Dispatch from Belgrade Nearly three years after fleeing wartime Russia, Serbia’s Russian émigrés tentatively put down roots
Nearly three years after Russia began its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the hundreds of thousands of Russians who subsequently fled their country have begun to put down roots abroad. In Serbia, where an estimated 200,000 Russian nationals have arrived since 2022, some 30,000 have registered for temporary residence, mainly settling in Belgrade or the country’s second-largest city, Novi Sad. Whether fleeing Russia’s wartime crackdown, economic fallout, or conscription, these expatriates have largely found Serbia welcoming. However, more outspoken anti-war activists have found themselves at odds with the Serbian authorities, if not in their crosshairs. Though President Aleksandar Vučić has condemned Russia’s war against Ukraine, Serbia hasn’t joined Western sanctions or cut ties with the Kremlin. And pro-Russia sentiment remains common among locals, who are still coming to terms with how these newcomers are subverting their expectations. In a sweeping dispatch from Belgrade, journalist Serge Faldin reports for The Beet.
This story first appeared in The Beet, a monthly email dispatch from Meduza covering Central and Eastern Europe, the Caucasus, and Central Asia. Sign up here to get the next issue delivered directly to your inbox.
“All these buildings were built when the USSR was still around,” my taxi driver, Sasha, says as we drive through Belgrade’s Novi Beograd neighborhood at night.
The wide highway connecting Nikola Tesla Airport to the city center is reminiscent of Moscow’s Leningradsky Prospekt, complete with the Belgrade Stadium standing like a homage to Dynamo Stadium. The gray, brutalist buildings in Novi Beograd could have easily been plucked from any mid-sized Russian city.
Sasha speaks Russian fluently, having learned it in school before the breakup of Yugoslavia. “Know this?” he asks, touching the faded black and orange ribbon hanging from his rearview mirror. “[It’s] a Georgian ribbon. A gift from a friend ten years ago.”
Following Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014, the Saint George ribbon went from a military decoration to a symbol of Kremlin propaganda. As we drive further into the city, I ask Sasha what he thinks about the tens of thousands of Russians who have moved to Serbia since Russia began its full-scale invasion of Ukraine. “More people, more money, which is good. More people taking taxis. Fifteen hundred businesses were opened, mostly offices and cafes. I read about it in newspapers,” the taxi driver replies.
Then, he clasps his hands together and says, “Russia and Serbia. Forever.”
This notion of historical and cultural unity between Russia and Serbia would emerge as a common refrain during my time in Belgrade. Whenever I questioned people about it, from Russians to local Serbs, many repeated the same clichés: “Orthodox brothers. Fought together during both [world] wars. Always, historically very close.”
The truth is much more complicated.
Editor’s note: Some of the names in this story have been changed.
Hearts and minds
In the early days of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, a graffiti war unfolded on Belgrade’s streets, with murals of Putin (alongside the words FCK NATO) and Serbian war criminal Ratko Mladić repeatedly vandalized and restored, reflecting the polarized attitudes in Serbia. Nearly three years later, local kiosks still sell T-shirts, coffee mugs, and socks with Putin’s face and the Russian military’s “Z” symbol.
On Belgrade’s main square, a large billboard features the Russian tricolor fading into the red-white-and-blue Serbian flag with the inscription заједно (“together,” in Serbian) just above the logo of Russia’s Gazprom.
According to Aleksandar Djokic, a political scientist from Belgrade, the current myth of brotherhood between the two nations is a “retroactive construction” politicians drummed up after the NATO bombings of Yugoslavia in 1999. “Serbs and Russia have never been as close as they say on the news,” he says.
That said, the alliance between Serbia’s Aleksandar Vučić and Russia’s Vladimir Putin has become increasingly apparent in recent years, reinforced through cultural and historical symbolism, such as Belgrade’s monument to Tsar Nicholas II. A gift from Moscow marking the centenary of World War I, the statue is inscribed with a quote from Nicholas II: “Russia will never remain indifferent to Serbia’s fate.”
“In the entire twentieth century, there were very short periods in which Yugoslavia and the USSR were on one side,” says Radina Vučetić, a history professor at the University of Belgrade. “But people don’t believe that because Russian propaganda is all over Serbian media. If you watch the news long enough, it’s easy to get the impression that we are almost one of Russia’s gubernias.”
