Following nearly half a year in U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement detention, Allan Marrero has been released and is back home with his husband in New York.

Marrero spent 150 days in ICE custody, held in multiple detention centers across the U.S. after missing an immigration court hearing while in a rehabilitation program for alcohol addiction — a circumstance widely considered “good cause” for failing to appear.

The Washington Blade first reported on Marrero’s case in March after the Cayman Islands native was detained by ICE officers during what was supposed to be a routine marriage-based green card interview at 26 Federal Plaza in New York City.

Marrero had been married to his husband, Matthew Marrero, for two years at the time of the interview. But almost immediately, the experience turned hostile.

The Rev. Amanda Hambrick Ashcraft, a minister at Middle Church in Manhattan who accompanied the couple to provide spiritual support, later described the process as “dehumanizing” and “barbaric.”

During the interview, it became clear the couple was facing an uphill battle. At one point, when asked how they met, Matthew Marrero instinctively looked over at his husband and was “snapped at” and told not to look at him. As the interview continued, the outlook only grew more grim.

Unaware that he had a prior removal order tied to the missed court date while he was in rehab, Allan Marrero was detained on the spot.

Over the following months, Allan Marrero was transferred through multiple detention facilities, including centers in Arizona and Texas, the Everglades Detention Facility — also known as “Alligator Alcatraz,” which has been described as having “unsanitary inadequate conditions” — and ultimately a detention center in Mississippi.

While in custody, Allan Marrero was denied access to prescription medication and, according to advocates, was psychologically pressured by ICE agents to self-deport rather than remain detained while his legal case proceeded.

Although a judge later reopened his case and granted bond after Allan Marrero provided proof that he had been in rehab — a valid medical reason for missing his court date — ICE used procedural mechanisms to keep him detained. A separate judge later issued a ruling denying relief, leaving Allan Marrero in custody.

On the outside, Matthew Marrero said his life felt as though it had been put on pause so ICE could meet enforcement quotas.

“[It feels like] somebody came in and kidnapped someone close to you and took away all of your control and power,” Matthew Marrero told the Blade on March 7. “You shouldn’t be able to have this much control over somebody’s life, especially if they are trying to do the right thing … You’re not going after criminals, you’re not going after the worst of the worst. You’re trying to fill a quota.”

Alexandra Rizio, Allan Marrero’s attorney with Make the Road New York, a progressive grassroots immigrant-led organization, told the Blade that “there seems to be an underlying element of cruelty baked into not only this administration, but everything.”

“It didn’t have to go down that way,” Rizio continued. “If someone goes in for a green card interview and their marriage interview, and they learn that they have a removal order, what the USCIS officer could have done is say, ‘Look, you have a removal order in your name. You need to go hire an attorney right away to get this taken care of. I can’t adjudicate your green card…’ And if you hire a lawyer, you know, you might be able to get it straightened out. Of course, that’s not what happened. And so ICE, which was in the building, were called and they did arrest Allan.”

The Marreros are scheduled to hold a press conference on Tuesday at Middle Church, where Allan Marrero will speak publicly for the first time about his detention.

For additional information on the press conference please visit middlechurch.org. 

There is something deeply unsettling about a society that turns a child’s future into a public referendum. In Eswatini, there were reports that students were expelled from school over alleged same-sex relationships, and that parents were invited to vote on whether those children should remain, forcing us to confront a difficult question on when did education stop being a right and become a favor granted by collective approval? Because this is a non-neutral vote.

A vote reflects power, prejudice and personal beliefs, which are often linked to tradition, culture, politics and religion. It is shaped by fear, by stigma, by long-standing narratives about morality and belonging. To ask parents, many of whom may already hold hostile views about LGBTIQ+ people, to decide the fate of children is not consultation. It is deferring the responsibility and repercussion. It is placing the lives of young people in the hands of those most likely to deny them protection.

And where is the law in all of this?

The Kingdom of Eswatini is not operating in a vacuum. It has a constitution that guarantees the promotion and protection of fundamental rights, including equality before the law, equal protection of the laws, and the right to dignity. The constitution further goes on to protect the rights of the child, including that a child shall not be subjected to abuse, torture or other cruel, inhuman and degrading treatment or punishment.  

