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‘The world doesn’t want to deal with us anymore’ Hundreds of thousands of Russians left their country after the full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Why have many started going back?

Source: Meduza

In the wake of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, hundreds of thousands of Russians left the country. Some were fleeing the Kremlin’s repressions or escaping the draft, while others left in protest or in hopes of finding more comfortable, stable lives elsewhere. But life in emigration can be challenging, and many of these people have come home over the last three years. Meduza asked several Russians who left after the war but have since returned to explain why they made these decisions and how Russia changed while they were gone.

Igor

33 years old, left Kazan in September 2022, returned in the summer of 2024

We started preparing to leave on February 24, 2022 [the first day of the full-scale invasion of Ukraine]. That morning was one of the worst of my life. I run my own business, and it’s quite hard to move it abroad. My wife’s profession is more in-demand: she’s a scientist. In two or three days, she put together a solid CV and sent it to Germany, Austria, and Israel. Four days later, she got a response from Israel. They had several interviews and agreed that her internship at a university there would start in April 2023. But after Putin’s speech on September 21, 2022 [and the announcement of Russia’s “partial” mobilization], we realized it was time to go.

My wife arranged with the university to start her position sooner than planned. Her academic supervisor helped us open a bank account and guided us every step of the way. Before we left, we had some time to brush up on our English, and with about 20 percent of Israel’s population speaking Russian, the language barrier wasn’t an issue. But there was this sense that we were walking through a swamp, where we might sink at any moment. We encountered problems where we wouldn’t have in Russia.

One typical story: once, during a heatwave, our air conditioner broke down. We contacted our landlady and asked her to send a repairman (A/C service was part of the contract). We waited a week, then wrote to her again, and she replied, “Oh, sorry, I forgot.” I mean, you have tenants, and they’re suffering in the heat — how can you forget that?

Little by little, we started to understand that these were different kinds of people: Things that would have seemed to be signs of an unreliable, careless person in Russia were the norm here. Unfortunately, we had many stories like this. You have no financial issues, no language issues, all the documents to prove your right to live in Israel, but you can’t solve simple everyday problems because people don’t keep their word. [It’s] the same thing in banks and in the service industry — turns out, Israel has very poor customer service.

The fact that war broke out [between Israel and Hamas] didn’t really surprise us. We knew we were moving to a country that was a powder keg. Up until October 7, 2023, there had been ongoing low-intensity fighting — shootings, shelling, terrorist attacks. That had always been the case.

What shocked us was that Israeli intelligence hadn’t prevented [Hamas from invading]. My wife and I are quite politically active: When we lived in Russia, we kept up with everything happening there, and now we followed what was going on in Israel, too. We knew that billions of shekels had been spent on the wall that the terrorists eventually breached. We were shocked that a country with such sophisticated security measures still allowed armed people to enter and take civilians hostage.

Why Russians join the war

‘Happy people don’t go to the front lines’ Meduza’s Russian readers share stories of relatives and friends who volunteered to fight in Ukraine — and their motives for enlisting

Why Russians join the war

‘Happy people don’t go to the front lines’ Meduza’s Russian readers share stories of relatives and friends who volunteered to fight in Ukraine — and their motives for enlisting

The house we lived in was quite old, so we didn’t have a mamad [bomb shelter]. My wife’s situation was a bit luckier than mine: if an airstrike happened while she was at the university, she could take cover in a well-equipped shelter. As for me, I would just sit near the fridge and listen to the Iron Dome. It was terrifying.

My wife and I are huge patriots of Russia. We first met after the 2021 rallies in support of Navalny. My wife has been politically active since 2015, and I’ve been involved since around 2010. When Alexey announced a campaign against United Russia in the 2011 State Duma elections on his LiveJournal, I went door-to-door handing out flyers.