Asked why she thinks it’s important for Serbia — a country with E.U. candidate status — to push this narrative of unity with Russia, Vučetić replies without skipping a beat that for Serbia’s president, the connection is emotional. “Vučić’s kids went to Russian schools, his father was pro-Russian, and he is personally, on a deep level, pro-Russian. And by controlling the media, he can change public opinion,” she explains.
“In the past 10 years or so, the focus of Russian policy towards Serbia has been winning over local hearts and minds,” says Vuk Vuksanović, a senior researcher at the Belgrade Centre for Security Policy. Propaganda outlets such as RT and Sputnik allow Russia to push its narratives to the masses in Serbia.
“A lot of Russians [who come to Serbia] very soon realize that most Serbs don’t have very deep knowledge about Russian society or the daily workings of the Russian state,” Vuksanović adds. “They have their image of Russia, which is based on the notion that Russia is the one saying no to the West.”
‘Nobody loves Russians the way Serbs do’
Nikita left Moscow with his wife and their dog following Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine, when it became clear that his non-profit — an organization that connected mentors and volunteers to create videos about social issues — could no longer continue its work.
“We tried to bring down barriers between people — [including] gender [and] sexual barriers — and social videos helped with that. But if you dig to the root of a problem, it becomes clear that it’s the state that’s causing many of them. And talking about problems inside the state isn’t allowed,” Nikita explains.
After a year in Istanbul, the couple decided to move to a European country that would still allow them to work with Russian clients. Serbia, which has no visa requirements for Russian passport holders for the first month, seemed the perfect place. “Life as it was before is gone,” says Nikita. “I’m only just beginning to shape what life will be like going forward.”
To extend their stays in Serbia, many Russians either make monthly “visa runs” to nearby Bosnia and Herzegovina or obtain temporary residence by registering a company, Nikita explains. He chose the latter, launching an events business aimed at bringing together a community of Russian entrepreneurs. Nikita came up with the idea after attending a networking event during his first week in Serbia, where his compatriots talked of nothing but “bad customer service” and how much they missed Moscow. He has since organized more than 30 events. “We want to create the largest community of Russian expats who make the world a better place,” he boasts.
Russian nationals registered around 9,000 new businesses in Serbia in 2022–2023. Dmitry and Ksyusha, who moved here from the Siberian city of Tyumen a year ago, having long planned to leave Russia, now run Hookah Place Belgrade. (The couple listed their skills in an Excel spreadsheet to narrow down potential business ideas.)
“Our mission,” says Ksyusha, “is to teach Serbs how to smoke quality hookah.”
“We are improving the service industry. No one else besides the Russians is doing this,” adds Dmitry.
The couple employs Serbians and Russians who speak the local language, and both Dmitry and Ksyusha have made Serbian friends. “There are many Russians here who don’t want to integrate into the community or learn the language. They think it’s temporary. I don’t. I like it here. I want to stay,” Dmitry says. “I think nobody loves Russians the way Serbs do. Even Russians don’t love Russians the way Serbs do,” he laughs.
Nikita, on the other hand, confesses to living in a “bubble,” preferring to hang out with other expats and eat at Russian-owned restaurants with “normal service.” (As we’re talking, the couple at the next table orders cappuccinos and then lights up. Nikita looks at me and winks knowingly. “This,” he says, pointing to their cigarettes, “doesn’t happen in Russian-owned restaurants.”)
Slava, a Russia-born documentary filmmaker who recently released a short film about Belgrade amid the war in Ukraine, says the arrival of anti-war Russians has led to a contradiction. “On one side, you have Orthodox Serbs who view Russia as their brotherly Orthodox nation, supporting Putin and being anti-American. On the other side, liberal-minded Russians are arriving here who are against Putin,” he explains.
“The Serbs were a bit surprised when we arrived,” laughs Nikita. “They were expecting vatniks in ushankas with balalaikas, but instead, hipsters with smoothies showed up.”
‘I’m much more than Yandex’
Daniel and Vika embody the typical Serbian stereotype of Russian expats: an “overpaid IT professional” and his wife. When the full-scale invasion started, the couple initially wanted to move to the U.K. After being denied talent visas, they explored other options, including Turkey, Bali, Georgia, and Montenegro. They chose Serbia by process of elimination, due to its business-friendly policies and cultural similarities.
