It was never meant to become something big.

When I say that I created the first pro-neurodiversity self-advocacy group in Russia and Ukraine, made by autistic people for autistic people, everyone imagines something grand. But it wasn’t. We had three blogs. One of them was updated every day at first, then every two days, with original translations of blog posts, personal stories, and studies about autism and neurodiversity, as well as articles written by our autistic followers.

We held a peer support group meeting once every two weeks, provided one-to-one peer support online, and sometimes offered legal and psychological advice. We also organized workshops for solicitors, psychologists, and social workers, took part in public protests, and distributed free materials.

But all of it was just me and volunteers that were coming and leaving. We had some donations, but we never had any grants while I was living in Russia, nor any sponsors. We have never had an office. The biggest support we received came from our subscribers, most of whom were queer, and from LGBTQ groups.

And here is the important part of the story: from the very beginning, we were LGBTQ-friendly, and queer people played a key role in the existence of my Autistic Initiative for Civil Rights.

Today, on World Autism Acceptance Day, I want to tell a story about how the autistic self-advocacy community in Russia, Ukraine, the U.S, Australia and the UK worked side by side with the LGBTQ movement — and how LGBTQ autistic people changed the pro-neurodiversity movement, using my personal journey and the story of one group as an example.

When I was 17, I started to realize that I might be autistic. There wasn’t much information about autism in my home city, Donetsk, in Ukraine — most post-Soviet psychiatrists believed that autism was a form of childhood schizophrenia, and my parents believed that my autistic behavior was the devil’s work. It wouldn’t be surprising to say they thought the same about my queerness.

So I started digging online, and from the very beginning, the work of three amazing queer autistic authors stood out to me.

Jim Sinclair, a pioneer of the modern pro-neurodiversity movement and the leader of one of the first autistic self-advocacy groups Autistic Network International, is an openly intersex person.

Ly Xīnzhèn Zhǎngsūn Brown is a queer, nonbinary transgender activist who developed an educational program about autism for police in the U.S. Like me, they grew up among intensely conservative and religious people and were interested in the Middle East and politics.

And finally, Julia Bascom, a lesbian woman, wrote the essay “Quiet Hands” about stimming, which deeply resonated with teenage me after my parents’ constant attempts to make my body language more “normal.”

These were people whose writing saved me from suicidal thoughts created by toxic ideas promoted in the Russian- and Ukrainian-language internet at the time — the idea that autistic people are a burden and would never be accepted as they are.

These amazing American queer autistics also made me question my own queerphobic thoughts. At the time, I was an extremely religious Christian, with severe OCD around prayer and a constant fear of going to hell. For the first time, I read statistics showing that autistic people are more likely to be queer. Actually, now we know that they are up to six times more likely to be trans and nearly three times more likely to be LGB. 

As a young person who had decided to make autism acceptance the work of my life, I began to think that maybe it wasn’t so frightening to be openly queer. After all, if I believed that God never made mistakes and that I was destined to be autistic, then perhaps some people were destined to be queer as well.

When Donetsk was occupied by pro-Russian forces in 2014, and my family moved to Russia (political consistency had never been their strong point), I moved in with my autistic best friend in St. Petersburg, who later became my wife.

And so, away from my abusive parents, my work in autism advocacy began. But it was autistic activists who helped me to realise that I’m queer and accept it.

LGBTQ activists were our first real supporters. My first public speech about autistic acceptance was at a Rainbow Tea meeting, a space for LGBTQ teenagers. Our autistic peer support group took place in LGBT community center, such as the Coming Out group in St. Petersburg (now recognized as an extremist organization), and the Deystvie community center.

The Alliance of Heterosexuals and LGBT for Equality was our main partner in organising autistic public actions and protests, contacting Russian liberal media, and, finally, I became one of the leaders of the first Russian LGBTQ-disability group, Queer Peace. It worked side by side with my autistic informational projects, organizing workshops and masterclasses for solicitors, psychologists, and LGBTQ group leaders to bring inclusion into LGBTQ services.

Meanwhile, autism initiatives led by non-autistic people and supporters of social Darwinism were often strongly homophobic or considered work with the LGBTQ community — or support for LGBTQ autistic people — to be “unbeneficial.”

Of course, even within Russian LGBTQ organizations, it wasn’t all inclusive. Many high-ranking LGBTQ leaders in Russia are still ableist, at least on an everyday level. But when LGBTQ community in the West began moving towards disability inclusion, post-Soviet countries followed that trend. 

More importantly, my LGBTQ-autistic projects were supported by other autistic queer people, including folks from Indigenous nations under Russian control, people from villages, and those from unsupportive families.

Autistic queer people in Ukraine soon started their own — often stronger — work in promoting neurodiversity and LGBTQ rights, both within LGBTQ communities and in wider society. In part, this was because they knew Ukrainian much better than I did. Although I understand Ukrainian and can use it, it has never been my mother tongue. 

Also, a Russian vlogger and autism support group leader, Jarry, a trans autistic person, began creating the first accessible video materials about autism, sharing many stories from the perspective of autistic AFAB people.

More and more autistic people in post-Soviet countries began to argue that autism is wrongly framed as a disorder, even if it can be a disability due to the misunderstanding and discrimination autistic people face — and queer people were ahead of this shift.

Finally, Bascom, the same American autistic lesbian who inspired me as a teenager and later the executive director of the Autistic Self-Advocacy Network, began mentoring our translation projects, including brochures and free books from English into Russian. The Autistic Women and Nonbinary Network, one of the most trans-inclusive and intersectional groups in the U.S., also showed us full support.

In Australia, Beinannon Lee, an autistic lesbian raising children with her wife, helped us share parenting advice for post-Soviet autistic parents and parents of autistic children. As part of the Autistic Family Collective, she opened new perspectives on homeschooling for neurodivergent families worldwide, while also showing that same-sex couples can be deeply supportive and respectful parents.

When I was stuck in Israel for four months while trying to obtain an American visa, the first organisation that supported my autistic initiative was an LGBTQ group in Tel Aviv that also supported Palestinian refugees and refugees from African countries. In the UK, Lesbian Asylum Support Sheffield was the first LGBTQ group I connected with — and the first to ask me to help with inclusion. Autistic UK, an autistic-led organization, was the first autistic group I worked with here and showed strong queer inclusivity.

And if you go to Trans Day of Remembrance events or trans protests in Sheffield, you will see just how many autistic activists are there.

In my 11 years of LGBTQ and autism activism, I have seen how much autistic and LGBTQ people have done for each other — and how those who are both queer and autistic continue to fight for their rights. It is something stronger than borders, stronger than any one country’s direction. Now, when politicians around the world are arguing against the rights of trans people to be themselves, attacking LGBTQ rights, and trying to dehumanize autistic people and take away our agency, we need to remember this — and stay together.