These Meduza readers emigrated from Russia. Here’s what strikes them when they visit home.

Many Russians who moved abroad after the start of the full-scale war against Ukraine continue to return home occasionally, whether to see their friends and family, receive medical care, or deal with paperwork. On these visits, they often notice changes that have long stopped seeming unusual to their compatriots who stayed. Meduza asked its readers who no longer live in Russia to share what strikes them most about life in the country when they go back. Here are some of their responses, translated from Russian and edited for length and clarity.

Danila

Lives in Germany; visited his parents in Lipetsk in 2025

Three things shocked me on my visit.

First, the complete absence of people. Places that used to be packed — parks, malls, main streets — are now empty. Even on weekends, you rarely see crowds. It’s especially noticeable on minibuses: they used to be crammed at rush hour, with people standing on the steps. Now they run almost empty.

The second is the breakdown of infrastructure. Roads, curbs, foundations, lighting, bus stops — everything is either broken, not working, or in terrible condition. You can tell there’s much less money in the city budget.

The third is economic decline. Half-empty shopping malls, outdated restaurants, major brands leaving. The clearest example is the Mercure Hotel in the city center, with its prime location and high-end rooms, now standing empty. From what locals say, it was taken over by a local official. It’s depressing.

Friends and family say, yes, things are changing, but not so dramatically. I feel like it’s hard for them to admit how much worse things have become — because once you do, you have to acknowledge a whole chain of other realities. I don’t blame them.

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Alina

Lives in Israel; visits Moscow once a year to see her parents and friends

I’m no longer the person I was before I left, and “home” is no longer home.

On my first visit after emigrating, I realized that memories of my past life would remain just that: memories. No matter how much you want to, you can’t go back. Moving abroad changes you profoundly.

One thing that struck me was that all the signage in Moscow is in Russian. Everything is instantly readable — my brain doesn’t have to work to decode its surroundings.

Another impression: it’s hard to breathe in Moscow. It took several hours for my headache to go away because of the heavily polluted air, especially after driving from the airport along the ring road and sitting in downtown traffic.

Billboards with “special military operation heroes” are everywhere. It’s almost the only reminder of what’s going on. And yet nobody talks about the war. For my friends, it’s a taboo subject. They’ll talk about relationships, work, kids, travel, visa problems, where to order imported alcohol — anything but the war. I guess it’s a way to shield themselves and protect their sanity.

The city itself is very beautiful, clean, and festive. It gets prettier every year. I was born there, I know it well, and I’ve always loved it. It’s painful to think that it was taken away from me. Or did I take it away from myself?

Anastasia

Lives in Bulgaria; usually visits relatives in Moscow and St. Petersburg for the holidays

A lot has changed, though people who live in Russia have learned to tune out most of it. There were periods when goods disappeared, followed by waves of Asian imports flooding the shelves. At one point I was struck by the absurdly large seedless “Jade Muscat” grapes at [the supermarket] Perekrestok, sold at a relatively affordable price. I compare prices every year: they keep going up, but people adjust.

Billboards are either blank, filled with recruitment ads, or plastered with clumsily made public-service campaigns.

In St. Petersburg especially, it’s noticeable how apartments in the city center vacated by their former residents are now occupied by people from the outskirts — grim-looking types who came into money from you-know-how. Back in the 2010s, we could easily leave a bicycle or stroller in the stairwell; now that sense of safety is gone. Overall, there’s a heavy feeling of insecurity and growing distrust of others. Especially in public spaces — the metro, buses, taxis — you have to speak indirectly and cautiously, just in case.

I’m not going [back to Russia] this year, but other family members are. I expect they’ll have their SIM cards blocked upon entering the country.

People who stayed in Moscow or St. Petersburg say it all feels like the Chechen war years, though with many new dimensions. Younger people don’t talk much about changes in the country — what’s the point of rehashing the same thing every day if you can’t change anything?

Anton

Lives in Salamanca, Spain; last visited Moscow six months ago

[The biggest change I noticed is the] scammers — I’ve never seen anything like it anywhere. They call everyone, several times a day. Many of my acquaintances have been scammed out of large amounts of money. My father was called under the pretext of replacing the apartment intercoms (which really were being replaced) and asked for an SMS code, which he gave — and they hacked his government services account and took out a loan in his name.

