Kazakhstan is no longer safe for anti-war Russians. So why are so many still staying?

Kazakhstan is one of the most popular destinations for anti-war Russians who have left the country. In the first weeks after the mobilization, more than 400,000 people arrived here from Russia. The main reasons: Russians can enter the country without an international passport, Russian is widely understood, and it’s fairly easy to legalize one’s status. In 2026, however, Kazakhstan turned into a dangerous country for Russian migrants in the span of a single month. Kazakh authorities regularly detain Russians and sometimes extradite them at Russia’s request. At the same time, the country has made it harder to obtain a residence permit, and throughout 2026 Russians have been called in for questioning as part of a criminal case over forged temporary residence permits. Kazakhstan as a whole is becoming a more authoritarian state: in July, following Russia’s example, officials reset Kassym-Jomart Tokayev’s presidential term count, and independent journalists are increasingly facing prosecution in the country. Still, a large number of Russians who arrived in 2022 — as many as 80,000 — continue to live in Kazakhstan. Meduza spoke with five of them about life in Kazakhstan and why they haven’t left despite the risks.

Alexandra, 27, software tester

I moved to Astana a year ago because I had mutual friends here — otherwise, I probably would have picked a different first stop after emigrating, somewhere like Georgia or Armenia. But only here did I have people who knew the ropes and could tell me how to legalize my status, rent an apartment, get a bank card, and figure out where to shop. Russian also has official status in Kazakhstan, which mattered to me too.

I thought about leaving [Russia] right away, in February 2022, but my husband and I talked it over and I decided to stay. He worked as an engineer at a factory and, unlike me, couldn’t switch to remote work — and we also had elderly relatives we were helping.

I actually left after learning how Russia’s system tracks down people who donated to the Anti-Corruption Foundation — I’d donated too. When it became clear the state could find any of us, I didn’t sleep or eat for several days, and then I decided I’d have to leave after all. I left behind my apartment, my loved ones, my whole routine, my entire previous life. My family understood my decision. My husband, unfortunately, is still in Russia because of his job, but he flies out to see me whenever he gets vacation, and otherwise we’re in touch around the clock.

In my opinion, the biggest advantage here is that legalizing your status is still simple. There’s no language barrier — almost everyone knows Russian — the internet is unrestricted, and prices are low: almost everything costs 20–30% less than in Russia. Kazakhs themselves are also very friendly.

In the whole year I’ve lived here, I’ve had only one unpleasant experience. A taxi driver stubbornly pretended not to understand Russian, and as luck would have it, I’d just arrived and hadn’t had time to learn any Kazakh. It was funny, actually — the navigation app was giving him directions in Russian, the car’s electronic display was in Russian, and he still wouldn’t respond to anything I said. But that was a one-off.

My first few days here were, of course, extremely stressful, but I didn’t run into any paperwork problems — people helped me and explained how to get a business-based RVP. So I’m living completely legally; basically, I work for myself and I’m my own boss.

Everything the Kazakhstani government is doing in 2026 [with regard to immigrants] strikes me as excessive, but I don’t think it’s aimed specifically at Russians. From what I’ve read in Kazakhstani media and on social media, I’ve gotten the impression it [applies] more to people coming from the rest of Central Asia. In my opinion, [the local authorities] have overreached, and the new rules could still be revisited and softened.

The whole time I’ve lived in Kazakhstan, I’ve seen the government position itself as forward-looking, focused on international trade and technology — there’s even a separate Ministry of Artificial Intelligence and Digital Development. If that’s the image it wants, it makes sense to actively invite people from other countries and place minimal restrictions on them.

But the authorities probably have their own reasons for this. Maybe they’re worried the generation born in the 2000s will soon be entering the labor market and want to shield their own citizens from competition with foreigners. Or maybe they’re watching Russia tighten its migration conditions and copying it.

Does Russia pull at me? Once — in early March — I had to travel home to Samara for paperwork reasons. There was a problem with biometric data in one government service that, of course, couldn’t be resolved remotely. I was terrified before the trip and wrote down OVD-Info’s contact information on a piece of paper, but, surprisingly, I had no problems at the border.

