Confession
The wave of emigration out of Russia in recent years was driven by various factors: some wanted to avoid mobilization, others opposed the war and hated the idea of staying silent, while activists and journalists fled due to the very real threat of political persecution. Yet even among those whose activities had put them on the radar of Russian law enforcement, some have taken the risk of returning. The Insider spoke with three of them about their reasons for coming back, and about their experience of navigating today’s Russia — a place where they can no longer openly express their views.
The names have been changed to protect identities.
Irina: “Anti-war Russians have learned to find like-minded people without words”
Even before the war began, I was outspoken — I posted frequently on social media and took part in street protests. Shortly after the start of the so-called “special military operation” — and the adoption of new repressive laws on “fake news” and “discrediting the army” — I already had dozens of anti-war posts on my VK profile. It was a matter of principle not to delete anything. I wanted to scream about the senselessness of this bloody war, but at the same time, I had no idea how the new censorship would be enforced. Many of my friends were leaving Russia in a rush, and everyone around me was urging me to leave as well.
I remember how I felt during those days. It was almost paranoia — I hid all my devices in someone else’s apartment and was terrified of every sound behind the front door.
Living in constant anxiety became unbearable, so I flew to Tbilisi. We joined up with others who had left our region and rented a place together. Many people envy those who’ve left, but emigration — especially when people of different ages, anxiety levels, and habits, including bad ones, are crammed together in a sort of “dormitory” — is anything but easy. And with no idea what tomorrow would bring, we inevitably started fighting.
As a result, at some point, I ended up completely alone in a foreign country, unable to afford housing — even though I had found a remote job editing a Telegram channel almost every day without a break. I was forced to return to Russia in August of that year.
The moment I crossed the border, I was already named in a police lawsuit for allegedly organizing a rally in support of Navalny. On that occasion, men without insignia detained me even before the protest began, pushed me into an unmarked civilian vehicle, and essentially kidnapped me. My so-called “organization” of the rally consisted of nothing more than posting the date of the event on social media.
The court imposed huge fines on me and several other defendants. I paid the fine, but the transaction wasn’t processed in time, so my bank accounts are still frozen. As for the consequences I could be facing for my anti-war activism, I was in the dark. As soon as I crossed the border, reports appeared that I had been charged with “discrediting the army.” It may have been a coincidence — I can’t say for sure. The court compiled my numerous posts and comments into a single case and ended up fining me.
Being punished for my views felt deeply unfair. But strangely enough, I came to understand the rules of the game: they made it clear I could no longer speak out publicly — next time would be worse. So I wiped all sensitive information from my social media profiles and plunged into a long depression. If surviving abroad had been physically difficult, coming back was emotionally devastating.
I went into full lockdown mode in my apartment. The street felt like hostile territory: every letter “Z” or military recruitment poster filled me with dread. Strangely enough, what helped me feel alive again was working at [presidential candidate Boris] Nadezhdin’s campaign headquarters, even though I didn't have any particular hopes for his success.
The Tabakov Theater in Moscow
I’m keeping a low profile for now, but I try to help however I can. I know I’m on law enforcement’s radar — on some unofficial list of “unreliable” individuals. I’m under preventive surveillance, which means that before any major event, local officers visit me with warnings not to participate. At public gatherings, security agents recognize me — there’s a noticeable level of scrutiny from them. If criminal charges are brought and I face the risk of a real prison sentence, I’ll consider leaving Russia again.
I can say for sure that this damned war stole nearly two years of my life — years filled with disillusionment in old friends and, more broadly, in my fellow countrymen. I left, wandered, came back, and lived in fear, shutting myself off from the world within four walls. Only recently have I started to more or less live again.
For better or worse, people get used to everything. Now, three and a half years into the war, I no longer use social media — and honestly, I don’t feel much discomfort about it anymore.
