stories

Denis Leontovich landed a government job in Russia, despite being openly gay. Then online harassment forced him to flee the country.

Source: Holod

Twenty-three-year-old Denis Leontovich lived openly as a gay man in Russia. After discovering a passion for environmental education in college, he took a position in youth policy as a regional official in Samara, focusing on social projects. However, in the spring of 2024, he was forced to resign following a social media harassment campaign sparked by posts from State Duma Deputy Alexander Khinshtein. Now, Leontovich has fled Russia and is seeking asylum in France, where he spoke to the independent outlet Holod about what it’s like to be gay while working for a government that passes homophobic laws. Meduza shares a translation of his first-person account.

I was born and raised in Samara and went to a pretty typical school. I wouldn’t say those were the best years of my life; being a teenager is tough enough, and I realized pretty early on that I was gay.

I started suspecting it around age 11, but it took a long time to accept myself. It wasn’t easy. At home, there were constant arguments about my sexual orientation, and school was no better. Even though I didn’t say anything, most of my classmates picked up on it. Teenagers aren’t exactly known for tolerance, so I learned firsthand what bullying feels like. Thankfully, it never got physical, but the psychological pressure was constant. Some classmates ignored me like I didn’t exist, while others gave me way too much attention in all the worst ways. I was mocked all through school.

It wasn’t until college that I finally felt safe. It’s an academic environment, after all, with people who are generally more mature. That’s when I decided I wouldn’t keep hiding or living in fear, trapped in the closet. I didn’t exactly walk down the halls waving a flag, but most people, professors included, knew I was gay.

In my third year, I realized I wanted to focus on environmental education, so I founded a student organization called ALTER ECO. We started with local events and then expanded across the region.

The university administration supported me; they invited me to work in the youth policy department, where I took on environmental education at a more serious level. I loved the work. In many ways, it helped me cope with the shock I felt when the [full-scale] war began.

When Russia passed the new anti-LGBTQ+ laws, I wasn’t surprised. Come on, I’ve lived in Russia my whole life; I know how people here feel about gays. These laws were only a matter of time. When they were finally passed, I thought, Well, we’ve hit a new low. With the mobilization, the war, and all the other upheavals, I just didn’t have the energy to care anymore. I lived and worked to make a positive impact in my city, and if the government decided not to see me as a person — well, plenty of people feel that way. One more doesn’t make a difference.

‘I set a clear line for myself’

I never planned on working for the government — it just sort of happened.

In 2023, I took a training course in social project design from the Samara Region’s Agency for Youth Policy. It’s an organization that works with students, activists, and volunteers, and I was interested because I wanted to get grants for my own projects.

Not long after, I learned there was an open position at the agency, so in February 2024, I sent in my resume. The interview went well, and I was hired as a project manager in the social projects department. The agency reports directly to the regional Education Ministry. It has a range of focuses, including the infamous patriotic education, but my department worked solely on social initiatives. One of my responsibilities was advising young people and helping them put together grant applications with a strong chance of approval.

The work required a lot of compromise. There’s often this idea that if you’re independent, you’re a “good” person, but if you take government money, you’re somehow supporting the regime and the war. I completely disagree. Yes, we need to help the victims of this regime, but those victims aren’t just political prisoners, LGBTQ+ people, or women affected by domestic violence. People dealing with environmental issues or lacking access to quality education need help, too. And if I can somehow help them, regardless of where the money comes from, then I feel it’s my moral duty to do so.

As I saw it, I could channel state funds away from propaganda and into causes I believe in. But of course, it’s a moral trade-off. In environmental circles, for instance, there’s always a debate about whether it’s ethical to take funding from oil companies or the government. Everyone has their own line, but to me, if even a single penny can go to something positive or help someone, why not? People can judge me for that, but I still stand by it.

I firmly believe you can work in a government structure without endorsing its policies. It’s a job, like working in a college, a school, or a hospital. Those jobs are state-funded too, but they’re essential. If all the so-called “good Russians” leave the schools, who’s left? Only propagandists and extremists.

The projects I managed weren’t political, but it’s important to understand that we were working within a government framework and under state grants. Certain topics just wouldn’t get funded — a support program for LGBTQ+ teens, for example, wouldn’t stand a chance. Most of our grants came from [the Federal Youth Agency] Rosmolodezh. Unfortunately, the reality is that projects that conflict with state policies, even when those policies aren’t humane, just won’t get approved.

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I set a clear line for myself: I’d never participate in activities that support the war or incite hatred, nor would I stuff ballots during elections or praise the authorities on social media. If this was a deal with the devil, those were my conditions. And if those terms were ever broken, I’d walk out that same day. I was always upfront about these boundaries with my bosses, and they hired me on those terms.

I knew there were quite a few non-heterosexual people in government roles — I even knew some personally. Statistically, there’s bound to be diversity in every group. I wasn’t close with them. They all try not to advertise their sexual orientation. Some were extremely private, while others were a bit more open. Naturally, they all lived in fear — for their safety, health, careers, and reputations. They have to hide and can’t be completely themselves. Many of them are good people doing valuable, important work.

