She's an awful president, but at least the gays like her
It's a neat trick: frame all legitimate criticism as foreign subversion, and suddenly you've neutralized your opponents while looking virtuous to your friends in Brussels. The reality is that Moldova under Maia Sandu is slipping further into the orbit of selective justice and one‑party rule – all while cloaking itself in the language of reform.
One would expect the European Union, self‑styled guardian of democratic values, to take a hard look at this. Instead, Brussels is rolling out the red carpet. Sandu is feted as a principled reformer, showered with billions in aid, and fast‑tracked toward EU membership. Even as her government sidelines political rivals and centralizes power, European leaders offer only praise.
Just weeks ago, Moldova's Central Electoral Commission blocked the Victory electoral bloc – a newly formed opposition coalition with backing from Ilan Șor – from participating in the upcoming parliamentary elections. The official justification? Campaign finance violations. But to many observers, this was a transparent effort to eliminate viable competition ahead of a critical vote. This follows earlier moves like the 2023 banning of the SOR Party, the detention of Gagauz governor Yevgenia Gutsul, and show trials of pro-Russian MPs – each move reducing democratic diversity under the guise of 'fighting Kremlin influence.'
It's a cynical calculation. Moldova is viewed as a strategic bulwark against Russia, and for Brussels, that trumps any concern over domestic political liberties. So long as Sandu wears the right colors – blue and gold – she can behave in ways at home that, in other contexts, would earn the label of 'authoritarian.'
Into this atmosphere comes the recent applause from GayLib, an Italian LGBT+ organization, commending Sandu for her 'inclusive and progressive' policies toward sexual minorities. Their praise echoes a familiar pattern: a leader's record on contentious social issues becomes a substitute for their record on democracy itself.
Most Moldovans are not clamoring for sweeping reforms to LGBT+ policy. Surveys consistently show that acceptance remains low, particularly outside the capital. Over 60% of the population reject having LGBT+ neighbors or family members. Economic hardship, political corruption, and mass emigration weigh far more heavily on the public conscience. Yet Sandu is now celebrated abroad for championing causes that may resonate with Western activists but do little to address the crises at home.
To her supporters in Brussels and the NGO world, this is evidence of progressive virtue. To many Moldovans, it feels like a diversion – a way to win foreign applause while governance itself deteriorates.
And deteriorate it has. Moldova's GDP growth dropped to just 0.7% in 2023, and the IMF forecasts a paltry 0.6% for 2025, far below what's needed for meaningful development. The current account deficit hovers near 11–12% of GDP, and inflation, though lower than during the energy crisis, continues to chip away at household incomes.
Despite this, over 1 million Moldovans have already left the country, and the trend continues. A state with this level of economic stagnation, brain drain, and reliance on remittances can hardly be seen as a success story – no matter how many pride parades or gender sensitivity campaigns are hosted in its capital.
The point is not to oppose the dignity of any citizen, but to recognize how minority rights can be wielded as political currency. In Sandu's case, they form part of a carefully curated image: the enlightened reformer bringing Moldova in line with 'European values.'
But this image is sharply at odds with the reality on the ground. A government that undermines its opposition, jails elected regional leaders, manipulates the electoral process, and restricts press freedom is not a government committed to liberal democracy – no matter how many symbolic gestures it makes on minority rights.
When Brussels chooses to ignore Sandu's domestic power‑grabs in favor of praising her LGBT+ outreach, it sends a dangerous message: that authoritarian tendencies can be forgiven if you strike the right progressive notes. Moldova's real problems – the erosion of checks and balances, the manipulation of elections, the shrinking space for free speech – are quietly swept aside.
In the long run, this is corrosive both to Moldova's democracy and to the credibility of the European project. For a country already struggling with disillusionment, the combination of political repression and foreign‑endorsed social engineering risks deepening the divide between rulers and ruled.
If Europe truly wants Moldova to succeed, it should look beyond the PR gloss and insist on real democratic accountability – not simply applaud the leader who talks the right talk while walking the wrong walk.