Something else struck me, though. After six months in Astana, I’d gotten used to everything being clean, to things constantly being improved despite the awful swings in weather. But back home, it felt like nothing but decay — everything looked gray and run-down. The only colorful spots were recruitment ads for signing a contract for the ”SVO.” You know the kind: “Hiring for cook positions on line ten, not assault duty.” Either I’d simply gotten out of the habit of seeing them, or there were more of them than six months earlier, when I’d left.

The internet had gotten much worse — hardly anything worked for me, and even VKontakte kept crashing. I remember looking around a bus to see what people were doing on their phones. Everyone seemed to be on Telegram, but nothing was loading for me. It took me a while to realize they were actually on the Max messenger. It was unpleasant to see even young people using that garbage.

People in Samara also seemed angrier than in Astana. There was a depressing mood I felt constantly, everywhere — it seemed like everyone was waiting for some kind of ending.

My new friends and I closely follow every case where Kazakhstani authorities arrest Russians being persecuted at home for political reasons. What struck me was the end of January, when within the span of a couple of days Kazakhstan extradited two of its citizens to Russia: a deserter and a young IT worker [Alexander Kachkurkin] from Crimea. That was a very bad sign, a serious red flag — as was the whole saga with the new constitution and Tokayev’s “reset” of his term limits. It’s an unsettling feeling, like watching a remake of a movie whose original you didn’t much like.

The story of that IT worker from Crimea was, of course, the most shocking. It turns out the man was already being tracked, and local authorities cooperated with their Russian counterparts, worked out a plan, and set him up with the hookah business and jaywalking charges. How can you automatically deport someone over something like that, knowing he’d end up in prison in Russia?

I’m a pretty anxious person in general, and it’s hard for me to stay calm about bad news. But having lived here, I’m convinced the people of Kazakhstan are capable of more and deserve better. It’s a silly stereotype that CIS countries, and Central Asia specifically, are incapable of democracy and don’t want it.

What bothers me most is that after cases like this, mind games start running through your head: “That won’t happen to me, my situation isn’t like Kachkurkin’s, because of A, B, C…” From what I can tell, my other Russian friends here go through the same thing. Everyone tries to convince themselves they’re safe, but in reality we’re all here on shaky ground. Yes, you can live in Kazakhstan — earn money, use unrestricted internet, vacation in great places — but you have to keep the lowest possible profile.

Most likely, once my husband wraps up his affairs in Russia and we’re finally reunited, we’ll move on to a safer country. I’d like to settle somewhere in the EU, but of the accessible options, Armenia is the only one we like so far.

Alexander, 25, developer

My girlfriend and I left Russia a year ago. I don’t think I need to explain the reasons: a senseless war, rumors of mobilization, drunk war veterans in public squares, posters of the latest “heroes” who went off to another country to pay off their mortgage and came back [dead]. It was unsettling that a lot of them were already younger than me. The internet didn’t work, and there were constant text alerts about drone attacks. We finished school, saved up money, arranged remote work, and left.

I decided on Kazakhstan specifically because I had friends here who praised the country: everything [online] works, everyone speaks Russian, and the paperwork is simple. We quickly found “fixer” lawyers who were supposed to help us get a residence permit. Most people here get by on an RVP, but I didn’t like that it means you can’t buy an apartment or a car and can’t access all banking services. A residence permit, though, makes you almost like a citizen — you get every right except political ones.

The “fixers” promised to handle everything “turnkey” for around $2,000. I paid them and handed over my documents, and they assured me it would take a month or two and everything would be fine. But the process dragged on, I got nervous, and in the end the local migration service rejected me without explanation.

That company didn’t abandon me, though — they helped us quickly get an RVP so we’d at least have some documents. The thing is, “fixers” run a lot of shell companies where they formally place foreigners, giving them grounds to live in Kazakhstan. I understand now that wasn’t entirely legal, but the authorities didn’t really ask questions: if there’s a formal place of employment, that’s enough.

This spring, the KNB — Kazakhstan’s equivalent of Russia’s FSB — began targeted raids on “fixers,” and the sweep caught us Russians in Kazakhstan too. I’ll say right away we were only pulled in as witnesses. The KNB did not open any cases against us.

The KNB called me in sometime in April. It was scary, of course, but I agreed — what other options were there? I only spoke with one investigator, who was courteous, far better than Russian cops. 90% of the questions were specifically about the company: who I’d dealt with, who I’d paid, what they’d promised.