I was also surprised by how much people believe in psychics now. None of my friends ever used to go to clairvoyants, palm readers, astrologers, and so on, but now about 70 percent do.

Anonymous

Lives in Spain; spends a couple of months a year in Perm

Oddly enough, every time I’m in Perm, I see noticeable changes in the city. There are new parks, roads, and interchanges; they’ve finally added night lighting and some modern public spaces, and they’ve renovated the embankment area.

This raises a lot of questions for me. Why did this development start during the war? Where did the money for multiple new hospitals and parks come from? Why was the city so gray and nearly depressed [until] just recently?

As for the downsides, unfortunately, they’re what you’d imagine:

• A constant feeling of anxiety (about the economy, drones, the army), to the point that people have started drinking heavily and losing all stability. You see a lot more drunk people on the streets now.
• Real incomes are falling and continue to fall. If you don’t work in defense, you earn less every day. Taxes are rising, inflation is over 15 percent, gasoline costs about 70 rubles per liter ($3.33 per gallon).
• A growing sense of isolation from the rest of the world. It feels like a digital Gulag is forming (“whitelists” of websites, the Max messenger, the digital ruble);
• “Special military operation” veterans haven’t returned en masse yet, but you can already feel their presence. They demand respect and recognition, while society doesn’t really see them as heroes — crime conflicts, and stabbings are increasing. It’s hard to imagine what will come next.
• Periodic Internet shutdowns paralyze everything. I felt it even in Perm; I can’t imagine how people live in places [closer to Ukraine] like Rostov.

Friends and family are happy about the way the city is developing. Many have been hit hard by the economic problems, but people adapt. Overall they’re content — though that doesn’t translate into support for the war.

Anonymous

Lives in Europe; regularly visits relatives in St. Petersburg

What amazes me most is that life in the city has barely changed. Everyone lives — or pretends to live — as if there’s no war at all. New roads and interchanges are being built; from the outside, you wouldn’t guess the country is in an economic crisis. Petersburg residents talk about how well they’re doing and even pity me — by their standards, I live very modestly in Europe. The fact that their country is waging an aggressive war doesn’t bother them. Money is what matters.

Meanwhile, my relatives in the provinces describe a very different reality. There, according to them, the authorities have already swept up all the alcoholics and drug addicts for the war. Apartment prices have risen sharply because military payouts have given people cash to spend.

Rita

Lives in Spain; visits St. Petersburg once a year

The gap in living standards has become striking. In some places, it feels like being thrown back into the 1990s. Shopping malls have split into ones “for the rich” and ones “for the poor” — the latter selling knockoffs at prices two or three times lower, and with no fitting rooms, you just try the clothes on right there [on the sales floor]. Across from my building, a manicured lawn has been replaced by an outdoor market selling Chinese goods.

I’m not judging, but there are lots of newcomers with a “cousins from the village” vibe in their speech and manners. Lots of swearing, especially from kids. Scooters lie around everywhere; walking on sidewalks feels unsafe. Buses are filthy; the smell on them is overwhelming. There are also a lot of people with prosthetic limbs. I was surprised to hear people openly discussing — and criticizing — the war around the city.

It feels like this isn’t my city and I’m not a local anymore (except maybe in theaters, cafes, or bookstores). That feeling grows stronger every year.

Anonymous

Lives in Munich; visits family and close friends once a year

Every trip is a little scary — I wipe my phone before reaching the border. My relatives miss me but try to dissuade me from coming, saying they’d feel safer if I didn’t.

Each visit, I see signs of the war: new graves in the village cemetery, army recruitment posters, schoolkids I know joking about their “Important Conversations” classes. It’s surprising and comforting when I come across little islands of freedom. Near a relative’s building, just meters from an Interior Ministry school, there was a huge graffiti message reading “Fuck the war!” Once I walked into a semi-underground flea market and Noize MC’s [anti-Kremlin song] “Swan Lake” was playing. Sometimes a shop clerk, hairdresser, or random stranger will say something vaguely anti-war — and the day instantly feels better.