The Children’s Protection and Welfare Act of 2012 extends the constitution and international human rights instruments, standards and protocols on the protection, welfare, care and maintenance of children in Eswatini. The Children’s Protection and Welfare Act of 2012 promotes nondiscrimination of any child in Eswatini and says that every child must have psychosocial and mental well-being and be protected from any form of harm. The acts of this very instance place the six students prone to harm and violence. The expulsion goes against one of the mandates of this act, which stipulates that access to education is fundamental to development, therefore, taking students out of school and denying them education contradicts the law.  

Eswatini is a signatory to the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child and the African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child. These are not just commitments made to make our governments look good and appeasing. They are obligations. The Convention on the Rights of the Child is clear regarding all actions concerning children. The best interests of the child MUST be a primary consideration and NOT secondary one. According to the CRC, as indicated in the Declaration of the Rights of the Child, “the child, by reason of his physical and mental immaturity, needs special safeguards and care, including appropriate legal protection, before as well as after birth.” It is not something to be weighed against public discomfort and popularity.

The African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child reinforces this, grounding rights in non-discrimination (Article 3), privacy (Article 10) and protection from all forms of torture (Article 16). Access to education (Article 11) within these frameworks is not conditional but is a foundational right. It is not something that can be taken away because a child is perceived as falling outside social norms and threatening the moral fabric of society. It is a foundational right and determines one’s ability to participate in civic actions with dignity.

So again, where is the law when children are being expelled?

It is tempting to say the law is silent but that would be too generous. The law is not silent rather, it is being ignored and bypassed in favor of systems of decision-making that make those in power comfortable. When schools and their leadership defer to parental votes rather than legal standards, they are not acting neutrally. Expelling a child from school because of allegations is not a decision to be taken lightly. It disrupts education and limits future opportunities and for children already navigating identity and social pressure, this kind of exclusion can have profound psychological effects. It isolates them. It marks them for potential harm. Imagine being a child whose future is discussed in a room where people debate your worth. That is exposure. That is harm. There is a tendency to justify these actions in the language of culture, tradition, religion and protecting social cohesion. But culture is not static and the practice of Ubuntu values is not an excuse to violate rights. If anything, the principle of Ubuntu demands the opposite of what is happening here.

Ubuntu is not about conformity. It is about recognition and is the understanding that our humanity is bound up in one another. That we are diminished when others are excluded. That care, dignity, respect and compassion are not optional extras but central to how we exist together. Where, then, is Ubuntu in a school where some children are deemed unworthy of access to education?

Why are those entrusted with protecting children are failing to do so?

There is a very loud contradiction at play. On one hand, there is a claim to shared values and to the importance of community. On the other hand, there is a willingness to isolate and exclude those who do not fit within the narrow definition of what is acceptable. You cannot have both. A community that thrives on exclusion is neither cohesive nor safe.

It is worth asking why these decisions are being made in this way. Why not follow the established legal processes? Why not ensure that any disciplinary action within schools aligns with national and international obligations? Why introduce a vote at all? The answer is uncomfortable and lies in legitimacy and accountability. A vote creates the appearance of a collective agreement. But again, I reiterate, it distributes responsibility across many hands, making it hard to hold anyone accountable. It allows the school leadership to say “lesi sincumo sebantfu”(“This is what the community decided, not me”) rather than confronting their own role in human rights violations. If the law is clear and rights, responsibilities and obligations are established, then the question is not what the community feels. The question is why those entrusted with protecting children are failing to do so.

There is also a deeper issue here about whose rights are seen as negotiable. When we talk about children, we often speak of care, of understanding, of protection and safeguarding them because they are the future. But that language becomes selective when it intersects with sexuality, particularly when it involves LGBTIQ+ identities. Suddenly, care, understanding, protection, and safeguarding give way to punishment.

Easy decisions are not always just ones.

If the kingdom is serious about its commitments under its constitution, the Convention on the Rights of the Child and the African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child, then those commitments must be visible in practice, not just in policy documents. Rather, they must guide decision-making in schools and in communities. That means recognizing that a child’s right to education cannot be overridden by a show of hands. It means ensuring that schools remain spaces of inclusion rather than sites of moral policing. It means holding leaders and institutions accountable when they fail to protect those in their care.

Bradley Fortuin is a consultant at the Southern Africa Litigation Center and a human rights activist.

Uncloseted Media published this article on May 2.

By HOPE PISONI | Natalia Soloviova always knew she was putting herself at risk. As the chair of the Russian LGBT Network, the largest queer advocacy group in the country, she had spent years preparing detailed security protocols for what she would do if the government came after her.