“Before coming to Serbia, I didn’t even know there was such a country,” jokes Vika.
The couple launched an IT production agency earlier this year, working with Russian clients on Telegram bots and web design. However, Daniel still holds a full-time job as a software engineer.
The influx of Russian tech professionals has boosted Serbia’s IT sector since 2022. Tech giant Yandex was among the first Russian companies to relocate employees en masse following Moscow’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, opening two offices in Belgrade that now employ more than 1,000 people (disparagingly referred to as “Yandexoids” among other Russians living in Serbia).
Several other major tech companies with significant Russian ties followed suit, also seeking to circumvent Western sanctions. Luxoft, a Switzerland-based software company with largely Russian staff, set up a development hub in Belgrade in 2022. The game designer Wargaming opened a studio in Belgrade, too, after pulling out of Russia and Belarus.
These companies have shifted hundreds of jobs to Serbia, but some of the employees they relocated from Russia have since struck out on their own. “They came here, realized something big was going on, left Yandex, and started their own ventures,” says Daniel.
One former “Yandexoid,” Ilya, now owns the minimalist Vera Cafe in central Belgrade. The 29-year-old left Yandex in early 2023 after working as a product manager in the company’s Yandex Taxi division, which bought out Uber Russia in 2021. He doesn’t like to be associated with his former employer. “It’s not that I want to erase that part of my identity; it’s just that I don’t want to be defined by it,” Ilya explains, almost yelling over the roar of the espresso machine. “I’m much more than just Yandex.”
Ilya’s business strategy is to cater to both Russian and Serbian clientele, unlike many other Russian entrepreneurs who primarily focus on serving customers from their homeland. “There’s still a risk that Russians who are here now can leave at any moment,” he says.
“I took intensive courses because I need to speak Serbian for my business,” Ilya continues, recalling his experience at another Russian-owned cafe in Belgrade where he attempted to speak Serbian with the waiter, who replied in Russian or English. “I mean, it’s not that hard to learn how to say hello, is it?”
A parallel society
When Russians began flocking to Belgrade in late February 2022, Serbia was already struggling with rising inflation. “They arrived suddenly and sought thousands of large, well-furnished apartments in central locations,” recalls Vladimir Zeremsky, a landlord in Belgrade. By March 2023, year-on-year inflation had hit 16 percent, while the cost of renting an apartment had increased by 24 percent.
According to Vladimir, some of his Russian tenants brought with them “bad habits,” as in the case of those who kept asking, “Who do I need to pay to get this [or that] permit?” Vladimir immediately told them, “Nobody,” fearing they would “dig a hole of corruption” for others who came after them.
The fact that the Russian émigrés typically keep to themselves came as a surprise to many, as well. “We thought that every Russian, when he hears that you are Serbian, will start hugging you and kissing you. But they just stay away,” says Vuksanović.
This feeling that most Russian newcomers are living in a “parallel society” provokes a kind of historical déjà vu. In 1920, after the White Army’s defeat at the hands of the Bolsheviks in the Russian Civil War, hundreds of thousands of Russian refugees dispersed across Europe. More than 50,000 came to Yugoslavia (then the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes), including General Pyotr Wrangel, who had ordered the evacuation of around 150,000 soldiers and civilians from Crimea.
Faced with the devastation of World War I and a shortage of skilled workers, King Alexander I Karađorđević welcomed the anti-Bolshevik refugees with open arms, offering them jobs and a chance to rebuild their lives. While some more prominent (or wealthy) émigrés, like the writer Ivan Bunin, used Belgrade as a temporary stop on their way to Paris or Berlin, others, like the well-known architect Nikolay Krasnov, settled here permanently and made valuable contributions to the city.
Ivan’s grandfather, a 26-year-old White Army captain, got on the last ship departing from Sevastopol with his bride, a nurse. After arriving in Yugoslavia in 1921, he settled in Kosovska Mitrovica, where he found work in a lead-zinc mine and finally married his fiancée. Shortly after, Ivan’s father was born. Meanwhile, in Belgrade, the White Russian émigrés, as they became known, built their own Orthodox Church (where General Wrangel was later buried) and the Russian House (a cultural center that’s now partially funded by the Russian Federation’s Culture Ministry).
