There were two events that happened simultaneously that deeply changed my perspective on mass culture.

The first was the Russian government’s raid on one of the country’s largest publishing houses that printed LGBTQ-themed books, among many others. Not only were the books destroyed, but at least 10 workers were detained as part of a criminal investigation into their alleged “involvement in the activities of an extremist organization,” including “participation” in and “organizing” such activities in their official capacity. In reality, their “crime” was printing books with LGBTQ characters—something that has become semi-prohibited in Russia today.

The second event was much smaller and far more personal. That same day, I was listening to a Russian true crime podcast about Jeffrey Dahmer. What struck me was the unusually nuanced understanding—at least for Russian media—of how homophobia shaped Dahmer’s life. The podcast acknowledged how unsafe it was to be gay when Dahmer was growing up, and how his inability to form stable relationships in the 1980s contributed to his warped, tragic path. They made it clear: this wasn’t an excuse, but an explanation rooted in systemic issues. Even more surprising, another podcast episode I listened to included hosts apologizing for using outdated or offensive terms for gay people when discussing both victims and perpetrators. One host even commented on how LGBTQ victims are often treated as less important and how perpetrators targeting them often escape justice. Both podcasts were made just by two enthusiasts that work for donations but have dozens of thousands of fans. They sometimes hold conversations that would be censored on official TV—and are now impossible in traditionally published literature.

Why is this important? In a country where LGBTQ discourse is banned, and where accusations of “extremism” are increasingly used against queer people, there are no Pride events. LGBTQ-related conversations are absent from academia. Books with queer characters are censored or destroyed.

But something else exists—something less controlled: grassroots internet content. Educational or entertainment-based, these podcasts and YouTube videos can spark serious discussions, challenge state narratives, and even become a form of quiet protest. This is not what the government is targeting. They’re focused on censoring an official translation of political thriller like “Conclave” to erase the word “homosexual,” or banning a novel about a gay boy at summer camp. Meanwhile, everyday creators in small studios—who don’t even focus on LGBTQ issues—still find ways to talk about homophobia and its impact. Nobody is monitoring True Crime podcasts. Or anime forums. Or fan-fiction websites.

At the end of Pride month, many LGBT people in the West express frustration with how commercial and shallow Pride has become.

“Pride is supposed to be a protest, but here we can’t talk about anything serious. It’s just one big, overwhelming show—and it’s not always inclusive,” one of my friends told me.

That’s why these quiet discussions around LGBTQ topics may be more important than we think.

Another friend of mine, who has lived in the UK for 10 years, had no idea that the UK had anti-LGBT legislation in its recent history. He didn’t understand why queerness needed to be celebrated—he saw it as “propaganda.” Until I explained the history to him.

That’s why history programs—whether about Alan Turing or Jeffrey Dahmer—provide context that is often missing. Of course, we must be careful not to sensationalize. And we have to acknowledge that most of these podcasts and documentaries are based on Western — primarily American, often using Netflix content as a main source of information — even if they are re-told by local podcasters and authors. That makes it even more important for filmmakers and streaming platforms to understand the weight of their influence. Stories with queer characters aren’t just consumed in the U.S.—they’re retold, translated, and reinterpreted in places like Russia, Iran, or Malaysia. There, interest in WWII, true crime, or celebrity gossip might be the only culturally “safe” way to talk about LGBTQ lives. And that’s a huge responsibility—one that I doubt platforms like Netflix are fully aware of.

But it’s not just about Western media.

People looking for escapism still find meaning in anime lore or yaoi fan-fiction. I was never into anime fandoms, but as a late millennial, I understand the importance of LGBTQ representation in those spaces. Yaoi, at its core, is a genre about gay relationships.

A friend of mine, a trans woman from Donetsk, Ukraine, told me that when she was growing up, yaoi fan-fiction was her only window into non-hypermasculine sexuality. She learned a queer model of relationships from it, and later it helped her accept herself as bi and trans. Yes, Yaoi stories often fetishize gay people and perpetuate stereotypes—but what other options did she have? What else was available to young queer people trying to understand themselves in places where LGBTQ conversations are taboo?

As I prepare to attend my local Pride this week, I’m thinking about how many different ways there are to celebrate Pride—beyond just marching in the street. For some, it’s about reclaiming their identity in private. Finding representation in a podcast, an anime forum, or a book they secretly downloaded. Pride can be deeply personal. It can be a year-long process of unlearning shame and discovering self-worth—not just a month-long party. 

And that gives me hope. Because in the internet age, even the most authoritarian governments can’t fully erase us.