The only thing he asked about me personally was why I’d moved to Kazakhstan. I told him I wasn’t running from anyone, that I’m medically unfit for the army, and that I’d left Russia to live with friends. He didn’t pursue the topic further, and even said they wouldn’t cancel the RVPs my girlfriend and I had bought — though he strongly advised us to get new, legitimate ones. He didn’t have to tell me twice. I started the process the very next day.

It turns out getting a business-based RVP in Kazakhstan is easy: a minimal set of documents, and you don’t even need to show money in your account. From Russia, they only required two certificates — one confirming no criminal record and one confirming there’s no ban on engaging in business activity. All in all, I quickly got a new, “clean” RVP, and now I’m my own boss with my own TOO, which I can renew myself every year. But I’m also looking into applying for a residence permit, since it would objectively give me more options.

For a while after that conversation at the KNB, I was, of course, a little on edge — especially after some unfamiliar guy knocked on my door a day or two later. He looked like a typical plainclothes security officer: leather jacket, short haircut, small bag over one shoulder. I didn’t open the door. He stood there for a bit and left. I waited — a day passed, then two, then three, nothing happened, and I finally relaxed.

My friends told me I was worrying for nothing — this is Astana, after all, where someone’s always knocking on the wrong door. That’s actually true: the city has a lot of new apartment complexes with confusing numbering. There’s a building numbered, say, 20, then one next to it numbered 20/1, and next to that one, 20/1 “a” and 20/1 “b.” Sometimes you’re invited over and spend half an hour trying to find the right entrance. I hope that’s what happened with that guy — I never saw him again.

My friends’ interrogations went about the same way: officers were polite, mostly asked about the companies [they’d used], and didn’t cancel their RVPs. Only one guy got a little lecture about how you can’t attend unauthorized rallies in Kazakhstan — in 2024, he’d been dumb enough to ask in an emigrant Telegram chat whether there would be a “peace march” in Astana, like the one [Yulia] Navalnaya and [Ilya] Yashin held in Berlin. A pretty dumb question, honestly, and the chat was open, so apparently the KNB was monitoring it under fake accounts.

Anyway, my advice to anyone thinking about moving to Kazakhstan: study the laws carefully and figure out exactly which document you need, and don’t use “fixer” companies — the government has really cracked down on them.

That said, I don’t agree that Kazakhstan is tightening its migration laws across the board. People don’t come here to live off benefits like in Europe — everyone works, pays taxes, and the economy is growing.

As for me, I don’t get too involved in local affairs. What’s the point of following local parties or ministers when I’m not a citizen and have no say here? I can’t even vote in the Kurultai elections. I generally have a positive view of President Tokayev, and I liked what he told Putin in Omsk. I don’t think Tokayev is some kind of committed pacifist — it’s just that this war has worn everyone down, and everyone is losing something because of it. Kazakhstan, for instance, can’t export oil normally.

Honestly, I try to think about politics as little as possible and focus on my own affairs. Kazakhstan is a wonderful country to live in, the people are great, and I’ve never experienced any hostility in daily life. I’ve already traveled around the country a couple of times and visited Almaty — a huge city with plenty of sights and entertainment. In Kazakhstan, people love to argue about which capital is better, the old one or the new one, and I still like Astana a bit more.

Ilya, 26, freelancer

When the [full-scale] war began, my future wife and I were graduate students at one of Moscow’s universities — that’s actually where we met. Back in February, we already realized nothing good would come of this, but we badly underestimated both the scale of what was happening and how fast everything would deteriorate. So the plan was to finish our master’s [in 2023] and look into applying to a European university — the Czech Republic, Hungary, Germany, it didn’t matter. In the spring of 2022, that looked more than realistic; I think everyone in Moscow knew someone who’d gotten into a European university.

Then September came, and Russia announced mobilization. Some people bought tickets to Yerevan for 200,000 rubles; others stormed the Verkhny Lars border crossing. I’m originally from Chelyabinsk, so I figured the easiest thing would be to fly there and buy a train ticket to Petropavlovsk.

My wife stayed in Moscow until she finished her master’s. I’ll say right away that everything worked out — she joined me in the summer of 2023, quickly found work as an English tutor, and never complained about our new home. I’m very grateful to her for that.

