescinded with the Church stating that Filaret "was unaware of the sinful tendencies" of one of the awardees. It was then emphasized that "Patriarch Filaret and the Ukrainian Orthodox Church, without exception, take a principled negative stance on the sin of Sodom and condemn the promotion of so-called same-sex marriages." Following this disgraceful turn regarding the medal, several members of the 72nd Brigade returned the award, most with strong public criticism of the Church.
This is not the first and likely not the last instance of misunderstandings and tensions due to divisions in Ukrainian society over LGBTQ+ issues. Viktor has become a target not only for critics within the country but also for Russian propaganda, which often portrays homosexuality as one of the toxic fruits of the sinister Western world.
In the summer of 2021, even before the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the rhetoric of Olga Skabeeva, a Russian propagandist and commentator on Russian TV, made a notable impression when she announced on her program that "President Volodymyr Zelensky, at the advice of American leader Joe Biden, is sending 'columns of Ukrainian homosexuals to Donbas'." This was based on an earlier statement on the Facebook page of the organization "Ukrainian LGBT Military for Equal Rights," which said: "We invite motivated LGBTQ+ individuals, servicemembers, specialists, and also friends of the LGBTQ+ community who want to sign a contract with one of the motorized infantry units of the Armed Forces."
The announcement was quickly picked up by right-wing and conservative forces in Ukraine and eventually made its way to Russian television. This led to the creation of a completely fabricated story about the "Unicorn Battalion."
Victor was harshly criticized in Ukraine as a "Kremlin agent," which further fueled Moscow's ongoing propaganda machine. Neither the "Unicorn Battalion" nor any LGBTQ-friendly unit was ever formed, but Victor continued his fight. He recalls the words of a commander he served with, who said, "If homosexuals create their own unit and call it the Unicorn Battalion, I'll accept them." In response to the criticism and fabrications, a logo for LGBTQ military members (LGBT Military) featuring a unicorn was created.
Victor's struggle is part of the broader fight by other members of the organization. One of the most notable cases involves former sailor Pavel Lahoyda.
Pavel is 23 years old and currently lives in Kyiv. He is one of the most active members of the LGBTQ Military Union, but, like Viktor, he has faced harassment and repression due to his openness. Like Viktor, he has suffered because of his desire to be open about his sexuality.
After his mother disowned him following his coming out, Pavel joined the Navy. This happened in September 2021 when he was only 19. A major war loomed over Ukraine. A few months later, as rockets rained down on cities and villages across the country, his mother called Pavel: “I accept you for who you are,” she said, crying, “just come home alive.” Pavel wondered why it took a war and his service to make his mother appreciate and accept him, but now he had to go to war.
According to Pavel, issues with his commander, Lieutenant Colonel Leonid Bondarenko, began soon after the commander learned of his sexual orientation. Pavel recounted that he was outed by other sailors in his cabin when he left his phone unlocked and open to messages with an ex. When he returned to the cabin, he saw his fellow sailors laughing. “So, you’re a fucking faggot?” one of them smirked at Pavel.
Soon, everyone, including his direct supervisors, knew. Lieutenant Bondarenko not only allowed other soldiers to beat Pavel but also became an abuser himself. Initially, this took the form of mockery about his sexuality and verbal harassment, but it eventually escalated into physical violence.
The first beating occurred during a night shift in the spring of 2022 when Lieutenant Bondarenko approached Pavel and verbally reprimanded him for looking at his phone. Pavel recounts that a quarrel ensued, and Bondarenko threw him to the floor and beat him. The second beating happened later, in November, in front of witnesses—this time over a dispute about the best way to unload a truck. Bondarenko’s command could not ignore this and transferred Pavel, but did not punish Bondarenko.
The correspondence between Pavel and his commander is unstable. Mr. Bondarenko calls Pavel a “sociopath” and says he should be studied for medical journals due to his “illness.” Pavel responds with profanity and threats of suing him and the unit. The conversation then shifts to a neutral tone discussing reports and issues about transfers and demobilization. Messages and calls from Pavel and Mr. Bondarenko remain unanswered.
