Last night I watched this video — a 3-hour documentary on how the war in Ukraine began. It hit hard. I couldn't sleep afterwards. My brain kept replaying everything from the beginning.
I remember seeing the news of the "special military operation." I remember the sanctions. I remember realizing how far Putin was willing to go. I remember nearly getting arrested just for walking near a protest square — because that's how things worked. The police didn't care what you were doing, only that you existed at the wrong place, at the wrong time.
Then came the mobilization. And the immediate decision: we had to leave.
We left Russia for Kyrgyzstan in a rush, and that was just the start.
What changed
Three years on, here's what my life actually looks like.
Work. I no longer position myself as a Russian developer. Everything — my brand, my profiles, my blog — is built as an independent international developer. All my clients are in the US and EU. I'm not actively looking for new ones, but every existing client is from the western world.
Money. I no longer use Russian banks. My banking infrastructure is fully outside the Russian system. I no longer pay taxes in Russia — I'm a tax resident of another country.
Language. I stopped writing in Russian. My blog, my products, my public presence — all English now. I built a small tool partly because of this: switching your main posting language is harder than people think.
Causes. I donate anonymously to Ukrainian causes in crypto. I don't engage with Russian services. I avoid Russian-made products when I can.
People. I've stopped talking to most people who are still in Russia. Not because they're bad people — but because most of them had options. Some could have left. They didn't. They stayed, they pay taxes, they keep the war machine running. "I'm not into politics" is itself a political position when your country is bombing another one.
The part I can't fully resolve
For a long time, there was one piece I couldn't fix: my parents.
I owed my father a debt. He helped me during a very rough financial period — essentially buying back my old apartment from him so I could clear other debts. I was paying him back monthly, in rubles, into the country I had left.
That drove me crazy. No matter how I framed it, money was flowing into a system I openly hate. Donating to Ukraine doesn't cancel that out — my conscience doesn't run on spreadsheets.
We've since worked out a different arrangement: my parents will sell the property themselves and keep the money. The debt resolves without me sending anything into Russia. It's not a clean ending — they're still there, the system is still there — but it closes the part I had direct control over.
The cost
There's a quieter, more bitter feeling underneath all of this.
Had we not spent three years trying to help certain friends survive abroad — people who eventually gave up and went back — we'd probably already be in Europe or the US by now.
But here we are.
Still in transit. Still figuring out how to exist in a world where most of my past is in a country I despise — and my future has to be built with strangers who still flinch a little when they hear "originally from Russia."
I don't want the Russian flag next to my name to make anyone feel more comfortable. It should be a red flag — literally — until the people running the country are gone.
Where I'm going
The direction is set: relocation to the EU or the US, with a business set up there. Not "thinking about it" — actively moving toward it. Some pieces are already in place. The rest is execution.
I don't know how long it will take. But for the first time in three years, the path forward is clearer than the wreckage behind me.
The takeaway, if there is one
You can't outsource your conscience to a flag, a country, or other people's choices. You can only control what you do — where your money goes, who you work with, what language you publish in, who you stop pretending to agree with.
The rest is a slow, uncomfortable process of building a new life out of the parts you actually believe in.
That's the work.
Last night I watched this video - a 3-hour documentary on how the war in Ukraine began. It hit hard. I couldn’t sleep afterwards. My brain kept replaying everything from the very beginning.
I remember seeing the news on the “special military operation.” I remember the sanctions. I remember realizing just how far Putin would go. I remember nearly getting arrested just for walking near a protest square, because that's how things worked - the police didn't care what you were doing, only that you existed at the wrong place, at the wrong time.
Then came the mobilization. And the immediate decision: we had to leave.
We left Russia for Kyrgyzstan in a rush, and that was just the start.
Now, in 2025, this is my reality:
- I donate anonymously to Ukrainian causes in crypto.
- I avoid any engagement with Russia. I don’t work with Russian clients, I don’t use Russian services, and I avoid buying Russian-made products when I can.
- But most of the people I’ve ever known - around 80% - are still in Russia. Friends. Family. My parents.
- I still send money to my parents. I owe my father a debt for helping me during a very rough financial period - essentially buying back my old apartment from him.
- This drives me crazy. Because no matter how I spin it, I am still, in some indirect way, sending money into a system I hate.
- Sure, I try to balance that out by supporting Ukraine. But my conscience doesn’t care about spreadsheets.
- I’ve lost the desire to stay in touch with most people still living in Russia. Not because they’re bad people, but because they had options. Some of them could have left. They didn’t. They stayed, they pay taxes, they keep the war machine running.
- Putin is a fascist. Anyone who actively supports or enables this war - even passively - deserves consequences.
- I don’t want to be associated with this version of Russia.
- I don’t want the Russian flag next to my name to make anyone feel even slightly more comfortable. It should be a red flag. Literally.
There’s also this quiet, bitter feeling: had we not wasted 3 years trying to help certain friends survive abroad - people who ended up giving up and going back - we probably would have made it to Europe or the U.S. by now.
But here we are.
And now, I’m trying to figure out how to exist in a world where most of my past is in a country I despise - and my future needs to be built with strangers who still flinch when they hear I’m “originally from Russia.”