But it was still a nasty shock when she had to use them. In November 2023, almost two weeks before Russia’s supreme court would designate the “international LGBT movement” as an extremist organization, Soloviova’s heart sank when she watched Channel One, a state-funded TV network, air a report about her organization. They flashed her and her colleagues’ names on screen while accusing the organization of “extremist” activities, including spreading propaganda to minors and trying to destroy “traditional family values.”

“It was so disturbing, and it made me physically sick,” Soloviova told Uncloseted Media.

She knew she had to get out. The following days blurred together as she checked off the steps in her security protocol: she called her lawyers, told her mom and wife she was leaving, and boarded a plane to another country. Over the next few years, she would move between several countries before settling in New York City.

It all happened so fast that she didn’t process her emotions until a month later, when she was scrolling Instagram and saw a video of her hometown, Novosibirsk.

“I start just crying … because my previous life was lost,” she says. “I started to feel anger for the government, for the situation itself, because it was absolutely horrific and absolutely unfair.”

While U.S. intelligence agencies under the Trump administration have indicated an interest in targeting trans people, Russia’s extremism designation has allowed for a whole other level of persecution. Because the designation targets the entire LGBTQ movement, the court’s ruling allows the government to impose broad crackdowns on the community.

As of June 2025, Human Rights Watch had identified 101 people convicted on LGBTQ extremism charges, with punishments ranging from fines to 12-year prison sentences. Since late last year, the government has also taken eight Russian LGBTQ advocacy organizations to court, aiming to label them as extremist groups.

These cases are ongoing — Soloviova’s organization was just declared as extremist on April 27.

“I woke up at home with my wife, and the first thing I saw were messages from our lawyers,” Soloviova says about the news. “Honestly, I was furious. But as usual, there was no time to be angry. My first thought was my colleagues still in Russia. I spent the entire morning in bed, messaging back and forth about emergency evacuations, security measures and our next steps.”

People have been jailed for posting photos of pride flags in an 11-person Telegram chat and for wearing rainbow-colored earrings. In response, LGBTQ advocates have gone underground, finding new ways to support a terrified community. Despite everything, Soloviova says that “most organizations” have continued to do their work.

“They can ban us on paper, but they cannot erase us,” Soloviova says. “We will not abandon our values, because human life, safety and dignity matter more than any repressive labels.”

How did Russia get here?

The Russian government began targeting the LGBTQ community in 2013, when they passed a law banning the spread of “propaganda” of “non-traditional sexual orientation” to minors. The next year, Russia’s military occupied Crimea, leading to condemnation from the U.S. and other world powers.

Sasha Kazantseva, queer sex educator and author of “The Conservative Web: Russia’s Worldwide War on LGBTQ+ Rights,” says that in order to combat the backlash, Russian President Vladimir Putin leaned into “traditional values ideology” to build support among more conservative countries.

“[Putin says] ‘Western ideology is about making your kids trans and gay, and we can save your kids and your traditional families,’” Kazantseva told Uncloseted Media. “LGBTQ people are very important for this traditional values conservative ideology as an image of some internal enemy.”

After invading Ukraine in 2022, Putin’s government escalated their attacks on Russia’s LGBTQ community. They expanded their anti-propaganda law to include adults, and in 2023 they banned trans people of all ages from medically transitioning or changing their legal gender. On Nov. 30, 2023, they issued the extremism ruling.

“[In] 2022, they see again that people are not happy with the war, and they start to play the same game as 10 years ago,” Kazantseva says. “Nobody cared [about trans people], and out of nowhere, Putin starts to mention trans people in every speech.”

Since then, things have escalated. Last November, the Justice Ministry began a court case to declare Irida, a small LGBTQ advocacy group, as an extremist organization. Eight advocacy groups, including ComingOut and the Russian LGBT Network, both of which provide services including psychological support and legal consultation to LGBTQ Russians, have had similar cases against them.

Crackdowns under the extremism ruling

Maks Olenichev, a European Union-based lawyer who supports Russian LGBTQ defendants in court, says there are two types of charges for violating extremism laws.

First, displaying the symbols of an extremist group — often the rainbow pride flag in this case — is considered an administrative offense. Of the 101 individuals HRW identified, 81 were convicted for displaying symbols. First-time offenders face fines or short jail sentences, while repeat offenders can receive up to four years in prison.

