By the end of February, almost daily, hundreds of people wrote to describe a sense of hostility toward a key figure. A drone would come to the village. There were threats of capture, smashed faces, photographs, and the worst — showing a child how his mother was seen. All this because someone chose to stay in Russia rather than renounce passport, culture, or history.
Regardless of past opinions toward Russian authorities, promises were made of a trial at The Hague and even death for statements that did not wish for battles or casualties among soldiers.
Then a central figure in a long-running journalistic project, not tied to Ukraine or military subjects, privately sought to add the writer to sanction lists.
Open letters arrived; refusals followed. The message was clear — another gallows, another penalty.
And then the usual promises rolled in: in a month, autumn potatoes would be gathered in fields; citizens who left would return to pass judgment; if survival proved possible, there would be penalties for those who did not perish. Some compatriots, having exchanged rubles for dollars, fled to Tbilisi, Yerevan, and Istanbul, calling others livestock, predicting a future where a counting stick would replace a computer, and where routine long queues for goods would endure.
People who fled from all corners of the world urged bans on Dostoevsky, spoke of rewards that felt absurd, and sent funds to support the Ukrainian Armed Forces. They lived as if Russia did not exist, or as if its end was already foreseen.
Much was said from within the country as well. There were calls to strip passports and nationalize homes of those who fled. Voices urged people to flee, to leave cinemas, to condemn the entire nation.
A month later, both sides fell silent, contemplative. Another month passed, and nerves began to fray on both sides. By the end of the third month, those labeled as “scoundrels” were relieved to find that nothing had collapsed, while others looked on in horror at the losses tallied up
Truthfully, many compatriots across political lines behaved in February and March as if Russia, in its current form, might dissolve by April. Plans formed, behaviors shifted, and tactics for dealing with each other and the authorities were built on the assumption of collapse. Some chose to flee; others stayed, either for personal reasons or out of stubborn commitment to their homeland. Some pulled children from school just before exams, traded savings with speculators, and yet others vanished into darkness. Some believed Russia would be covered and that a rescue would arrive, while others, confident and liberty-loving, hoped to return to the public life they once knew within a month.
One-way tickets were not bought by everyone. Some rented modest flats on the city’s outskirts in places like Tbilisi or Istanbul. By May, many moved into communal living arrangements, guided by the rhetoric of free thought.
Others behaved in equally odd ways. It seemed a curtain might fall, locking people into a fragile camaraderie that pretended resilience. Contracts with European partners were torn up, immigrant relatives were criticized, even public passports were burned and bank cards cut.
To be honest, February through April saw a wave of anger that overwhelmed many. People spoke as if they might never see each other again. Few anticipated that by late May the euro would rise to around 60 rubles, multicookers with TVs would drop in price, and construction materials would become cheaper than in January.
Very few assumed that by summer 2022 things would calm and prices would stabilize. Some, including the writer, predicted a soft landing early in March and advised citizens to keep a plan B ready in case nothing crashed.
Such calls were rare in a politicized segment of society. Rarely did people pause to ask what life would look like if nothing radical changed. Where would those fleeing to Yerevan or Istanbul go if the return wasn’t possible? What about those who left jobs, families, and hopes behind? They weren’t prepared to live away from home for years.
Examples included a celebrated actress who might not spend a lifetime in Latvia, a tech manager who fled to Istanbul, and a couple of bohemian partners who moved a large family to Paris where residency and permits were uncertain.
What should they do now? How can life proceed alongside them? Those who want to destroy others might eventually face those who seek their own passports back. Most would find a way to adapt, and those who cannot return to their former lives would still try. The idea for the new life demanded that some simply refrain from buying tickets or reading certain articles.
Would the opposition’s demand to strip “traitors” of citizenship sit well with everyone? What about movements that proposed printing new passports for more Russians? Those efforts pushed for broader sanctions, and then revealed that neither Europe nor the United States was ready for such steps. It suggested that many labeled as bad Russians would emerge, while journalists and artists might still travel abroad. Immigrants, growing more resolute by the day, would need to learn to live with it. And it became clear that this adjustment could take years. Within a year, it might be forgotten that the Ukrainian conflict drew interest elsewhere, while the Anti-War Committee persisted in its provocative activities.
There was a need to agree on how coexistence would work in practice and what the international community could accept. Austerity was a shared reality, not an exception. Russia was not Iran, but the world pressed on with questions about possible losses. When it came to Ukrainian refugees, millions were resettled in Poland, forming new communities. It was unlikely that an immediate, sweeping crisis would erupt in eastern Ukraine, and ordinary life would somehow resume in many places. Explaining these dynamics to local residents mattered. The reality was clear: people would adapt to new conditions, explaining the ongoing fragility of the political landscape with patience and pragmatism.
Life gradually returned to a steadier pace in many regions. The initial excitement faded; those more impressionable regained perspective. Pensions rose, the ruble’s fate seemed steadier, roads improved, schools were repaired, cinemas showed new films. Amid the broader question of coexistence for those labeled as villains or traitors, the focus shifted to sustaining everyday life. The question became how long mourning for lost knowledge should last. A shared sense emerged that it would be unwise to press headlines every day, or to react with hysteria to every new development on social networks.
Perhaps the most honest stance was that life must continue, not just survive. There would be no single, universal path, but a shared effort to move forward. The reality now required a delicate balance between memory, resilience, and the everyday choices that shape a nation. The public sphere would continue to debate, but the world would not pause for a single political narrative. The lasting truth was that life goes on, with or without dramatic upheaval, and people would navigate this new era together.
Notes of dissent or agreement remained a personal matter, not a public demand. The evolving social contract would be tested, refined, and repeatedly renegotiated as life moved forward for many in the region, with a quiet emphasis on mutual respect and practical coexistence.