From the telephone and written exchanges between them, it appears that Mr. Bondarenko does not want Pavel to transfer and enjoys his power over the subordinate, inflicting regular subtle torture. He sends Pavel on pointless tasks, various medical and psychological examinations but does not allow him to transfer or change his contract. Pavel says he was sent for two psychiatric evaluations, where doctors, without examination, diagnosed him as “unfit for active service.” Lieutenant Bondarenko claims that the psychiatric evaluations were not his initiative; they were conducted independently because sailor Lahoyda attempted to transfer to contract service and change units.
Pavel later appealed through the Ministry of Defense and was sent for evaluation in Kyiv, where the decision was overturned, and he was declared fit and healthy for active service. Pavel’s lawyer confirms his account.
Lieutenant Bondarenko claims he never saw the final psychiatric diagnosis Pavel received after the appeal, although in private correspondence with Pavel, he admits to seeing the results while accusing Pavel of forgery.
Lieutenant Bondarenko also told me that sailor Lahoyda was a bad and unruly soldier, and he was beaten not because he was gay, but due to his overall attitude and behavior. The lieutenant also accused the subordinate of having sex for money with other sailors, though he did not deny beating him.
In the spring of 2024, President Zelensky signed a law allowing the demobilization of all conscripts who started mandatory service before February 2024. At that time, Pavel had unsuccessfully attempted to change units. He took the opportunity to submit his resignation. A month later, leaving his base, he gave the finger. He was free from the tyrant.
Bullying, persecution, and even physical violence are not uncommon in the military. In many cases, the fate of a vulnerable person under someone's command depends on how the commander handles the situation. In the absence of LGBTQ+ education among the enlisted ranks of the Ukrainian Armed Forces, it often comes down to whether the commander allows abuse or, as in Pavel's case, perpetrates it himself.
But it doesn’t always turn out this way.
Alexander Zhuhan, 39, and Antonina Romanova, 38, met on a clear, warm September day in 2014. It was one of those autumn days when you’re still trying to catch the last shades of fading summer. It was a different era in Ukraine. They met through a Russian dating site, which was still quite popular in Ukraine even after Crimea was annexed and the war in Eastern Ukraine had begun.
Antonina had recently moved to Kyiv from Crimea, where, after active involvement in pro-Ukrainian protests, she ended up on arrest lists. One of her activist friends, Oleg Sentsov, advised her to leave the peninsula. She did, while Oleg stayed behind and was later arrested and imprisoned for five years on fabricated terrorism charges.
Alexander was not in a festive mood that evening. He was coming back from a meeting where he had comforted a friend whose child was diagnosed with a severe form of autism. Antonina was wearing an old-fashioned knitted jacket over a sweater. Alexander thought she looked funny. They strolled with large take-out cups, drinking lattes and talking. As it turned out, they had something in common: children with disabilities, their indifference to Kyiv’s broken infrastructure, and a love for theater and the arts. They talked about Antonina’s difficult childhood, the numerous surgeries she had undergone as a child, and her journey from a lost home in Crimea to the capital. They sat by a group of teenagers, enjoying their music from a portable speaker. They took the last metro home.
Ten years later, Antonina and Alexander share a room in a rundown house a few kilometers from the active front. It has been a long journey from their first date on that warm Kyiv evening. Behind them are an experimental theater troupe they founded, plays and performances they staged together and separately, endless parties, and long nights after premieres. Their life has been full: teaching, performing, loving. They had a small apartment together and were happy.
From this apartment, they called their actors to cancel the performance on February 24, 2022.
The Great War had come into their lives. That night, Antonina asked, “Shall we join?” and Alexander reluctantly agreed. The next day, they signed up as volunteers with the local territorial defense. There were men and women of different ages—some looked as if they had come straight from work; someone brought their belongings in a suitcase, a burly man in a cowboy hat, and one guy brought a hunting rifle.