We love Russia deeply, and we love the people there. For us to stay somewhere outside Russia, things would have to be much better in the areas of life that matter most to us. This turned out not to be the case in Israel. Yes, there is democracy, but despite the war, despite security failures, the far-right coalition’s ratings aren’t falling. There’s democracy, but it doesn’t really matter: the national debt is rising, the budget deficit is growing, the interest rate is going up, mortgage debt is increasing. In the end, we realized that we didn’t see any political prospects for ourselves. We didn’t feel any major qualitative improvements.

My wife and I are fairly rational people and tend to plan ahead as much as possible. Not long before the presidential elections in March 2024, we made a political forecast: If something unpleasant was going to happen in Russia, it would likely happen right after the elections. Before the elections, it’s unusual for them to scare people, but once the votes are in, they can announce mobilization, martial law, and border closures. We decided that if nothing like that happened by mid-June 2024, we’d buy tickets and return to Russia in early August. That’s exactly what happened.

One year ago

‘Everyone around me is a zombie’ Meduza’s Russian readers on how two years of full-scale war has changed them

One year ago

‘Everyone around me is a zombie’ Meduza’s Russian readers on how two years of full-scale war has changed them

I found Kazan in a much better state than I expected. In Israel, I caught myself thinking I couldn’t get an accurate picture of Russia from independent media. I understand how news works, I get that there are important negative stories, but when I check Twitter or news sites every day, I can’t find any good news. I can’t find articles, for example, saying that in Kazan, people aren’t blindly supporting the war and aren’t proud of it.

I expected to see a lot of pro-war stuff in Kazan: recruitment points on every corner, posters about how great our army is, and calls to join faster. But I haven’t seen any of that. In the seven months I’ve been in Russia, I haven’t encountered a single active supporter of the war — someone who’s donating money, sending aid, not just talking about supporting it.

On Saturdays, I attend a community group. I go to events once a week and meet a huge number of decent people, people it’s nice to look in the face. It’s the same feeling I had at protests in the 2010s. Back then, one of the reasons I went out to demonstrations was just to look decent people in the eyes.

I can’t say that everything here is amazing. Certainly, I feel the pressure from Western countries and from my own conscience. On the one hand, I understand that I have the right to live my life, and the fact that I live in Russia doesn’t make me a criminal or psychopath. But at the same time, I can’t ignore the news about Ukraine. I know that for the past three years, what’s been happening is something that should never have happened. And I know that the people responsible for [the war] hold Russian passports.

Alexey

28 years old, left Moscow in March 2022, returned in January 2024

I remember the intense fear I felt on the first day of the war: I was afraid I’d be sent to the front, and I didn’t know what to do. I went to the bank to withdraw foreign currency, but the ATM only had a hundred-dollar bill left. The money was gone in an instant, which felt very symbolic and sad. In early March, rumors started circulating that the borders would be closed, so I decided to go to Turkey and wait it out for a while. I work remotely, so there were no issues with my job: “We understand, go ahead,” they told me. I didn’t cancel the contract for the Moscow apartment I was renting, just in case.

Visa and Mastercard stopped working very quickly, and I needed to get a Turkish card. But in mid-March, Turkish banks received an order to stop issuing cards to Russians [without residence permits]. People who came to the bank the day before me managed to open an account, but I couldn’t. I remember thinking, “Man, everything is happening so fast.” In late summer 2022, I briefly returned to Moscow, then planned to fly to Bali. I felt like a winner: By then, I had Turkish residency, and I had found a new [remote] job with a salary in dollars. I even thought, what if everything settles down and I can continue living in Moscow?

A small New Year’s gift

A glimpse of home Many of Meduza’s readers are in exile. We asked those in Russia to grant their holiday wishes by sending photos of the places they miss.

A small New Year’s gift

A glimpse of home Many of Meduza’s readers are in exile. We asked those in Russia to grant their holiday wishes by sending photos of the places they miss.

Then, out of nowhere, came the mobilization. I saw my name on the list — my full name, passport details, address. I was terrified; I don’t think I’ve ever been so shaken in my life. That same day, I flew to Kyrgyzstan — for 150,000 rubles [roughly $2,500 at the time]. The whole plane was full of people like me. From Kyrgyzstan, I went to Georgia, spent a couple of months there, then flew to Bali for the winter, and later returned to Tbilisi.