Still, every visit is an emotional roller-coaster. I’m happy to see loved ones and spend time together, but then I remember the political context and it becomes hard to breathe. Every time I leave with a mix of sadness and relief.

Anonymous

Lives in Germany; visits St. Petersburg once a year

The most cynical thing inside the country now is how clearly they’ve put prices on human lives. The poorer and more hopeless a city, the higher the payouts advertised on recruitment posters. In Tula, for example, there’s a lot of poverty, so the payments are enormous.

Along the entire highway, billboards display portraits of “heroes”; closer to Moscow, you start to see posters urging women to give birth, along with ads for [the Orthodox Christian station] Radio Vera. There are lots of Chinese cars on the roads. All of the Lukoil gas stations have pro-war Z symbols, but closer to Moscow they disappear. And the Don and Neva highways now cost more to use than the toll roads in Austria.

In St. Petersburg, you barely feel the war at all. The entire city center is wrapped in green construction netting and continues to decay, war or no war. People desperately pretend nothing is happening. They only notice when the airport closes [due to drone attacks]. When people call the war a “special military operation,” I no longer correct them. Many have adopted a victim mentality: “Ukraine is shelling Belgorod too!” or “They could have just given us the territories and none of this would have happened!” It’s bitter and empty, and completely unclear what it would take for Russian society to change.

Friends and relatives are getting poorer but try not to draw cause-and-effect conclusions. There’s a lot of emigration and escapism. Some people are convinced “Trump will negotiate a solution.”

Vladimir

Lives in Germany; visits relatives in Omsk

I left Russia four years ago — not because of the war, but through a resettlement program for ethnic Germans. I first visited relatives back home in 2023 and was shocked — even frightened — by how much hatred toward Europeans and Ukrainians had grown. There was tension in the air, hostility toward everything “foreign.” Even relatives openly said things like “Europe must end.” At holiday tables, people smiled while discussing how Europe would freeze without gas. When I asked, “Have you bought firewood or coal yourselves? You don’t have money either,” they were at a loss.

My second visit this year was much harder. At airports, I saw huge numbers of military personnel — including people on crutches, without arms, without legs. Never in my entire life — not during the Chechen wars, not during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan — have I seen so many shattered lives.

Prices shocked me even more: they were higher than in Germany, with noticeably worse quality. Internet access, once among the best in the world, barely works now, with many familiar services blocked. It feels like a 10-year step backward.

People speak in vague generalities, as if afraid to say too much. At the same time, people’s growing dissatisfaction is noticeable. Hatred of the West seems to have faded, replaced by disappointment, resentment, and sometimes open contempt for the “tsar” and his system.

Tatyana

Lives in the United States; visited Novocherkassk in fall 2025 out of homesickness

I didn’t recognize the country or its people. My city is in southern Russia, very close to the Ukrainian border, and it’s flooded with military equipment and soldiers. They’ve brought unimaginable money by local standards, and they spend it wildly: buying alcohol in insane quantities, with prostitution flourishing. There are a lot of wounded and disabled soldiers living in hotels and rented apartments. Ninety percent of them are constantly drunk.

Only lieutenant colonels and higher-ranking officers retain a somewhat human appearance. The rest are clearly from — forgive me — the bottom rungs of society. Crime has risen because of them. The city cemetery has expanded noticeably.

In Novocherkassk, there’s decay and abandonment everywhere. Roads and building facades are in terrible condition. Nothing’s being done to fix it. It’s obvious there’s no money in the budget to improve living standards. There’s no Internet either.

And the prices… most people eat poorly, trying to save every penny.

But what struck me most wasn’t even that. It was the people. Four years into the war, their eyes no longer light up; hope is gone. Fear has returned. I didn’t meet a single “patriot.” The general feeling is: please let this end, why did we ever start it? No one believes in a better future. Everyone says things will only get worse. And at the same time, they’re afraid to say a word too much — they’re are broken and resigned. There’s no talk of any kind of resistance.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to get closure without this trip And I needed it — I’d left too much in my past life. The therapeutic effect of returning home exceeded all expectations. I realized that I’m fine, and that the hardest phase of emigration is behind me. I’ll live out my remaining years in a foreign country, but free and with a clear conscience. That’s turned out to be the most important thing.