It didn’t matter to me exactly where in Kazakhstan I ended up. I had a remote job at a Yandex subsidiary, working on configuring a voice assistant, and I saw Kazakhstan itself as a temporary place to live. At first, my friend and I stayed briefly in Astana, in a short-term rental with mutual friends. That’s where we first heard about Karaganda. We went, took a look, and liked the city — it was neither too big nor too small, and it had everything you’d need: malls, movie theaters, cafes, ride-hailing apps. Everything works, and it’s cheaper than Astana or Almaty, let alone Moscow. I remember back in the fall of 2022, we rented a decent two-bedroom apartment in a new building for 130,000 tenge.

Usually in emigration stories, people complain about everything they’ve lost, but for me it worked out that I gained more than I lost. I used to live in a dorm — now I rent my own apartment. I used to work side jobs — now I have a full-time position. My standard of living has only gone up. I’ve found only two downsides: in Karaganda, public transit stops running around 9 p.m., and hot water gets shut off for the whole summer. But every place I’ve lived has had a water heater, so it hasn’t been uncomfortable.

Kazakhstan is, in general, a country of hospitality — welcoming a guest is practically written into the culture. Among ethnic Kazakhs, I’ve always encountered nothing but understanding [about emigration and its causes], while among ethnic Russians [who are Kazakhstani citizens], it’s been more mixed. Many of them aren’t engaged with the news and have a poor sense of how Russia lives now, but they still consider it their historical homeland. As far as I can tell, their perception of Russia is often stuck in the 2000s — the idea that there’s more money and opportunity there than in Kazakhstan. It seems mentally difficult for them to accept that, by 2026, that’s no longer true, that things here are changing for the better while there they’re changing for the worse. Among Kazakhs, even Russian-speaking ones, I haven’t noticed that problem.

In cities like Karaganda, it’s easy to pass for a local. Live there a year, pick up local mining-town slang like “tormozka” or “porozhnyak”, and figure out that “USA” refers not just to the United States but also to three southwestern suburbs, and you’ll stop standing out. The city itself is like the USA — every nationality imaginable lives here: Koreans, Greeks, Chechens, Germans, Poles, Lithuanians. But everyone usually speaks Russian.

Compared to other emigrants, I’m more assimilated. As it happened, all my friends and buddies ended up in Astana, which is about a three-hour taxi ride away, so unfortunately I can’t make that trip often. On top of that, at some point my remote job started to falter, and I found local work as a realtor at a housing agency. That helped me build new connections among local residents, and I’ve started speaking and understanding some Kazakh. I’ve never felt like an outsider — people with Russian passports worked there before me too. Sometimes people jokingly call us “our Russian agents,” but nothing more than that: no bullying, no dirty looks.

By the way, it’s actually pretty easy [for a Russian] to get hired for local work in Kazakhstan — it’s completely legal if you enter the country on your internal passport and get hired the very next day.

Yes, I’ve certainly heard about the problems Russians with purchased RVPs have run into in Astana and Almaty. As far as I know, Karaganda hasn’t been affected at all. I had a similar situation myself, back in 2024 — the migration service caught me in a random inspection and determined I wasn’t living at the address listed on my RVP. That wasn’t by choice; I’d had problems with my landlord, who wouldn’t give me his consent to live there, so I’d had to register at a different address.

Technically, that’s an administrative offense, but you only get a warning the first time. The migration office called me in, and an officer politely explained that foreigners in Kazakhstan need to live at their officially registered address. I agreed to everything, found a new landlord, moved, and got my RVP sorted out legitimately.

What actually hit my wife and me personally was the tightening of the rules for residence permits — we were just about to apply for one. A lot changed in the law, but the provision that worked against us specifically was this: Kazakhstan will no longer issue residence permits in every region. Almost all our neighboring regions — Akmola, Kostanay, Pavlodar, Abay, and Ulytau — made the list of regions where they’ll still be issued, but Karaganda didn’t. Apparently, officials figured the population here is already dense enough and there’s no need for foreigners.

