Vlad Tornovy was murdered in Volgograd, the town where the course of the second world war was reversed 70 years ago. The suspects lived in the same block of flats as the 22-year-old. When questioned, one of them said the young man was killed for being gay. The mere presence of gay people in Volgograd was enough, it seems, to offend someone's patriotic feelings.

I've been studying Tornnovy's social network pages for the past hour. A casually thrown-on hoodie, a studiedly serious face, his arms in a rapper's pose. Photos with girls and with mates, a T-shirt in his favourite football club's colours. He could be any boy his age from a remote English town, but his lot was to live and die in a remote town in Russia.

The investigation informed news agencies that before killing Vlad, his attackers had "stripped the victim naked and set about forcing beer bottles into his rear passage. Two bottles went in whole, but the third only halfway. By this time the victim was already unconscious. His torturers placed cardboard boxes under his body and set them on fire, after which they decided to go back to their respective homes. They realised on the way that if he regained consciousness, he would call the police. They turned back, and one of them brought a rock weighing about 20 kilos which he brought down eight times on the victim's head."

This news appeared in several online publications and each article was followed by comments such as the following: "Putin did warn us that if the homos raise their heads, the Russian people will take up arms. One head has rolled. Good for you, you're real heroes. Every Russian will want to match up to you, you've accomplished a great deed. These homos, they swagger about, they've got no shame or conscience."

These comments are followed by numerous "likes" and countless messages of support.

How did it come about that today in Russia a good gay person is a dead gay person? How did there come to be a law in the Duma that forbids justifying homosexuality? Until now, the only thing you were forbidden to justify in my country was terrorism. Well, there you have it. So as far as the deputies are concerned I am not a human being in the same sense that they are; I am to be classed as scum, like a terrorist. As far as the deputies are concerned I am scum by the fact of my birth, and it was criminal negligence not to have made a note of that in my birth certificate. What seemed like a bad dream only a couple of years ago has now become reality. And it is terrifying to imagine what could happen tomorrow.

It could happen. But it mustn't.

A former friend of mine – gay of course, and of course he kept it secret from all his family, as is common practice in Russia – said to me: "What on Earth made you come out? How stupid! Nobody was planning to shop you. The morning paper wasn't running an investigation." I didn't know what to answer. I couldn't even explain it clearly to myself – what made me stand up and tell everyone, on a TV show, in a country where they kill gay people for being what they are: "Here I am. I too am gay." Do you think I wasn't afraid? That I didn't feel ashamed? That I didn't regret ruining my career?

I'm afraid even now. I'm afraid of going into an empty entrance to a block of flats. I'm afraid of walking down a side street at night. I am afraid. And a little sorry that I probably won't be allowed to continue working. They won't let me go back to television. I'm afraid and sorry. But I've got nothing to be ashamed of now.

I used to feel ashamed. I was hosting my last (as we now know) talk show. It happened to be about the Duma's homophobic law. We live in a modern European country, yet we have a law that divides people up into types and categories and says that the basis of the declaration on human rights is a crime. On one side there were the supporters of the law, and on the other, gay men and lesbians. The supporters were like me – well-groomed, well-fed, blasé and arrogant. The gay people, on the other hand, brought to mind a row of little sparrows on a frosty Siberian electric wire. And among them was a boy who looked very much like the one who was killed. Practically single-handed he attacked the provincial gang of homophobes with the gay-pride flag. And he was trounced. He had his face smashed, and on my programme. By a miserable ghoul just like me. A writer, I believe.

I was in torment for several days. I would dream about this boy, I would see him at the adjoining table in the cafe, I would imagine that the bus waiting by my car in a traffic jam was packed with these boys. And in the end I understood that I'd had enough of being afraid. Enough of feeling ashamed. I made a decision It became quite clear to me that I had to stand by this boy, if not against the world, then at least against those overfed scumbags. Together, it wouldn't be so frightening.

The battle of Stalingrad took place 70 years ago in the town where Vlad was murdered. The battle decided the outcome of the war. Nobody believed that outcome was possible. The fascists were stronger and more experienced. But the Russian people – not Stalin, not the marshals or the generals, but the whole people – understood that the time had come for courage. The alternative was unthinkable.

The time has now come for me to be courageous. Our time has come.