Looking at this diverse crowd, Alexander thought, “If they can do it, so can we.”
The fear of not being understood was certainly present. “I thought: there will be these combat meat grinders, and I’m just a small theater teacher,” says Alexander. But to their surprise, their status as a queer couple was met with understanding. They had been open from the beginning of their service, and rumors had spread. By the time they were sent south after the campaign in Kyiv, their commanders and fellow soldiers already knew that “these gays” were serving with them.
In late May 2022, their unit was sent to Mykolaiv. Antonina and Alexander reported at the morning lineup, where a new sergeant major was introduced. “I know there are gays among you,” he growled. Antonina’s heart sank. “I don’t care! If you’re good soldiers, there will be no problems.” He added, “I will not tolerate any discrimination.”
Without an official policy on same-sex couples from the Ministry of Defense, such matters are left to the discretion of lower-ranking commanders. Some, like the senior sergeant, view it as a potential issue among their troops and set things straight from the beginning, but more often it falls on people like Alexander and Antonina to educate their fellow soldiers on LGBTQ+ issues.
"It's not our job to teach them," says Alexander. But when he talks about the LGBTQ+ community online, he faces criticism, often from military personnel, accusing him of using his uniform to promote LGBTQ+ values. This frustrates him. "I would have a much broader platform elsewhere to fight for equal rights," Alexander notes, "and my goal in the army is the same as everyone else's here: to win this war."
Thus, each individual experience varies and depends on the education and biases of the commander. Antonina and Alexander have been fortunate at every stage of their service. In June 2022, they were introduced to a new commander who asked Antonina which pronouns he should use when addressing her. "That was his first question to me," Antonina recalls, "I was impressed."
Antonina is a non-binary person who uses "she/her" pronouns. She and Alexander are extremely close, even though they ended their relationship about a year ago. "We were together for 10 years, went through fire and water," says Antonina. "I’m sure I will never have a closer connection with anyone else in this life."
They sit together in a dimly lit room, just as they did ten years ago on the cold asphalt, listening to teenagers playing music with lattes in paper cups on that warm Kyiv evening. The active front, where they were just hours ago, is a short trip away. They will make this trip again soon after my departure, not as a couple, lovers, or old friends, but as two Ukrainian Armed Forces personnel heading for another assignment, fighting for their country and their right to be who they are, for themselves and for future generations. Despite the hardships they’ve endured, their love helps them persevere. It fights for them as they fight for their country.
Love has also supported Anna Kazhan throughout her life. Anna is a medic in the 47th Brigade and a person who has always gone against the grain. Her call sign, Kazhan, is not by chance. She likes the sound of it and, more importantly, she likes bats themselves. Anna, now 31, has studied nocturnal flying creatures since her early 20s—she earned a bachelor’s degree in molecular biology and biotechnology and completed a master’s in vertebrate zoology. She was in her 4th semester in Ghent, Belgium, studying tropical biodiversity and ecosystems when the full-scale invasion began. This event compelled her to return to Ukraine and join the army, something she would never have considered before.
If there were an illustration for a leftist activist in Ukraine, it would likely be Anna. Since her teenage years, she has been actively involved in the leftist movement in her native Kharkiv. She helped organize an anarchist squat (which also housed LGBTQ+ activists and displaced persons from annexed Crimea and eastern Ukraine in 2014), co-founded Kharkiv Pride, an organization that defends LGBTQ+ rights in Ukraine, and participated in organizing the first Pride in Kharkiv in 2019.
That first Pride was a turning point in her life. In Freedom Square in central Kharkiv, she stood among about 2,000 other activists who came to support the event. Surrounded by police with shields and a row of trucks separating them from another group of people—right-wing activists from various organizations, including Freikorps, "National Corps," and "Tradition and Order." "Every Pride, these right-wing guys use it as a training event," says Anna with a touch of dark humor. "They gather, meet, have fun, and show what they're capable of."