Now we’re trying to figure out what to do next: stay here and renew our RVP every year, move to a different region, or choose a different country. During our time in Kazakhstan, we’ve managed to visit almost all the popular visa-free countries [for emigrants from Russia]: Serbia, Armenia, Georgia, and Kyrgyzstan. They’re great countries, but in my opinion, each has downsides compared to Kazakhstan — somewhere it’s more expensive, somewhere there’s more bureaucracy, somewhere there’s less work.

Do I hold a grudge against Kazakhstan? Of course not — I understand the logic of the authorities. As a coworker of mine joked: “We’ve got enough normies without you: you need to prove you can be gigachads.” Kazakhstan is becoming more successful and more popular among foreigners, so the authorities are raising the entry bar.

Of course, I don’t like that local authorities periodically extradite Russians to Russia — Kachkurkin’s case is doubly absurd. Kazakhstan is hurting its own international reputation more than it’s hurting us. I really hope Kazakhstan will allow the Russians still under extradition arrest here, essentially on political charges, to leave for third countries. We don’t forget them. We remember them.

Alisa, 31, data analyst

The beginning of my husband’s and my story is roughly the same as most relocated Russians’: September [2022], mobilization, panic-packing our bags and leaving on a whim. Our choice [of countries] was limited because [my husband] Dima didn’t have an international passport at the time.

We first came to Astana, where there was a wild rush [because of the mass influx of people fleeing mobilization] — it was impossible to rent a decent place. We barely managed to find a run-down one-bedroom, 26 square meters (280 square feet), for 170,000 tenge — everything falling apart, right on the outskirts of the city, in the old, right-bank part of town with dreary Soviet-era buildings.

We caught our breath, got my husband an international passport over the winter, and decided to stay in Kazakhstan but look at other places. We considered Almaty, went to check it out, and liked it immediately more. For one thing, Astana’s climate is harsh — not everyone is comfortable with a steady minus 30 to 40 degrees Celsius (minus 22 to 40 degrees Fahrenheit) in winter, with wind that cuts through everything. Almaty is farther south and much warmer. For another, it’s a bigger city, with more concerts and cultural events of all kinds. Even just going out to a bar on a Friday, you’re constantly discovering some new place in Almaty — somewhere has exclusive cocktails, somewhere has amazing live music, somewhere just has the right vibe. Astana’s options are more modest in that regard; there’s not much that feels like a “wow.”

Kazakhstanis themselves joke about this a lot. Local comedians post plenty of Instagram reels along the lines of: Astana is running late to the office in a suit in bad weather, while Almaty is working remotely from an outdoor café terrace in a T-shirt with your laptop. In that sense, Almaty feels much closer to me, which makes up for its main downside — poor air quality. The city is surrounded by mountains, and the coal-fired power plants mean that on windless days, unfortunately, there’s thick smog.

At first, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my future had been stolen from me, that I’d been forced into something I didn’t want. But over time, I realized I don’t regret anything that happened to my husband and me specifically. I can’t say we came out ahead, exactly, but we did gain a lot of good things: new experiences, new skills, new friends, and the ability to enjoy new sensations. I can’t say I feel like I belong in Almaty, but I don’t feel like an outsider either.

Lately, I’ve been feeling self-conscious that I still haven’t made myself learn Kazakh beyond “Sälemetsiz be,” “rakhmet” [hello, thank you], and similar words. It’s incredibly awkward every time I say something like that in a taxi or a store — people assume I’m local and start speaking Kazakh to me, and I have to say: “Keshiriniz, qazaqsha bilmeimin” [Sorry, I don’t know Kazakh]. You make an apologetic face, and no one scolds you — they switch to Russian — but it still feels uncomfortable. I need to learn it.

It seems to me that Russians here often make a tragedy out of trivial things, for example, [if they] weren’t helped or were told something unpleasant at the TsON. In my opinion, bureaucratic institutions in any country are staffed by chronically exhausted people who physically can’t fulfill everyone’s wishes. Compared to Russian public service centers, employees here are, in my opinion, far more friendly.

I don’t want to victim-blame, but sometimes I read on social media that Russians like me who’ve emigrated, or especially tourists from Russia, complain that people [in Kazakhstan] treat them differently somehow — that people look at them “the wrong way,” or, heaven forbid, speak Kazakh around them. It makes me want to ask: even if that’s true, are you sure you behaved normally yourself? Not everyone, I think, has fully let go of the imperial mindset drilled into us in Russia, or truly understands that this is a different country with its own traditions and laws.