In my circle, there are both emigrants and those who stayed in Russia, and I can feel the difference in the extent of freedom people have in speaking their minds. Some of those who left have taken an overly pro-Ukrainian stance, which sometimes offends those who stayed behind. Having been on both sides myself, I try to understand both perspectives.
Anti-war Russians have learned to find like-minded people without words. Those who support the government can speak freely and often do so with loud, theatrical flair. But people like us are forced to read between the lines — you see someone on the street wearing a tiny pacifist pin and can’t help but think, “That’s a good person.” You’re constantly looking for someone “on your side” by deciphering coded hints.
Shortly after my return, I started getting into heated arguments with supporters of the Russian government, so I shut myself off and avoided company. Since then, I’ve managed to adapt. After all, you can't avoid interacting with them all the time. Whenever politics comes up, I try to steer clear of the conversation. I often just leave the room or ignore it and don’t engage. Basically, I stay silent — because it’s impossible to live in constant conflict, especially with family. I try to give my loved ones some leeway. My grandma is nearly 90 and doesn’t have access to independent sources of information, which makes her easy prey for propaganda. Without forgiveness and understanding, I’m afraid I couldn't live in today’s Russia.
Anna: “Watching my country right now feels like watching a seriously ill loved one. I choose to stay close”
Even as a teenager, I was very opinionated and had a strong interest in politics. I grew up reading Meduza and Novaya Gazeta and watching Alexei Navalny’s videos. After college, I found a prestigious job in the art world. I genuinely loved it, but when I got the opportunity to work in a field connected to Russian politics and journalism, I didn’t hesitate for a second. It was the biggest dream of my life.
My employer did not offer relocation until after a few months into the war, so for a while I kept working from inside Russia. No charges were brought against me, but had anyone found out what I was doing — working for an “undesirable organization” — I could’ve faced serious trouble. Yet at the time, the conviction that I was doing the right thing outweighed any fear. I still believe I did everything right and that my work was worth it.
I never dreamed of emigrating — it had never even crossed my mind. But continuing to work from inside Russia became simply impossible.
Leaving was hard. Really hard. I had no idea when I’d be able to come home — in a year, five years, ten? At the time, I was sure I would not return — that none of us would — until after there was a change of power in Russia. It was also hard to move alone, without a partner. I had a good life in Russia — I was young, had a set of loving and supportive parents, lots of friends, and an apartment in the city center. But I didn’t hesitate to leave. The values we all stood for meant more than anything. And I haven’t regretted my decision for a split second.
My loved ones supported me, but it was clear they all thought I’d lost my mind. No one in my circle supports the Russian government or the war, but no one’s especially interested in politics either. So I don’t think anyone ever truly understood why I left — or why my work mattered so much to me.
I think I handled emigration pretty well. Not perfectly, but well. I made friends, found favorite spots, rented an apartment quickly and easily, and went on dates with local guys.
The only real strain came from constant work stress, health issues, and always being short on money. I had to live paycheck to paycheck, spending every last cent. Buying something like a fall coat, for example, was a major expense for the month.
I left because I lost my job. It caught me off guard, and I was in a bad place. I had no savings and didn’t know what to do. At first, the thought of returning to Russia didn't even cross my mind, but the chance to see my family outweighed everything. I hadn’t seen them in two years. My parents were also having a hard time, balancing hard work and having to care for older relatives. Sometimes, living abroad, I felt like a traitor — because I had left to save all of Russia from Putin, but I wasn’t there for my loved ones.
To be honest, I also wanted to catch my breath after that relentless race as a migrant. It was an endless marathon, living every second of every day in stress and anxiety. Losing my job was the last straw — I realized I couldn't do this anymore. My body was failing; I no longer had the energy to get out of bed, and definitely not enough for another move or dealing with paperwork and visas.
I felt ashamed of myself. I felt like a failure. Everyone else seemed to be doing well in emigration, and I was a loser who gave up. So I didn’t even tell anyone I was going back home. And I still don’t like to bring it up.