‘I knew there was no point in fighting’

On the evening of Sunday, March 31, 2024, my boss suddenly called me and asked if I’d seen the posts going around on Telegram. I hadn’t. She forwarded me a post from a channel called “Ulenshpigel.”

The post read: “The Samara region is unlucky when it comes to Greta Thunberg’s comrades! Here’s a photo of the gay wedding of Denis Leontovich — the new project manager at the Samara Region’s Agency for Youth Policy. By [the regional authorities’] logic, openly gay Denis Leontovich will probably end up organizing Family Year festivals or something like that.”

My first reaction was to laugh — it was cheap, tasteless, and disgusting. They’d dug up old photos from my Instagram, screenshots from stories I’d posted three years ago. I hadn’t used Instagram much since it was blocked and didn’t think to clean it up. These were old photos that they’d had to dig for. There was nothing scandalous, just pictures with my ex-partner. We’re holding hands, he’s kissing me — basically, the kind of stuff straight couples post all the time. I never thought I had to hide that. Why should [straight people] have the right to show their relationships, but I don’t?

I figured the post was just some rant from anonymous nutcases. The whole channel was like that, full of rants about how the local government was overrun with “Navalny supporters.” I didn’t take it seriously; people in Russia forget things quickly, they don’t usually cancel people.

But the next day, these photos started circulating in local anonymous Telegram channels and messages were being sent to teacher group chats on WhatsApp: “Look who’s working in our education system!” When regional media noticed, I still hoped it would blow over in a week. But by evening, it had caught the attention of national media. [Russian State Duma] lawmaker Alexander Khinshtein posted a message calling to “protect our children from perverts.”

Khinshtein attached a photo of me speaking to students and demanded an investigation. Then [state television propagandist] Vladimir Solovyov reposted it. That’s when I realized things were serious, and I needed to move fast to avoid falling into the hands of law enforcement.

That same day, my boss suggested I resign. I knew there was no point in fighting it — I wasn’t even in the right frame of mind to try. Time was running out, and I could be arrested at any moment, I could face criminal charges under the article on extremism. I didn’t want to tempt fate.

On top of that, some right-wing channels had doxxed me, leaking my phone number, registered address, and former residence in Samara. I didn’t want to be ambushed outside my building and killed.

That night, I got in my car with just my documents and a few hastily packed essentials and drove off. Only my closest friends knew where I was headed — even my parents didn’t hear from me until I was already at the Kazakh border. By the morning of April 2, I was in a new country.

‘I don’t want revenge’

Naturally, all of this was a shock for my parents, but they supported me. They were convinced I’d be able to return to Russia soon. Meanwhile, my inbox was flooded with threats and insults: “You’re a disgrace to our city,” “We’ll find you wherever you are”— that’s what I read every day. Most came from empty profiles with no pictures, but there were also regular people who’d seen posts about me on some news channel.

In Kazakhstan, I was in rough shape — alone, broke, with no friends and no plan for the future. For a while, my parents and friends helped me financially. I moved to Almaty and found work as an English tutor, but I earned a pittance. I also had to find housing and apply for temporary residency.

Not long after, human rights advocates from EQUAL PostOst reached out and offered their help. I began gathering documents for a French visa, which I got four months later. The team at [the LGBTQ+ rights group] Sfera helped me buy plane tickets.

I landed in Paris on August 29 and applied for political asylum right away. I’m currently living in Normandy, receiving benefits, waiting for my case to be reviewed, and hoping for a positive outcome.

When I got to France, it felt like I could finally breathe. I remember the moment I first saw two guys walking down a street in Paris holding hands. It felt surreal — they were just walking, talking, without a single worry for their safety, and no one around them even looked twice. Little moments like that made me realize I’m safe here. Nobody cares whether you’re gay or not — it’s just as normal as if you were straight.

I hear a lot of debates about whether it’s okay to out closeted gay people in high-ranking positions. On one hand, they can be terrible people, passing homophobic laws or worse. But as someone who’s been persecuted for his sexual orientation, I believe outing someone is morally wrong. If I had compromising evidence on deputy Khinshtein — personal photos of him with another man, say — I wouldn’t publish them. If I did, I’d be no better than the Khinshteins of the world. Even after everything that’s happened, I don’t want revenge. Let him live his life. I believe that whatever you put into the world eventually comes back to you.

Right now, I’m focusing on myself, trying to process what happened, and slowly getting back on my feet. I want to adapt to this new reality as quickly as possible, integrate into society, and learn the language. In the future, I hope to work in human rights, volunteer, and help refugees from Russia.

I want to return to Russia someday and plan to do so when it’s safe. When diplomatic relations are restored, when discriminatory laws are repealed, I’ll go back and continue working for my country. I don’t know when that will be. I just hope it doesn’t take a century.