Second, participation in the international LGBT movement is a criminal offense punishable by up to 12 years in prison. HRW identified at least 20 people facing these charges.

Participation in the movement can seemingly include any public activities related to the LGBTQ community. Authorities arrested several employees at Eksmo, Russia’s largest publishing house, for extremism because some of their books contained LGBTQ themes. And last year, a Moscow court posthumously found Andrey Kotov, the leader of a Russian gay travel agency, guilty of extremism after he died in a pretrial detention center.

“If [Kotov] had asked me whether he could do it, I would say, ‘Yes you could do it, it’s legal.’ And then he goes to jail and dies there,” says Ksenia, who works outside of Russia as legal assistance program coordinator for ComingOut. “I have 20 years’ experience in law. What can we expect from people who are not experienced lawyers?”

Olenichev agrees: “There’s no 100 percent foolproof way to not being charged with anything.”

Alise Sever learned this the hard way in 2024, when her Halloween weekend celebrations were interrupted by masked police officers banging down the doors. Sever was partying at Black Clover, an LGBTQ-friendly club she had opened just over a year earlier in Kirov, Russia.

At 2 a.m., militarized special forces burst in to raid the club and immediately hauled Sever off to the precinct while they pinned several patrons against the wall, arrested them and confiscated what came out to be roughly 1 million rubles, or $10,000, worth of music equipment, alcohol, and other club property a price so steep that the business would need to shut down.

“I knew that something [like this] could happen,” Sever, 28, told Uncloseted Media. “But I was sad. I was grieving a loss of money, a loss of the time and work that I have put into this.”

Sever and five other people who were arrested that night — including the club’s co-founder and multiple queer artists — were charged with extremism. As part of the court proceedings, Russian police revealed that they had been monitoring Sever and her girlfriend for almost a year and had amassed thousands of pages of documents containing information about her and her business as well as transcripts of intercepted messages and phone calls.

“They apply these laws very randomly, and they do it not to show that this person is the most brutal criminal you can imagine, they do it to show that anyone can be targeted by this law,” Kazantseva says. “So you live in permanent tension, in permanent self-censorship. And that’s how they control people.”

Kazantseva, who has published zines, blogs, and books about LGBTQ issues, has also experienced this firsthand. Despite having fled the country for Lithuania in 2023 due to crackdowns on anti-war advocacy, Russia’s financial monitoring system added her to their list of “terrorists and extremists” last October. This bans her from accessing Russian bank accounts, essentially locking her out of any financial activities in the country. The federal government has also placed her on their “wanted” list, and a court has ordered “arrest in absentia” of Kazantseva, meaning that she will be detained if she enters Russia or one of its allied countries.

Russian authorities have also threatened charges to pressure LGBTQ people into enlisting to fight in the war. In 2024, the government issued a new policy allowing defendants to be exempted from criminal liability if they join the army.

Ksenia, who requested that Uncloseted Media omit her surname for fear of not being allowed to return to the country, says she knew a boy who was part of a group chat for LGBTQ teenagers. When federal authorities discovered the chat, they threatened him with criminal convictions, and after significant pressure, he abandoned his plans to go to university and signed up to fight in Ukraine shortly after his 18th birthday.

“I know I should feel outrage at how defenseless he is facing the state machine,” Ksenia says. “But at this point, [I’m] just numb.”

These legal crackdowns have caused many LGBTQ people to withdraw from public life. In a 2025 study of 1,683 queer women by Olenichev and other Russian scholars, more than half of the respondents said extremism laws had made them afraid to contact law enforcement, 36.5 percent had gone back into the closet, and many have “severely restricted their circle of friends.”

Sometimes, taking these precautions isn’t enough. Sever’s club, which hosted drag performances, only allowed people who had not publicly come out as queer online to perform, and had to issue rules that performers could not touch or interact with the audience or mention the terms “LGBTQ” or “Ukraine.” They also had to remove wall paintings of humanoid cats wearing shibari rope and lingerie after getting fined by police in early 2024 under the propaganda law. None of that, though, was enough to save them from being raided.

How are advocates responding?

Zhenya, a Russian trans emigrant to Canada who asked to use a pseudonym because they still visit their home country, got hands-on experience with the new normal for queer activism when they signed up to volunteer for ComingOut.