Sometimes, when I watch [Instagram] stories my friends post from abroad, an inner voice whispers, “What about you? Came back with your tail between your legs? What a disgrace.” It's like being judged by an imaginary tribunal. Vladimir Solovyov on TV wants to shoot “traitors to the motherland” like me for leaving. Radicals on X and YouTube don’t respect people who came back: “How can you live in a place like Russia — that means you’re no opposition at all, just a pro-Putin hypocrite!” Friends in Russia think I'm half-crazy — obsessed with politics and almost a traitor for trying to leave.
A Russian antiwar march in Berlin
I find it hard enough without people judging me. It feels like by coming back, I betrayed all the values of the ”beautiful Russia of the future” in which I believed — and still do. It’s as if I want to justify my “weakness” — my return — to everyone, even though there’s nothing to justify. This is my home. I love it and want to live here, no matter what happens to it.
Watching my country right now is like watching a seriously ill loved one. I choose to be close and hold their hand during this difficult time. I live and witness how criminals have been violating my country — and I choose not to look away.
Staying silent is unbearable. What helps is that I haven’t used VK in years, and I rarely open Instagram. But if I ever want to post something “forbidden” in my stories — I absolutely will. I see that some people, just by nature, aren’t torn apart by injustice. They’ll just shrug and walk past it. But I’ve been deeply principled since I was a teenager. I could never stay silent when someone weak is hurt or when I see violence. And if I ever call it a “special military operation” instead of a war, I’ll stop respecting myself.
Since I’ve been back in Russia, not once have I kept quiet in a conversation or pretended that politics doesn’t matter to me. If the topic comes up, I say exactly what I think. On a first date, I ask about their political views right away. I might run into some local police informant in the style of Vitaly Borodin any day. But I’ll keep using whatever 1% of freedom I still have for as long as I can.
I feel an even stronger urge to speak out about the war and politics when everything around me feels soaked in violence. I was in shock when I returned to Russia and saw that every square meter of my city was plastered with posters urging people to join the war and sign a contract with the army. Bus stops, shops, street poles, bus windows, underground walkways — they are everywhere. I caught myself thinking: every time, I just want to stop in the middle of the underpass, in the middle of the crowd, and scream — run up to people, shake them by the shoulders, and shout, “Are you really not seeing any of this?” I think about it every time I see one of those posters. And I see them twenty times a day.
Contract military service poster, Moscow
Eventually, I came up with a crappy little life hack for silent survival. Every time I see a poster, I silently say: “F*ck off” — to the designer who made it, the guy who posed for it, everyone at the draft office signing up contract soldiers. All of you, along with Vladimir Putin, can f*ck off.
The gap between those who left and those who stayed is enormous — a real abyss. In emigration, politics and the war was all we ever talked about. In Russia, it’s considered bad form. Say one word, and right away someone in the group goes, “Oh, let’s not get into that.” Everyone’s wrapped up in their own lives. It’s that cliché, now a sad meme: “Everyone’s got loans to repay.” And every time I hear it, I want to either scream in frustration or burst into tears.
And yet, everyone understands everything. Everyone around me wants the war to end tomorrow, for people to stop dying, for us to become a civilized country. They just don’t want to talk about it.
It's terrifying how no one thinks about people being killed in Ukraine. No one watches the news. No one looks at the photos of homes our country destroyed. It's not that they are self-interested. Sometimes people fail to notice the connection between their lives getting worse over the past three years and the war. It's as if they’re deliberately or childishly ignoring it — that the growth of prices for cucumbers and chicken isn’t random, that there’s a reason they can't go on vacation anywhere other than Turkey, that mobile internet shutdowns aren't just bad luck.
The other day, I was chatting with my neighbor and said, “We’re sliding into some kind of primitive darkness — living without internet in 2025!” My neighbor — who I know for sure does not support the war — replied, “If they cut the internet, I’ll just set up Wi-Fi at home. All I want is to be left alone. I work two jobs, so I don’t care, as long as the drones don’t reach us.” I’ve been replaying that sentence in my head for two weeks now — it hit me that hard.