“The Russian community was self-isolated in a cultural sense even back then,” says Djokic. “What connects [Russian émigrés in Serbia now and then] is the desire to return to Russia when it becomes what they want [it to be]. For the White émigrés, it was the fall of the Communists. For modern-day Russians, it’s a sense of democracy. That’s why [the Russians] didn’t and don’t integrate into society, because they believe they are here temporarily.”
Ivan says his grandfather “missed Russia all his life and hoped to go back.” And his own father, who eventually settled in Belgrade, made sure the family remained connected to their Russian roots. “We visited the Russian Orthodox Church in Belgrade every Sunday and went to see concerts and plays at the Russian House with other descendants of the White [émigré] families,” he recalls.
Ivan resists drawing parallels between his grandparents and the new wave of Russian émigrés and he has little sympathy for those fleeing Putin’s regime. “This is a very different type of emigration,” he says. “Except for [speaking] the same language, the people coming [here] now have nothing in common with my grandfather.”
While the White Russian émigrés couldn’t return home for fear of reprisals, Ivan argues, the Russians in Belgrade today don’t seem like “real refugees” because they have access to bank accounts, cushy jobs, and money to open restaurants. “They are not running away from anything,” he says.
According to Djokic, some Russians indeed chose to flee abroad, fearing the collapse of their comfortable middle-class existence. “They left not just because they disagreed with the direction Russia was taking, but because they feared losing the lives they had built,” he explains.
‘Who are they?’
Vučetić, the history professor, doesn’t feel that the Russians opening cafes and restaurants today are changing Belgrade’s culture in any significant way, unlike the Russian refugees of the 1920s. “For a change to happen, we need to know their stance. And that’s still unclear to me,” she says.
“Sure, there’s [an] internationalism that the young Russians bring to Serbia,” Vučetić continues. “But the biggest question for us, Serbs, is who are they?”
According to Daniel and Vika, however, locals have shown little interest in their political views. “Cab drivers in London interrogated us more than the ones here,” says Vika.
“Many Serbs support Putin, [so] I try to avoid this topic right away,” says Dmitry coldly. “I have a business, and politics is nonsense. I had a friend [in Russia] who was imprisoned, and his business was taken over. But as far as I understand, this can happen in any country — just more often in some than others.”
When I ask if he feels comfortable enough to speak openly about Putin and Russia in Serbia, Nikita shakes his head. “I have no interest in fighting the regime,” he says. “I simply escaped from it.” Then he adds, “Serbia isn’t the safest country either, and if you actively engage in political activities, you’ll immediately run into problems. It would be good to make a difference, but frankly, I’m too tired and scared.”
Politically active Russians — and Belarusians — have indeed run into problems here. In July 2023, Pyotr Nikitin, a co-founder of the Serbia-based volunteer group Russian Democratic Society (RDO), spent more than 24 hours in airport detention after being denied entry into the country despite holding permanent residence for more than seven years.
Nikitin, who organized anti-war protests in Belgrade, suspects that Moscow influenced the decision, specifically through Aleksandar Vulin, the then-head of Serbia’s intelligence agency. (Known for being closely aligned with the Kremlin, the U.S. imposed sanctions on Vulin in 2023. He now serves as Serbia’s deputy prime minister.) “To this day, despite holding Dutch citizenship, I feel tense every time I cross the border with Serbia,” Nikitin says.
According to Nikitin, the RDO has faced difficulties ever since, including problems opening a bank account and maintaining its status as a legal entity. As a result, the group has transitioned to more informal methods of organizing, particularly around human rights causes like collecting donations for victims of political persecution — like Belarusian filmmaker Andrey Gnyot.
A vocal critic of the Lukashenko regime, Gnyot was arrested at a Serbian airport in October 2023 after the Belarusian Interpol bureau issued a warrant for his arrest on “tax evasion” charges. After spending seven months in remand prison, Gnyot was transferred to house arrest while appealing his extradition.
Being a foreign national in Serbia “makes you vulnerable,” Gnyot says. “It’s a game of Russian roulette,” he explains. “There are no safety mechanisms, no legal protections for foreigners. Here, they can arrest you, and you end up in complete isolation, helpless.”