And that day, they were capable of a lot of violence. They clashed with police and LGBTQ+ activists, a teenager sustained severe injuries in a nearby park, and several people were arrested. It made waves in Ukrainian media, the US Embassy in Ukraine issued a condemnation statement, and Amnesty International wrote a public statement.
Four years later, when Anna was already in the 47th Brigade, she met Kostya, who served in her medical unit. Kostya was also at Freedom Square in 2019, but on the other side of the barricades. Enthralled by right-wing views, he was part of Freikorps—a far-right group that fought with the police and targeted parade participants that day. Kostya and Anna spoke, trying to maintain a safe distance. These conversations became regular. Kostya was an intellectual who wrote poetry, sharply contrasting with other right-wing people Anna had encountered through her service.
One day, trying to summarize one of their conversations, Kostya pointed to a battle map hanging on the wall of their medical headquarters. "This is the only thing that matters now," he said.
They were discussing an incident involving one of the founders of Kharkiv Pride, Anna Sharygina, who publicly opposed renaming a street in Kharkiv in honor of Georgiy Tarasenko, a member of Freikorps who died in the battles near Kharkiv in March 2022. Sharygina had posted on Facebook that Tarasenko was a well-known right-wing figure and had violently persecuted LGBTQ+ activists several times. Her post also raised questions about who Ukrainians should immortalize in the pantheon of heroes of this war and what can be forgiven or overlooked for those who give their lives to defend the country.
It was a nuanced post that sparked a lively but complex debate, filled with hatred and threats, as well as words of support for Ms. Sharygina. Her motivation is understandable—people like Georgiy Tarasenko were a threat to her personally. He wasn't just opposed to same-sex marriage or equal rights for LGBTQ+ people—he committed violence and persecuted her and those she fought for. But Georgiy Tarasenko also died fighting against the Russians who had invaded their city to occupy it and make it part of Russia, where any LGBTQ+ activity is now criminalized.
In wartime Ukraine, the army has become a reflection of Ukrainian society itself; it's a country within a country—with all its complexities and internal conflicts, many voices and camps. Tens of thousands of people from all walks of life have voluntarily enlisted, been mobilized, and drafted over the past two and a half years. And just like in Ukrainian society, LGBTQ+ people in the Ukrainian Armed Forces are a minority—a minority that is easier to bully and discriminate against, but one that needs protection.
Anna Kazhan disagreed with the Facebook post of her former colleague, with whom she had organized Kharkiv Pride in 2019. But she understands what it means to be threatened, criticized, and to argue about who she is. Recently, she found herself in a car with another far-right supporter on the way to the Azov medical base. Her ex-girlfriend worked there and had arranged the visit. Anna joked that it was the LGBT community bringing far-right extremists to the Azov base. They talked about issues and values, argued, and joked.
"At the next Pride, we’ll drop a drone bomb on you," the far-right guy said, laughing. "We’ll set up jammers," Anna replied. And then there was silence. They both knew they might not make it to the next Pride. They continued driving.
The material was worked on:
Topic researcher, author: Sasha Maslov
Translation: Marusya Maruzhenko
Literary editor: Yulia Futei
Website manager: Vladislav Kukhar
Sasha Maslov was born in Kharkiv. He lives and works in New York. His works have been featured in various European and American venues. He collaborates with prominent publications, including The New Yorker, The Guardian, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Esquire, Forbes, and others. In his free time, he works on personal projects, the most ambitious of which is the "Veterans" project, for which he has traveled to over 20 countries in the past 5 years.
UAPP is an independent association of professional Ukrainian photographers, designed to protect their interests, support, develop and promote Ukrainian photography as an important element of national culture.
UAPP's activities span educational, social, research and cultural initiatives, as well as book publishing.
UAPP represents Ukrainian professional photography in the international photographic community and is an official member of the Federation of European Photographers (FEP) — an international organization representing more than 50,000 professional photographers in Europe and other countries around the world.
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