My father supports the Russian government. We didn’t talk much to begin with, and this has driven a final wedge between us. To him, I’m a traitor and a naive girl who doesn’t understand anything. So be it. It hasn’t shaken my sense of being right for even a second. But I do feel sorry for my mom — she’s caught in the middle, torn between two people she loves.
Everyone around me, except my father, holds a stance of passive opposition — something close to being apolitical. Nobody likes the government, but everyone goes about their own business and lives their own lives. Just a year ago, I found out that an acquaintance of mine accidentally started profiting from the war. His salary increased because he helped send people to fight. He even told our mutual friends, “You know, now I don’t want this special military operation to end.” After all, as long as the war goes on, he keeps earning. I was speechless when I learned this. And I realized that’s the scariest thing of all.
It’s one thing to see Russian soldiers — in uniform, holding rifles. No question there: we see a bunch of deranged killers. But it’s something else entirely to see people like this guy in our everyday lives. You’d never guess there was anything wrong with him, that he’s making money off the war. You might chat with him at a party. He might lend you his discount card in a supermarket line, or help a neighbor carry her stroller. If we put the war in brackets, he’s a good, likable person. Except that no one can put the war in brackets anymore.
From inside Russia, I tried to find a job in political journalism, but it didn’t work out. Everyone around me said, “Just get a normal job with a decent salary like an adult and stop chasing your ideals.” But I don’t want a random “normal job.” I've always wanted to do something meaningful, grounded in values — mutual support, justice, protecting vulnerable people. And I found that kind of job.
The salary is around 50,000 [rubles, or $640, per month]. Not much, of course, but I’m glad to be making a difference. And my team is strongly opposition-minded — that was genuinely important to me.
My friends who emigrated were incredibly supportive. We still keep in touch — I love them dearly, I know how they’re doing, and I’d be so happy to see them again. Before I left, we used to joke that one day, in the beautiful Russia of the future, we’d all meet in Moscow and drink champagne — free and happy.
At home, of course, there’s always support too — my family and friends. You know that, just like in emigration, you’ll never be left to face any problem completely alone.
Something really bad would have to happen for me to leave Russia again. But at night, the shame still creeps in and presses down. Even now, I still dream of working in journalism and writing about Russia — like the authors at [independent media outlets] Holod or Takie Dela. I want to document what’s happening to all of us right now. I believe everything will turn out okay. And if it doesn't, then, as a good person once said, we’ll find comfort in knowing that we were honest people.
Dmitry: “I feel like I’ve returned to a country drowning in extreme self-censorship”
Before I left Russia, I worked in scientific research and development in heavy industry. I was at a research center, writing papers, but right before the war, I was already thinking about leaving. The war overlapped with what was happening in my career in such a way that I wasn’t even upset about losing my job. I think I had already stopped wanting to do research.
After the war began, I went to protests and was detained at them. I had a very active civic stance — I still do — but back then I couldn’t stop myself from taking action, like speaking out publicly or joining rallies. I realized that staying in Russia meant a serious risk of arrest and criminal or administrative prosecution. I left for the first time in March 2022 and went to Tbilisi. I briefly returned to St. Petersburg in the fall of 2022, right before the mobilization. During the mobilization, I left for Tbilisi a second time, and from there, I moved to Belgrade.
There were no criminal cases against me, only administrative ones — for attending protests. I received threats. In the past, I worked for an organization whose security department included FSB officers. After they found out I had been detained at rallies, they started holding conversations with me. Those talks were far from pleasant. They made it clear I would be monitored — my social media checked, everything scrutinized — to ensure I wouldn’t engage in any more activism. They said my beliefs were “wrong” and that they could “dig up” a lot against me.
While I was living abroad, I met a girl and started a relationship. We lived together for over a year before breaking up. About six months to a year after the breakup, I thought it might be time to try finding someone new — and it would be great to do that in St. Petersburg, because it’s quite difficult for me to find a partner abroad. Before, I saw the risks of staying in St. Petersburg as very high, but I don't think that’s the case anymore.
