Day of Remembrance for Victims of Repression: How LGBT+ People Came to Be Among Them

October 30, 2025, marks the Day of Remembrance for Victims of Political Repression in Russia—a date established in 1991 to commemorate the 1974 hunger strike by prisoners in the Mordovian and Perm camps. Across the country, people gather at memorials, such as the Solovetsky Stone in Moscow, to lay flowers and light candles. But this year, as in previous years, attention to the victims remains selective: official events focus on “enemies of the people” and dissidents, while the stories of those persecuted for their sexual orientation or gender identity remain on the periphery. These narratives are not historical curiosities, but evidence of systemic violence, the echoes of which can be traced in the evolution of repressive practices.

Historical Context: From Decriminalization to “Enemies of the People”

Political repression in the Soviet Union reached its peak in the 1930s under Stalin’s leadership, when millions of people were declared “enemies of the people” and sent to the Gulag. According to historians’ estimates, between 1929 and 1953, approximately 3.7 million people were convicted of “counterrevolutionary activities,” sabotage, or suspected disloyalty. The repressions were sweeping: they affected the intelligentsia, peasants, military personnel, and security service officers. In this maelstrom of violence, sexual minorities found themselves in a particularly vulnerable position.

In the 1920s, the Soviet government decriminalized homosexuality: the article on “sodomy” from the tsarist Criminal Code was removed from the 1926 RSFSR Criminal Code, reflecting early revolutionary ideals of freedom and equality. It was a rare moment of relative tolerance—in cities like Leningrad and Moscow, there were semi-legal “salons” where men gathered for socializing, cultural evenings, and intimate relationships. However, by the end of the 1920s, the ideology of “building socialism” had hardened: homosexuality began to be viewed as a “bourgeois relic” and a threat to the population, as well as a potential channel for “espionage” by the West.

The turning point came in 1934, when Article 154-a was introduced into the Criminal Code of the RSFSR, which criminalized “sodomy”—punishable by three to five years of imprisonment, with the sentence increased to eight years for “coercion” or violence.

Transgender people, who in the 1920s were able to legally change their identification documents and receive medical care, were also targeted: surgeries were halted, and any expression of gender identity became grounds for arrest under general charges of “hooliganism” or “anti-Soviet agitation.” Repression intensified during the "Great Terror": homosexuality was associated with "moral decay" and conspiracies.

Facts: Thousands of Lives Erased from the Archives

Repression against the LGBT+ community was systematic but often hushed up. According to researchers’ estimates, between 1934 and 1993 (when the article was repealed), between 25,000 and 100,000 people were convicted—the exact figures are unknown, as many cases were classified as “political” or “criminal.” In the Gulag, homosexuals were considered “socially hostile elements,” treated worse than political prisoners under Article 58: they were isolated, forced to eat from separate bowls, and subjected to additional humiliations.

"The Leningrad Homosexual Case"

One of the most notable incidents was the “Leningrad Homosexual Case” of 1933. That summer, the OGPU arrested 175 people, including military personnel, doctors, police officers, and government officials. The arrests began following anonymous tips about “dens of vice”—salons in communal apartments where up to 30 people would gather. Leaders such as Ivan Grebov and Ivan Khabarovsky were each sentenced to 5–10 years in labor camps. Among those convicted was OGPU officer Nikolai, whose letter to his lover has been preserved in the archives:

“You mean everything to me—except my wife. There’s no going back to the past, because that would be too disrespectful to you. And we’ll live our lives, I hope, just as close as we are in this photo. May—33. Nikolai.”

This letter is a rare artifact, since archives related to gay culture were destroyed after 1934.

In the camps, LGBT+ people faced double violence: from the state and from their cellmates. Singer Vadim Kozin, convicted in 1945 under Articles 154-a and 58, kept a coded diary, describing “homosexuals in the theater” as a code for his friends. Poet Anna Barkova, an openly lesbian woman, served several prison terms (1930–1966) on political charges, but her sexual orientation exacerbated her isolation. As historian Dan Healy notes:

"Homosexuals were treated even worse than those convicted under Article 58—they were considered 'socially hostile' in the eyes of the system."

Analysis: The State's Silence, the Voices of Survivors

Today, Remembrance Day is a battleground of interpretations. The state’s official position is neutral regarding LGBT issues: events at memorials avoid any mention of sexual orientation, focusing instead on the “victims of Stalinism as a whole.” Activists and researchers insist on inclusivity in remembrance. Historian Sergey Katsuba (University College Dublin) emphasizes:

"Repression against queer people is part of the same machine that destroyed dissidents."

Historian Igor Kochetkov, founder of the Russian LGBT Network, adds:

“The government views us as ideological enemies, but we are part of this country. The memory of the repressions serves as a reminder that discrimination is not eternal.”

These voices stand in contrast to the official line: while the government remains silent, researchers see this as a cycle in which past traumas fuel present ones.

Remembering LGBT+ victims of repression means not just honoring the dead, but understanding the mechanisms of systemic violence. The stories of survivors, such as Anna Barkova, inspire historical optimism: in a world without homophobia, dignity is respected. In 2025, as repressive practices evolve, such remembrance becomes an act of scholarly and human resistance. It serves as a reminder: by ignoring the invisible, we risk repeating past mistakes. And in the quiet solemnity of this day, amid candles and flowers, there is a place for everyone—even those whose names have been erased, but whose lives still teach us about humanity.