The War Next Door
On the morning of Thursday, February 23, just before my alarm was set to go off, the New York Times woke me up with an alarming headline: “Day 1 of Russia’s invasion.” For weeks, Russian forces had been amassing near the border with Ukraine, leaving the world to wonder whether this was a genuine threat or one of Putin’s terrifying bluffs. That morning we got our answer: Ukraine was under siege—and still is today.
Watching footage of tanks rolling in and buildings being shelled, it felt surreal to head to class. Never before had war felt so close. Still, there were those on campus for whom it was even closer. The conflict directly affected our small community and the pain of the Ukrainian students was palpable, as was the unwarranted shame weighing on those with Russian roots.
On Saturday, I decided to text a friend in St. Petersburg. She’d been my host sister during a high school exchange program and I still talked to her online from time to time. While she was surprisingly open about typically taboo topics such as LGBTQ+ rights, any mention of Putin had been off-limits during my stay with her and every attempt I made to discuss Russian politics was met with silence.
Within minutes she replied. “Putin has gone completely mad,” the speech bubble read. “It was clear a long time ago, but no one realized the degree of his insanity. I can hardly call him human.” Never before had she spoken so candidly about her political views. But wasn’t she scared to speak so openly? “No,” she said, “I’m not afraid to speak the truth on any platform!” Her Instagram feed reflected this newfound boldness, alternating between pictures of her cat and anti-war slogans.
“We have protests here every day,” she said, describing the rallies in St. Petersburg, which were still relatively small, and those in Moscow, where her sister lives. “The police cruelly detain people, even though they only shout ‘no to war’.” She explained that the fear of speaking out in public had only grown since the pro-Navalny demonstrations. “People were fired from their jobs, brutally beaten with batons, kicked, raped, and even tortured for participating in the protests.”
Today, Russian citizens face severe punishment for simply holding a “no war” sign. It is forbidden to call the conflict a “war” and any form of assistance to Ukraine is illegal. So to support the Ukrainian cause, my friend joined OVD-Info (ОВД-инфо), a project that encourages truthful reporting, offers information on how to join the anti-war movement, and provides legal aid to those arrested during protests.
Several other initiatives have sprung up since the war began, including the “Crew Against Torture” (Команда против пыток), which assists victims of police violence. There was also a Ukrainian project called “Look for Your Own” (Ищи своих), which helped families track Russian soldiers, but the state quickly shut it down. “We aren’t told the number of Russian casualties,” my friend told me at the end of February, “only one death has been officially announced.”
For those unable to participate in physical rallies there is the “Quiet Picket Line” (Тихий пикет), a movement led by poet and activist Daria Serenko. “The idea is to use slogans to express thoughts discretely—through inscriptions on clothes and bags, or stickers on the subway. It helps people to see like-minded individuals.” On her social media page, my friend shares some of these subtle statements.
But when I talk to her in mid-March, she sounds more forlorn than before. She speaks about the indefinite departure of some of her friends and the “craziest detention stories” of others. She still can’t believe how much her life had changed in just two weeks, gravely concluding her message: “The future of Russia is dead.”