When I was leaving, I was truly driven by the fact that I could no longer speak out loud or protest on the streets. That feeling is still very much present now. I feel like I’ve returned to a country drowning in extreme self-censorship. Both strangers and friends are often very cautious in their choice of words — one could tell they are afraid of saying something sharp, or even anything at all, on certain prohibited topics.
Personally, I'm not so hung up on free speech right now. I realize that there’s no need for me to prove anything — and no one to prove it to — when it comes to this government. I don't have anything new to say, and all my friends, who saw me leave in 2022, already know how I feel. If I ever was on a mission to change my fellow countrymen's minds, I'm no longer on it.
I have a fairly large social circle, and more than half of them are abroad. People support what I do because they know why I’m doing it. Very few tried to talk me out of coming back. Everyone understands who I am and what my situation is — that I’m aware of the risks I’m taking.
When I came back, I didn’t want to talk politics with people who had stayed. But I guess they really wanted to prove to me that even though they didn’t leave, they were also against the war. I was taken aback and tried to make it clear that they didn’t have to explain how they felt about Putin — it wasn’t necessary. They’re decent people, and decent people can have only one opinion of this government and this situation.
With other people who returned from emigration, I talk about politics often and in depth. In my circle, those who left tend to have a better grasp of the political context and are more knowledgeable about politics. When we talk — sometimes loudly and in public — it feels like we’re somewhere on a street in Tbilisi. When I meet such people here in St. Petersburg, I often jump straight into politics and current events. Every time we talk in public, I catch myself feeling afraid — like someone might be eavesdropping. But honestly, I’m proud that I never shy away from these conversations. I don’t do that with people who never left.
None of my close friends actively support Putin or the war in Ukraine. But some strongly criticize foreign governments, saying things like, “Europe did the wrong thing here,” or “The companies that pulled out of the Russian market were wrong,” or “The American and European authorities are idiots.” I keep calm. Such an attitude from Russians is understandable and even worthy of support. In many ways, the people I talk to are right.
But to me, that kind of position feels deficient — and only makes sense if it also includes a clear acknowledgment of what the Russian government is doing. I notice that many people don’t voice any judgment of the Russian authorities. I understand that it’s much harder than criticizing someone like Tim Cook or Emmanuel Macron. But when a conversation starts, I try to bring that part in. And I can hear the confusion, then helplessness, and finally anger in the other person’s voice: “Everything’s obvious already.”
The people who left tend to share a certain set of traits and skills. They’re open, active, and uncompromising in how they live — in today's Russia such people are few and far between. Here, a lot of focus is placed on building a personal life, day-to-day comfort, and material stability. It’s what they often call internal emigration — a kind of inner growth. And it’s not just about new skills, but also about a sense of independence and self-sufficiency.
Work-wise, everything is going well for me right now. I found an IT company that suits me, and I can work from anywhere. Financially, things are great too. Psychologically, though, I don’t feel as calm as I did in emigration. Abroad, there’s a strong sense of community among emigrants — it’s close-knit, supportive, and always ready to help. In St. Petersburg, I have close friends, but there doesn’t seem to be much of a demand for actively building close personal relationships.
Personal persecution — whether it’s mobilization or direct threats to my safety — would make me leave now. If there’s a complete internet blackout, or a total information blockade, it would constitute a major, fundamental change to my quality of life and my ability to work in this country.
I think that after some time, I may try to emigrate again if the opportunity arises. My only plan is to live in Serbia. I really liked it there, especially the openness and kindness of the Serbian people. Of course, it would be great to stay in St. Petersburg, because it’s my home city. But there are clear political reasons for not wanting to stay here long-term. Also, during my time abroad, I realized that not only things like freedom of speech and guaranteed equality before the law matter, but also the human spirit — which you can strongly feel in emigration.