Ksenia says the organization now relies almost entirely on workers outside of Russia like Zhenya. In order to start volunteering for the group, Zhenya had to go through a round of interviews designed to weed out infiltrators. And once they joined, they learned that all their coworkers’ identities would be hidden.

“Partially why they do interviews is because it’s known sometimes that police agents will try to insert themselves in the group to get names,” Zhenya told Uncloseted Media. “They never ask you for your passport info, they don’t ask you for your real name.”

Ksenia says ComingOut now has its security measures down to a science and “almost nothing” needed to change when they were declared an extremist organization. Because of that, they now offer security consultation to other organizations.

Another initiative that has needed to adapt to this new reality is Centre T, a trans and nonbinary support organization that will likely be declared an extremist group at a trial set for May 4. Sasha, the group’s media coordinator, says volunteers must use a VPN and communicate through encrypted messaging apps. Initially, this would often be Telegram, but with the Russian legislature weighing a ban on the app, they’re considering moving to other platforms like Matrix.

Even with these precautions, Centre T had to cut some programs: They no longer host online chats or dating programs, and they’ve mostly had to stop sharing personal stories in order to protect people’s identities. Still, their most crucial programs, which include assisting trans people in leaving the country and connecting them to medical specialists that aid them with transition under the table, are still operating.

Fleeing the country

Like with ComingOut, most of Centre T’s workers and volunteers have left Russia. Olenichev says this is generally the safest option. In many extremism cases, he says lawyers focus less on actually winning and more on fighting for lighter sentences and using stall tactics, like requesting extra documentation, to buy time for defendants to flee.

“It’s impossible to win those cases since [they] usually are political and not legal,” Olenichev says.

Sever is a success story for this strategy. After her arrest, she spent two months alone in a jail cell, isolated from her friends and family as they were scared that sending her letters would lead the government to target them. After she was released, she spent 11 months on house arrest, trapped at home with her “very religious” mother who tried to convince her to accept the charges and abandon her pansexuality.

“There were moments when my friends were visiting me while I was on house arrest, and they were later on [interrogated], so that led for them to stop. … It took a toll on me.”

As Olenichev and other advocates fought to prolong her case, she concocted a scheme to flee the country despite being under house arrest. When she came down with a disease, she was allowed to call an ambulance to the hospital, where her friends were waiting to help smuggle her over the border.

“I ended up in a safe place where I’m awaiting a visa to go to Europe, now,” says Sever, who did not reveal her location due to concerns about violence from local anti-LGBTQ groups.

Centre T is currently operating a temporary shelter in Armenia for trans people leaving Russia, providing food, housing and psychological and medical support. While they say they’ve recently lost U.S. grants and the ability to fundraise in Russia, the shelter remains open because of crowdfunding through Patreon and Buy Me a Coffee.

“We are funded by our community,” Sasha says. “It’s been really amazing, honestly … because it’s very difficult to find funding for direct service projects like a shelter.”

How do queer people continue to live in Russia?

Zhenya visited St. Petersburg for the first time since the extremism designation in the summer of 2024. Surprisingly, they still managed to find communities of queer people.

“I don’t think there’s anything official, it’s all where gay people just go, and you just know,” they say. “I went to one [such] place and that went just fine. I know a couple trans people who still live in St. Petersburg, and there’s still events and things happening, but it’s just way more lowkey.”

Zhenya says it’s easier to do this in bigger cities where they say people are relatively accepting and less likely to report LGBTQ people to the police.

Sasha believes that the community’s future lies in whisper networks like those Zhenya describes.

“It’s time for some decentralized, horizontal activities and initiatives,” she says. “Because it’s more safe right now to make a group only for friends, for people that you know.”

Sasha says it’s critical that queer Russians take precautions and strongly recommends ensuring no LGBTQ content is saved on your phone in case it gets hacked or confiscated.

In such dangerous conditions, Natalia Soloviova says every step is important. Seemingly simple actions, like opening up about your queer identity to trusted loved ones, covertly spreading information among other queer people, or simply allowing yourself to rest and recover are necessary to make it through.

“You’re keeping community alive,” she says. “If you’re supporting your friends, even with drinking mimosas on a Sunday after a really hard week, it’s keeping community safe, it’s spreading the words of community. Better to do something than not to do something.”

For herself, life goes on in New York. While she still misses Novosibirsk, she says she will continue to fight from abroad and is grateful that there are still so many queer Russians fighting to live safely.

“This urge of people who want to improve the life of our community can be unstoppable.”