My husband and I legalized our status the way most people do, with an RVP. My husband is an engineer, and back in 2023 he found a good job in Almaty that came with help getting an official permit. I legalized my status as a family member of an employee and continue to earn money remotely. That mattered to me from the start — no “fixers,” no “gray” or “black market” RVPs. I’m too anxious a person to allow myself something like that. While Dima was looking at job openings, I didn’t even rule out having to get a job as, say, a cashier at Small or Magnum.

Yes, requirements for foreigners have tightened over the past couple of years. But compared to what Russia demands of labor migrants, it’s night and day, and I’m grateful to Kazakhstan for a comparatively simple and transparent legalization process. It’s not without glitches or hiccups, but nowhere is — that’s normal.

Of course, I’ve heard about cases of Russians being extradited. You have to be realistic: if you’re a deserter, a well-known activist, or an opposition figure, Kazakhstan isn’t the safest place for you. The extradition cases so far have still been isolated ones — they haven’t become systemic. We don’t know the full background of those people; maybe they got caught up in something before their detention, maybe they crossed someone important in Russia. It might sound harsh, but here in Kazakhstan, it’s important not to stick your neck out, not to draw attention to yourself, and to behave like the local citizens do.

Sometimes I worry that I can’t travel home as often as I’d like, to see my parents, my hometown, and my old friends — because of work, I can’t manage more than once a year. On the other hand, I have a ton of great friends here, other Russians who’ve left as well as Kazakhstanis, and I like Almaty itself. It’s never boring here, so I feel less and less like visiting St. Petersburg. It’s become too different.

All this news, all these bans, all these “strikes,” all this anxiety, all these blocks — it all weighs on your psyche. I’ve trained myself not to notice the posters with the letter Z or the ads for signing military contracts; my own sanity matters more to me, and I treat them as background noise. But with every new trip, it seems more and more to me that people in Russia are somehow — sorry for the harsh word — turning feral. When you live in constant tension, in that aggressive environment, it weighs on you; you can’t fully escape it.

Put simply, walking down an evening street in Almaty is a lot more pleasant than in St. Petersburg, not to mention its outskirts. Visually, there just seem to be fewer smiles, fewer kids playing, and more people drinking and arguing. I’ll say again: I’m not slapping labels on anyone — I’m just noting there’s too much stress in Russia right now, and people cope with it however they can. Kazakhstan doesn’t have that problem, and I’m grateful to it for at least that.

Konstantin, 35, web designer

My first thoughts that I’d have to leave came as early as [February 24, 2022]. Everyone around me, even those who were “against” it, insisted the war wouldn’t last long — just like Margarita Simonyan says in that clip: “Why would we need to defeat it, it’s Ukraine.” All my friends and family made fun of me when I suggested it could drag on for years.

The year 2022 turned out to be eventful for me personally too. First, my marriage fell apart and my first wife and I divorced; then we split up and sold our shared apartment. After that, things quickly developed with a woman I worked with — everything moved fast, I proposed, Dasha said “yes,” and we got married.

We saw the war the same way and decided it would be better to live, at least temporarily, in another country. Dasha has relatives in Kazakhstan who suggested we join them, assuring us it would be easy to legalize our status and find work there. We flew over in the summer of 2023, once I’d wrapped up everything in Russia. We were told getting a residence permit would be simple — the main thing was to show the required amount of MRP in our account, provide a certificate of no criminal record from Russia, and submit a few other documents. We did all that in the fall but got rejected without explanation, and after a rejection you can’t reapply for a year.

As I was told later, the issue was that Kazakhstani authorities always gave Astana a low quota for residence permits on general grounds, and by the end of the calendar year none of it was left. If we’d waited until 2024, it might have worked out. So instead, like a lot of our fellow Russians, we turned to “fixers,” who formally placed us at one of their shell companies to give us grounds for an RVP. That scheme worked until this spring, when the KNB came after our company. The KNB didn’t cancel our permits, but by the end of this year, my wife and I will have to get everything through legitimate channels.

