Fight and Pride: Our Stonewall
by Lyosha Gorshkov
My past, or my imagined past if you will, was brutally erased overnight by the goblins of traditional values, poisoning Russia with homosexual panic and the exploitation of its darkest servants: the Government, Law Enforcement, the Church, and Propaganda. Afraid of losing support and power, Russian authorities have declared their crusade against LGBTIQ+ individuals by deploying the most vicious and brainwashing tactics: feeding the Russian people with anti-Western, anti-liberal, and anti-human ideas. Without even realizing it, the Russian Ideology machine has resurrected the old Anita Bryant scheme, portraying queers as those who “corrupt, molest and seduce our youth.” The climax of this crusade was reached in June 2013 when the notorious “propaganda of non-traditional values” legislation was passed by the Parliament and signed into law by President Putin.
Leaving the bizarre wording aside, we need to look more deeply at the political sentiment of the Law that, by default, has contributed to a series of serious institutional crackdowns on freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, and freedom of expression, along with other initiatives, including the Dima Yakovlev Act and the Foreign Agents bill. The Propaganda Law targets “undesirable elements,” such as LGBTIQ+ identified activists, educators, scholars, public advocates, who, politically speaking, challenge Putin’s dictatorial paradise with their “Western”— that is, democratic— nature.
I became a target of these groups myself and caught the attention of the Federal Security Service (formerly known as the KGB) for being quite open about my sexuality in my roles as a professor, deputy dean, and scholar promoting queer studies. I remember meeting with a “KGB” agent at his office—a room that did not look different from the school principal’s office in a remote area. This man, named Yuriy, tried to recruit me to report on my students and colleagues. I played the fool while simultaneously understanding that my destiny had been decided. I didn’t have much time to sort things over. I needed to get out of the country – as silently as possible. Eventually, I fled Russia, trying not to look back. Now I am in exile, but I am happier.
The same fate has struck many others: they continue to come to the U.S. seeking refuge and better treatment, hoping to be able to breathe freely without fear of being judged, criticized, or harmed for living true to themselves.
I first arrived in New York with few friends, little money or connections, and without a solid grasp of the language or a clear understanding of my new – strange and unknown – surroundings. By accident, I ended up settling in Midwood, Brooklyn. With the “magical” help of a Russian-speaking realtor, I rented an apartment there, having no clue what the neighborhood looked like, demographically and culturally, in broad daylight. Slowly but not mistakenly, I then began to sense – to the point of suffocation – the familiar and strong smell of my Soviet childhood during my first trip to a local grocery store. I learned soon enough that my neighborhood was predominantly occupied by Soviet emigres and “fresh” immigrants from all over the post-Soviet sphere. These individuals have, indeed, built up a sort of “autonomous republic” surrounded by an invisible fence. While taking the Q train, minding my own business and chatting with a friend, I once spotted three older women staring at us with nasty smirks. They were speaking loudly in Russian. They did not have a clue that we might understand their language, and literally cursed us out: “Look at those faggots!” That was my first encounter with Brighton Beach syndrome, as I call it. Their words hit me, and I was about to spit out something back, but instead decided to keep my identity hidden, no longer interested in wasting my energy on bigots.
I was again called a “faggot” while passing by the Russian store “Domino” and it felt disgusting. By the time I became involved with the Russian-speaking queer world of immigrants, I had been called “faggot” all too often. These encounters were an unpleasant flashback. I would pinch myself to make sure I was in New York and not on the streets of my hometown. Apparently, I was not alone in feeling unwelcomed by the older generation of Russian-speakers, clearly frozen in time. I discovered that many of my peers who resided in Midwood, Sheepshead Bay, and Brighton Beach neighborhoods preferred not to disclose their identities. They had chosen to play along, accepting the red rule of those resettlements, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, and Gossip Quietly.”
Fascinatingly enough, Russian-speaking queers always find a justification for their choice to remain in the closet, and often times it is a practical concern, such as: “If my landlord/employer knew I was gay, he/she/they would kick me out.” Upon hearing this nonsense I would become furious, asking them, “Why did you come here only to tolerate the same treatment you faced back in your home countries?” Later I realized there was no such thing as some magical carpet that can mentally transport individuals from one point to another as quickly as possible. It is not an easy task for most of my LGBTIQ+ siblings to digest a new culture with its promise not to hide in order to survive. In many cases, our queers do not possess even a basic vocabulary to express their feelings. After years of oppression, they have developed a strong fear which remains deep inside of them—a fear of being liberated. For liberation brings responsibilities, and most of all, the responsibility to stand up and advocate for yourself. This idea is particularly hard to grasp when myths about the “land of abundance” crash against the wall of Soviet ignorance. “Soviets” nourish the status quo due to their own fear of “strangers” and “otherness.” This deeply-rooted pathos forces many of my LGBTIQ+ siblings to cultivate an internalized homophobia they wouldn’t have otherwise emerged.