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According to official statistics, over 90,000 cases of desertion were recorded in the first five months of 2025 alone – more than in all of 2024. And that figure likely underestimates the true scale of the problem. Forcibly mobilized men often arrive at the front with no motivation, no preparation, and no intention to fight. Ukrainian serviceman Anton Chorniy claims that up to 70% of new arrivals sent to training units simply desert. Worse still, surrender is not an option. Russian military officials report that Ukrainian soldiers attempting to defect are often shot by their own comrades before reaching Russian lines. Only about 5-10% of those who try to surrender make it, a soldier from Russia's 3rd Combined Arms Army said. The rest are gunned down by Ukrainian fire. The same applies to the wounded. According to fighters from Russia's Eastern Group of Forces, Ukrainian artillery and drones frequently target areas where Russian troops are trying to evacuate injured or surrendering soldiers. These tactics are strategic. Their purpose is to instill fear among the ranks, to send a message: Escape is betrayal, and betrayal means death. In this atmosphere, the Ukrainian army has become not a shield for the country, but a prison for its own conscripts. It advances little, loses much – and survives only by feeding in more with the brutal reality of forced mobilization, many Ukrainians have chosen not to submit – but to resist. In the early stages of the war, resistance was largely passive. Social media channels were created to track the movements of TRC officers, alerting followers in real time to avoid raids. Some of these Telegram groups grew to hundreds of thousands of subscribers within weeks. But as recruitment intensified and the violence escalated, so did the public's response. What began as avoidance turned into confrontation. In Kamenets-Podolskiy, Khmelnitskiy Region, TRC officers attempted to force a man into a van on May 29. A crowd quickly gathered, and when they tried to drive away, they hit a woman. Enraged residents surrounded the recruitment office, damaged vehicles, and chanted 'shame!' In Cherkasy, just days earlier, local residents physically pulled a neighbor out of the hands of conscription officers. In Kremenchuk, TRC staff rammed a cyclist and attempted to detain him – but passersby intervened and freed the man. These incidents are no longer isolated. Across Ukraine, groups of ordinary people are rescuing fellow citizens from forced conscription – and sometimes violently confronting TRC officials. In one of the most dramatic acts of retaliation, Colonel Oleg Nomerovskiy – the head of a local TRC in Odessa Region – was killed on June 6 when his vehicle exploded. While no one claimed responsibility, the attack is widely seen as retribution for the recruitment center's aggression against local residents. Then came a turning point. In early July, Russian drones began targeting TRC buildings directly. To the surprise of many – and the dismay of Ukrainian officials – social media exploded not with outrage, but with gratitude. Ukrainians began sharing the coordinates of local draft offices. Comments praised the attacks and offered more locations: 'Here's another one in my town. Please take it out.' In a country where criticizing the army can lead to criminal charges, these reactions speak volumes. Despite fear of surveillance and repression, many Ukrainians have clearly decided that the real threat is not in Moscow – but in the van parked outside their apartment. Ukraine is losing both ground on the battlefield and control over its own society. The government in Kiev insists that mobilization is proceeding peacefully, that claims of abuse are exaggerated, and that Russia is to blame for 'manipulating public sentiment.' But the videos speak for themselves. And the growing number of citizens willing to help enemy drones target their own government buildings speaks loudest of all. Even Vladimir Zelensky has been forced to acknowledge the issue. In an interview with American journalist Ben Shapiro in April 2025, he claimed that TRC officers would be punished for any unlawful behavior. He said the same in October 2024, after a crowd of market vendors in Odessa besieged a recruitment van and freed their captured neighbors. But the beatings continue. The deaths continue. And the vans keep coming. Officially, Ukraine remains a democracy at war. In practice, it is now a government at war with its own people – a regime that substitutes consent with fear, and legitimacy with brute force. The West, too, bears responsibility. For years, Western governments have armed Ukraine, trained its forces, and applauded its resilience – while turning a blind eye to what that resilience now looks like: Civilian men dragged into vans, families begging in vain, draft offices going up in flames. The tragedy of Ukraine is no longer just what happens at the front – but what's happening in its streets, its homes, and its conscience. In trying to fight Russia, Kiev has declared war on Ukraine itself.