I knew I didn’t want to spend my whole life in Tbilisi. I considered going to Europe, but I was denied even tourist visas: Estonia, Spain, and Italy all refused me. Finding work [in Europe] also didn’t pan out: high taxes everywhere, and I’d have to take a job with a significant downgrade both in salary and responsibilities. After a year of living in Tbilisi, I decided to return to Moscow. I came back cautiously, thinking I’d keep my finger on the pulse and be ready to leave again if necessary.

During my time in emigration, I noticed a shift in my [political] views: I became less liberal. It’s not that I’m a big war supporter with the Z symbol everywhere — I remained a liberal, but I moved a bit closer to the center.

This change was partly due to the situation with Israel and Palestine. To me, this conflict is similar [to Russia’s war in Ukraine]. According to the International Criminal Court, Netanyahu is a criminal. There are confirmed crimes against humanity, yet the Israeli passport is still one of the strongest in the world, and no one is calling for absurdities like banning Visa and Mastercard in Israel. I play chess on Chess.com, and they removed the Russian flag from my account. I can’t even access the site from Russia. This really frustrates me — it’s just illogical.

I’ve had to deal with cancel culture, even though I left [Russia] when the war started. I’m not a [refugee] living off government benefits — yet I can’t get a visa to Europe.

With the lack of logic around the Palestinian conflict, the cancel culture against Russians, and what I’ve learned about America’s wars in Iraq, I realized that Russia has been hit way too hard, and I don’t like it. This cancel culture would make it tough for me to live in Europe. Maybe it’s just the way one’s psyche adjusts: When you’re not liked abroad, you start to think that maybe Russia isn’t so bad after all. It’s nice to live in a place where you’re not demeaned.

Why some support the war

‘The only thing worse than war is losing one’ Even some of Meduza’s readers support the invasion of Ukraine. We asked them to explain why.

Why some support the war

‘The only thing worse than war is losing one’ Even some of Meduza’s readers support the invasion of Ukraine. We asked them to explain why.

At first, I felt uneasy in Moscow, especially because of the surveillance cameras [with facial recognition]. I was even afraid to take the subway — I was afraid I’d get caught in a roundup [for the draft]. There’s noticeable censorship in the media: Comedians are much more selective about what they say, and public figures have also hidden their opinions. But over time, I stopped noticing it.

What comforts me is that there are signs the conflict may be coming to an end. I check [the betting platform] Polymarket and monitor the probability of a ceasefire between Russia and Ukraine. [According to the bookmakers], there’s a 45 percent chance that the war will end before spring — that’s higher than we’ve ever had.

Since returning to Moscow, my relationships with some [of my friends in emigration] have suffered. They’re much more liberal and upset with the Russian regime. We sometimes argue: They send me news saying that things in Russia are awful, and I send them hopeful news about a deal with Ukraine happening soon.

I understand them. I felt some satisfaction myself when I learned, while in emigration, that Prigozhin was driving around in a tank in Russia. I needed to justify the discomfort I endured while staying in Georgia.

Yury

30 years old, left in March 2022, now returns to Moscow every few months

Russian society, unfortunately, reacted to the news of the war with striking unanimity. On social media, in the streets, in line while shopping, there was a lot of triumphalist resentment: “Finally, we’ll show NATO and the Ukrainians.” This was especially common among the older generation. Living and working in a country at war seemed impossible to me — plus, there were already rumors about mobilization.

By February 25–26, 2022, after the initial shock had worn off, I bought a ticket to Yerevan. I decided I wasn’t going to stay in Russia when everything was so uncertain. I wasn’t afraid of the borders closing — Russia has a 7,000-kilometer [4,350-mile] border with Kazakhstan; worst case scenario, I could just hop on a bike and ride. What I was afraid of was conscription, political purges, martial law — something that could stop me from making it to the border in time. So, by early March, I was already in Yerevan.