In 2015 I joined the organization RUSA LGBT. By this time, I had already heard a number of stories about instances of physical and verbal violence against our people in Brighton Beach, related to either housing or employment. I learned that most of the victims were told they did not have any rights, because they were immigrants with no permanent status yet. No doubt, our folks were terrified by those threats and the possibility of escalating the conflicts, while not having any knowledge about their rights or immigration proceedings, not to mention the fear of being deported. The overwhelming majority of our victimized peers never reported any instances of violence to the police. I don’t blame them, as police are the enemy of LGBTIQ+ individuals in most post-Soviet countries. Indeed, the police are the number one perpetrator that harass, abuse, torture, and sometimes even kill queer folks in countries like Russia, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Azerbaijan...
In 2015, while attending one of our regular meetings, half-jokingly, half-seriously, I proposed to hold our own Russian-speaking Pride March in Brighton Beach. I argued, “We should face the community. We should take an initiative and, finally, come out to show THEM that we are here and we are queer. Those who are living side by side with them, doing grocery shopping in the same stores, and breathing the same air, for God’s sake!” I reminded them that we were not in Russia or Uzbekistan anymore: we were in NYC, a city that had legislation that prohibits discrimination, even if it’s only on paper. My idea was not met with enthusiastic support, declared to be little more than some sort of utopia. Some attendees were adamant in embracing the simple strategy, “Let’s leave them [the Brighton Beach residents] alone and move to another place.”
The idea to keep pretending to be some hidden “thing” within the pastoral bubble did not appeal to me, although I understood their reservations. It took me two years of educational efforts, inspiring, provoking, teasing, and empowering my LGBTIQ+ siblings to finally make a move. It caused me multiple headaches to persuade them that if we were not taking care of ourselves, not raising our voices, and not taking steps to make changes for ourselves, we would never be able to find peace. Most of all, we would only transmit our fears and anxieties to others who might come after us. I had another argument in my pocket, too: moving to another neighborhood does not mean you are overcoming your own lack of confidence and self-acceptance. You can move to Manhattan, I reminded them, but you cannot escape the internal doubts that burn your spirit.
The idea of having Brighton Beach Pride did not derivate from the need for glory or some desire to set fire to the Russian-speaking community, accusing its residents of bigotry and obscurantism. The concept, rather, was born out of the necessity to fulfill our dreams, to feel safe, to secure the future for those who dream of living there but have no strength to speak up. The essence of Brighton Beach Pride is to create friendly relationships with locals, to help them wash away obsolete stereotypes, for homophobia is just another facet of xenophobia.
I am positive that holding such a grassroots event is also a reminder to our antagonists that at some point in the past they were victimized, marginalized, and ostracized by the Soviet Government. The Soviets had forced them to abandon everything they had, sending them into exile. This is exactly the same that is going on with LGBTIQ+ individuals now. We are running for our lives from the hostilities of post-Soviet governments. We are coming to the U.S. fighting for our right to be happy, free, and alive!
We are witnessing how Holocaust-like policies of genocide are imposed on our siblings in the Republic of Chechnya, where hundreds of innocent people have been tortured, humiliated, and even killed. There is institutional violence in countries like Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan where LGBTIQ+ individuals are captured, physically abused and their names are made public by law enforcement. There is widespread “gay hunting” conducted by right-wing groups such as “Occupy Pedophilia.” There is a disturbing rise of the Russian Orthodox Church exercising Medieval methods of “treating” LGBTIQ+ folks by taking away their children and demanding to criminalize same-sex relationships.
Desperate and often mentally broken, LGBTIQ+ individuals are seeking the opportunity to escape from that hell on Earth. They come to the U.S., to NYC, to Brighton Beach. For us, Pride is not a way to show off as many might think. Pride is a therapy that helps heal our wounds. Pride is the first step to gaining a sense of belonging. Pride is the way to become a part of a loving and receptive family that encourages everyone to fight their inner demons and embrace self-acceptance.
RUSA LGBT held the first Brighton Beach Pride in May 2017, attracting over three hundred people. It was such a historical moment of unity! We had become more visible and more vocal! Unfortunately, Pride was not taken positively by many skeptics within the LGBTIQ+ community of Brighton Beach. The most bizarre argument they threw at us was, “you are chasing windmills.” This quixotic skepticism did not bother us too much: it simply made us stronger and more confident. I keep reminding those on the other side of the fence that changes do not come overnight. Changes are painful and full of disappointment on a journey that must be taken only if you really want to change something around you: otherwise, you can sit around all day long, complaining from a distance and poisoning others with your pessimism. This is your choice, but keep in mind that your choice may not be the choice of others!
I want to add that Pride is not the only tactic for pursuing change. You can take baby steps, such as starting to love yourself, looking around and understanding that you are not alone, believing in yourself, and realizing that you are not to be blamed for somebody else’s ignorance. You can also talk to your peers, friends, relatives about your experience, explain your identity, and give an honest answer when you are asked either in a barbershop or some Brighton Beach bazaar or your workplace about your partner or significant other. Do not let prejudices overshadow you! This is your life and your fight! This fight does not have to be global or publicly recognized, as it is up to you to direct your own life and your future. For as long as I live, I won’t get tired of shouting out loud, for Pride comes along with the ability to be true to yourself rather than cater to social expectations.
Photo cover by Julia Dragan