Hope Beyond Borders: The Connections We Build Through Persistence

My family history is closely intertwined with war, repression, and forced migration. My great-grandfather, an Ingrian Finn, was persecuted and executed during the Soviet era. My father left Palestine. For a long time, these felt like stories that belonged to previous generations. Then, almost five years ago, I had to leave Russia myself.

Perhaps that is why questions of safety, human rights, and displacement have never felt abstract to me.

Over the years, I have learned that emigration is not the end of the story. Even after leaving Russia, I continue to face the consequences of my human rights work. I know many activists, journalists, and human rights defenders who live with similar experiences. People may cross borders, but pressure and persecution do not always remain within them.

But over time, I found myself thinking not only about repression.

Over the past few years, I have had the opportunity to meet activists and human rights defenders from across Eastern Europe, the Caucasus, and Central Asia. Despite the differences in our political contexts, I keep noticing familiar patterns of pressure, similar narratives, and similar attempts to restrict people’s rights and freedoms.

Every country experiences these challenges in its own way. I do not believe anyone should speak on behalf of others or offer universal solutions. But I have become increasingly convinced that we need to learn from one another.

If authoritarian practices can spread across borders, then solidarity and the exchange of experiences should not remain confined by borders either.

When people talk about Russia and other countries where pressure on LGBT people and civil society is growing, there is often an assumption that everything has already been destroyed. That activism has stopped. That people have fallen silent. That there is no hope left.

But that is not what I see.

I see people who continue supporting one another. They provide legal and psychological assistance, create educational projects, and strengthen communities. This work has become less visible, but it has not disappeared.

Recently, I travelled to London to meet with the Kaleidoscope Trust team and its partners. What mattered most to me was not the meeting itself.

It was the feeling that we are not alone.

The feeling that there are people and organizations willing not only to listen to our experiences, but to take them seriously. That people from our region are invited not simply to tell their stories, but to participate in conversations as equals.

For me, the role of Commissioner is not only about the opportunity to speak about my own experience. I do not believe that anyone can represent an entire region or speak on behalf of such diverse communities. But I do believe that we can create more spaces where people from different countries can speak for themselves, share their experiences, and be heard.

I hope to use this opportunity to draw more attention to the people and organizations across Eastern Europe, the Caucasus, and Central Asia whose work often goes unnoticed behind major political headlines. Not to speak for them, but to help ensure that their voices are heard more often.

If my family history and my own experience have taught me anything, it is this: attempts to isolate people are as old as repression and war themselves. Yet there are always people who continue building connections, supporting one another, and reaching across borders, languages, and circumstances.

That is why spaces where people can meet, learn from one another, support one another, and remember that they are not alone matter so much to me today.

That is the feeling I brought back with me from London. And it is that feeling that I hope to contribute to through my role as a Commissioner.