The Belgrade Higher Court freed Gnyot from house arrest after the one-year legal deadline for detention expired on October 31. He left Serbia for another European country that same day. In a similar case that month, Serbia’s Interior Ministry reversed an earlier decision to deport Russian anti-war activist Anton Bobryshev.
Vuksanović thinks that while cases like these are a symptom of Serbia’s democratic backsliding, it’s also indicative of another shift. “If the strategy of the past 10 years was to win local hearts and minds, then the new Russian policy priority towards Serbia will be controlling those liberal Russian expats in places like Belgrade,” he says.
For 23-year-old Maxim, however, Serbia has been a safe haven. Following Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Maxim fled to Georgia, where he launched a drag show project called Sync Sync. Despite its initial success, the project faced hostility from Georgian nationalists, including a violent attack during a show. Maxim urgently evacuated to Belgrade, where he now resides with his partner Vlad.
“I feel much safer here, not just because I’m queer, but because I’m not afraid of being attacked at night — it’s even safer than in Yekaterinburg or Georgia, in terms of societal and police behavior,” Maxim says. “I attended Belgrade Pride. The fact that it exists speaks of a certain level of democracy.”
‘There’s no doubt it’s a diaspora’
In December 2023, thousands of people took to the streets of Belgrade to protest the results of parliamentary and local elections, accusing Vučić’s ruling party of voter fraud. According to Slava, the filmmaker, and Anna Gorelik, a volunteer at RDO, many Russians in Serbia joined the movement, rallying to support democratic causes and oppose Russia’s war in Ukraine.
“While so many [Russian] opposition bloggers focus on countries like Turkey and Kazakhstan, many don’t realize how many of us are in Serbia. We are here. We go out to protests. There’s a lot of us. And we feel unheard,” says Slava.
Before our interview, Anna held a meeting for volunteers organizing an event dedicated to victims of Stalinist repressions. “Why have I been involved with this project about the memory of repressions for two years now? Because it has never been fully reflected upon in Russia,” she explains. “This entire unresolved piece [of history] is stuck in our throats and hinders public self-awareness.”
Anna believes a sense of solidarity has “only just begun to emerge” among Russians abroad. “The longer the war [with Ukraine] drags on, the stronger this sense of unity will become,” she says, explaining that support for political prisoners and hatred towards the Putin regime binds the Russian émigré community together.
As Russia’s full-scale war against Ukraine approaches its third anniversary, some Russian émigrés are still grappling with the realities of settling abroad permanently. As of 2023, more than 30,000 Russian nationals had received temporary residence in Serbia. However, cases of rejected applications and expulsions have made others think twice about calling the country their new home.
Anna thinks “there’s no doubt” that Russia’s wartime expatriates now form a diaspora. Ilya, the Yandex employee turned cafe owner, disagrees. “There’s an idea of mutual support in true diasporas like the Jewish or Armenian ones. But I don’t see that happening with Russians here,” he says.
Nikita believes that if he manages to put down roots in Serbia — or anywhere else, for that matter — he’ll have no reason to return to Russia. In three years, he’ll be eligible to apply for permanent residence and, after that, citizenship. “But I really don’t want to give up my Russian [passport],” he says.
For Daniel and Vika, however, the prospect of returning home is a “very difficult question.” “We would really like to go back. But it’s hard to absorb this trauma,” Daniel explains. “Even if Putin dies tomorrow and everything magically ends, it would still be essentially another emigration. And I’m not sure we’re ready for that yet.”
As I take the taxi back to the Nikola Tesla Airport on my last day in Belgrade, I ask the driver, who has the radio tuned to RT, how he thinks Russia’s war against Ukraine will end. He eyes me suspiciously in the rearview mirror, then says in broken Russian, “It’s obvious. The victory of our brothers — the Russians.”
Hello, I’m Eilish Hart, the editor of The Beet. Thanks for taking the time to read our work! Our newsletter delivers underreported stories like this one to subscribers once a month. Like all of Meduza’s reporting, it’s free to read but relies on support from readers like you. Please consider donating to our crowdfunding campaign.
Sign up for The Beet
Underreported stories. Fresh perspectives. From Budapest to Bishkek.
Story by Serge Faldin for The Beet
Edited by Eilish Hart