Work wasn’t easy either. I’d spent my whole career in Russia as a sales manager, and before emigrating I was at a great company doing wholesale coffee procurement, earning well even by Moscow standards — up to 200,000 rubles in a good month. But here, I quickly learned [in job interviews] that companies in that field don’t like hiring foreign nationals unless they can’t find a suitable Kazakhstani for the position. So I had to scrape by at fly-by-night companies doing part-time work, and my income dropped.

But Dasha and I didn’t give up. In 2024, I took an intensive web design course and learned a new profession from scratch. At first, the jobs were rare and paid next to nothing, but it got better over time. I picked up regular clients, and we’re getting by and making plans for the future.

Our main motivation to keep going was our son — he was born here, in Astana, and he’s 2 now. Giving birth outside your home country sounds like it would be stressful, but we didn’t run into any particular difficulties. Kazakhstan is actually a very suitable country for that: there’s a cult of family and children here. Pregnant women are given seats without question, and doors are always held open for women with strollers. The medical care is no worse than in Russia and noticeably cheaper — my wife was monitored throughout her pregnancy and gave birth at a private clinic, and altogether I paid around $2,000, including the extra week she spent there afterward. A clinic of similar quality in Russia would have cost far more.

While Dasha was pregnant, she met other expectant mothers at prenatal checkups, all locals, ethnic Kazakhs. One of them turned out to be our neighbor, and our families quickly became close. A year ago, they invited us to a tusaukeser, an important ceremony for Kazakhs held when a one-year-old starts walking on their own. Symbolic ties are cut from the child’s legs, and they walk forward along a carpet runway, at the end of which lie various objects — money, a ball, a book, musical instruments, whatever people can think of. After doing it for their own daughter, our new friends invited us to do the same for our son — it was really touching.

I’ve never encountered any hostility from Kazakhs in person. The only negative things I’ve read about Russians who’ve come to the country were on Threads. But that place is an even bigger dumpster fire than the old Twitter, full of bots, so I don’t see the point in paying attention to it.

I also don’t have much desire to dive into local politics news, and I rarely read anything on Telegram. The constitutional amendments, Tokayev’s “reset,” and the extradition cases involving Russians didn’t surprise me. Kazakhstan is just too tied to Russia — in some respects, it’s easiest for the government here to “mirror” what’s happening there, whether it’s immigration controls or the term reset.

I don’t really have the time or energy to worry about it — family and work matter more. When I come across unsettling news, I just remind myself that I’m not an activist, a deserter, or a journalist. I doubt anyone’s interested in me.

Lately, when I have free time, I try to study Kazakh. Even from the first days, it bothered me a little that I was in a foreign country where people spoke to me in my own language while I didn’t know the local state language — and not all Kazakhs are fluent in Russian either. That led to some awkward situations, including at the pharmacy, the TsON, and the market. I kept meaning to learn it but could never get myself organized. I guess I needed a kick in the pants, and I got one this year, when Kazakhstan started requiring a B2 level of Kazakh for residence permits. There were even rumors that basic knowledge would be required for RVPs too.

I found a free course on Instagram run by the Astana akimat. I’ve never regretted it — everything’s online, the teacher is great, there’s no rote memorization, and everything’s gamified. In two months, I easily reached A1 level, passed the tests, and got a certificate. I’m planning to reach A2 by fall, then B1 and beyond. I wouldn’t say the language is especially hard; it’s just that a lot of things — declensions, conjugations, and so on — work on completely different principles than in Russian.

My main goal is to get a residence permit so my family can go on living fully in Kazakhstan — so we don’t have to renew our RVP every year, so we can use banks without restrictions, and eventually get a car. These days, I often hear that Astana, Almaty, and a number of other regions aren’t issuing residence permits to foreigners at all. But there are other ways to get one — for example, as a professional valuable to Kazakhstan, and the profession I trained in here is on the list. So I’m going to apply.

Of course, my wife and I dream of one day living in some quiet country by the sea — Italy, say, or Portugal. The only thing I’ve ruled out is returning to Russia. This isn’t like the “Vzhukh cat” meme, where everything is fixed with a wave of a paw: even if the war ends tomorrow, there won’t be any magic, and things won’t go back to normal right away — not in a year, not in ten years. The Russia and the Moscow I miss don’t exist anymore. They were left behind in 2021.