Once you’ve secured your own safety, the next question is: What now? And that’s when you remember where your money comes from. At the time, I was working for a Russian state-owned company. I realized that my employer would soon be tasked with maintaining stability, dealing with the war’s social and economic fallout. That wasn’t something I wanted to be a part of. And, at the same time, it became clear that my company no longer needed me either. Eventually, I found a new job — still at a Russian company, but one that wasn’t connected to the state and mostly operated abroad.

Three years in

Caught in Orwell’s pages Meduza’s readers describe their battle with hopelessness as year four of Russia’s Ukraine invasion approaches

Three years in

Caught in Orwell’s pages Meduza’s readers describe their battle with hopelessness as year four of Russia’s Ukraine invasion approaches

When I saw that things in Russia weren’t falling apart as I’d expected, I quickly convinced myself that leaving was somewhere between tourism and an extended vacation. I stopped worrying about myself, quit doomscrolling, and started focusing on my work and my life. That summer, I changed jobs, and by the end of 2022, I had moved from Yerevan to Tbilisi.

I go back to Moscow as needed — to help my mom, apply for a Schengen visa [to visit Europe], meet with people for work. The first few times, I was nervous that they might detain me or at least question me at the border. But when they started recruiting convicts for the front and doing all kinds of insane things, it became clear that what the authorities cared about was public approval — so they weren’t going to start mass roundups on the street.

Now, when I fly in, I feel completely at ease. There are people I care about here, I grew up here, this city means a lot to me. Yes, there’s a war, so life here isn’t as good as it used to be — but it’s still good, and there’s no point in pretending otherwise. At this point, I’m just a tourist.

I know the government is still terminally ill — paranoid, run by the security services. So, when approval ratings drop again, they’ll have to do something. Maybe they’ll decide to take Kharkiv — not in three days, but in three months. The propaganda banners at bus stops, with pictures of “heroes of Russia” — corporals who are probably long dead — are a constant reminder that my time here is borrowed.

I might have to move back permanently if I lose my job and can’t find a new one within, say, six months. Then there’s another, more self-serving scenario: If a big, [non-state] company that doesn’t support the war offers me an interesting and challenging project. In that case, of course, I’d feel like I was making a deal with my conscience — after all, I’d be paying VAT and income tax into the system. But from what I understand, the war isn’t even funded by those taxes, and there’s no end in sight to the flow of oil and gas money.

The war comes to Russia

‘I just want them to stop shooting’ Meduza’s readers weigh in on Ukraine’s ongoing foray into Russia’s Kursk region

The war comes to Russia

‘I just want them to stop shooting’ Meduza’s readers weigh in on Ukraine’s ongoing foray into Russia’s Kursk region

Every time I return to Moscow, I see how the city is changing. You can really tell by the disappearing Western brand signs. You look up on Tverskaya Street and realize that instead of the Ritz-Carlton, Rolex, and H&M, you now have The Carlton, Time.ru, and Gloria Jeans. And at the end of the street is Vkusno i tochka, (the rebranded McDonald’s).

Some Western guy once told a journalist in an interview that when he lands in a city and sees a Starbucks, he knows he’s in civilization. It’s a dumb way to think — but there’s truth in it. It’s not about losing the secret recipe for the Big Mac or running out of Levi’s jeans. It’s about the fact that the world doesn’t want to deal with us anymore. They’re saying we no longer have a seat at the table.

Another example: A nurse at a lab explains that she has to use extra vials because the needles aren’t as good, and the vials themselves aren’t quite right anymore. And you get it. You don’t even have to use words like war or special military operation — you don’t use any words. She just tells you, “This is how things are now.” And you understand what now means, and what before you’re comparing it to. It’s everywhere: the needles, the soda, the beer — everything is just like this now.

For most people in Moscow, the war doesn’t touch their daily lives. After three years, everyone’s mind has found its own coping mechanism. Some people have just forgotten. Some have embraced fatalism. Some are clinging to the idea that Trump will come and end the war soon. Everyone has their own way of convincing themselves that things aren’t that bad.

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