Let me tell you a story about Russians. We’re unapologetically rude, cold as Siberian glaciers, and inexplicably angry all the time. We speak English with a thick accent, and we get our maths skills from the baby formula, rationed by the state-administered Soviet-era dairy-slash-unethical-human-experimentation factories. We are the enemy – always have been, always will be, whether it’s another Tom Cruise movie or a US cabinet meeting; there’s something irresistible about the appeal of cold-blooded Russian gangsters, secretive as the Cold War and pungent as the reek of Belomorkanal, looking to destabilise the otherwise perfect Western world. There are also ubiquitous hackers, War and Peace, Red Square, Lenin, prisons, blond gold-diggers, oil, Matryoshkas, dictators, bears, corruption, snow, caviar, vodka and fur coats (although I must admit, there’s nothing better than taking a walk in the snow, then barging into the steamy hallway, taking off your fur coat and taking a shot of cold vodka with a caviar buterbrod). Some people are enamoured by Russia’s history – the great literature, the balls, the Tzars, the Romanov palaces – while others are disgusted by the horrors of Communism, Stalin’s purges and Gulag. Both are just as wrong, as this fetishization is almost Oriental in nature: an attempt to demystify a culture alien to the developed society and exert power over the other.
As of February 24th, there is also The War. The War has taken the otherness to the next level, shifting the blame of the entire country upon ordinary people – it is no longer the mafia or Putin that is the enemy of the West, but Russians as a whole. It is me, Milena, who feels the weight of someone else’s massacres on her shoulders; the blame for not fighting for freedom, for not dying in the detention center, for not changing the institutional framework of the 1160-year-old state. At the age of 22, I am faced with unimaginable questions: Will I ever see my family again? Should I request political asylum? Would I ever be able to pursue my dream of working for the UN? Imagine grappling with all these questions while you’re in the middle of ECON 101! All this is because I was born on a patch of land that now belongs to the terrorist state. Had I been born 200 miles to the south, I would have had a different nationality – a different passport – a different story.
It is assumed that I, as a Russian, ought to represent my country – the good, the bad and the ugly. It is the assumption that erases the core of my humanity, my story, each of my life experiences and choices. It is the assumption that makes me weep after job interviews, scared that my accent was too apparent. It is the casual “oh, I could never tell that you’re Russian” that makes me glow with pride. It is the nightmarish horror that makes me lie wide awake at 4 am, rethinking my choice to leave. I was only 14, but I could already feel that underneath the fondness and warmth of my childhood memories, there was something dark and menacing, an unspoken burden that made my parents’ eyes water with worry whenever we received a utility bill in the mail. The numbers were constantly going up. My parents, on the contrary, were making less and less. My mom sacrificed everything to give me a dignified childhood, so I dreamt of a better life for me and for her.
I never doubted my decision to leave until February 24th. Now I’m scared that my decision to leave has cost others their lives.
I was born in Kumertau, a remote town of a little over 50 thousand people, located in the south of the Bashkortostan Republic (an originally independent region which was taken over by the Red Army during the Civil War). In Bashkir, Kumertau translates to “the mountain of coal,” which essentially describes my childhood – trips to the Ural Mountains, dirt on the soles of my shoes, dust flying in the air and gasoline rainbows in the puddles near the coal mines. It was a happy childhood, full of smiles, laughter and dearest friends. Even though I was born on Russian soil, I wasn’t born cold or unfriendly. In fact, I met my best friend when I was just a year old, and we have shared our lives together ever since, from riding our bicycles into the billowing wall of rain to first reading Fifty Shades of Grey to grieving the loss of our relatives. My childhood taught me how to love deeply, open wine bottles without a corkscrew, take care of my family, treat wounds with crushed plantains, stand my ground, build a fire in under a minute, speak the dog language and live a life full of adventure. My dad wasn’t in the mafia (yet we’re still unsure what his profession is, as he just calls himself an entrepreneur). My mom happens to be a dentist as well as the most hard-working person I have ever met. The lessons that my parents taught me – entrepreneurship and hard work and “don’t speak with your mouth full” and “finish your homework before you can go out and play” – have set me up for life, and I doubt that my upbringing was drastically different from that of my Western peers. For sure, I’ve faced considerably more challenges, growing up in a fallen state that was rebuilding itself from the ashes of Soviet Russia, but it didn’t impact my moral values in the slightest. Just my wallet.
In 2012, one thousand rubles in pocket money seemed to be enough to last a lifetime. In 2015, one thousand rubles would barely buy us two tickets to see the last Avengers movie (let alone get popcorn and coke). Since our parents did not factor the role of inflation into the allocation of pocket money, the solution was simple.
My friends and I took to the streets to earn money. I had a pink guitar with steel strings and 4 years of classical music education behind my back. My friend Adelia had a magnificent voice and 5 years of vocal training. We decided to try our luck on a chilly autumn night, when many working-class citizens would be crisscrossing a dimly lit underground passage that connected two shopping malls in the middle of the busy Prospekt Oktyabrya street. Adelia and I had three other friends with us – for courage – one of whom was holding a Bob Marley hat and swiftly pointing it in the direction of passers-by. With an open guitar case nested by our feet, I shyly played the first cord; Adelia took a deep, anxious breath and burst into song. Our repertoire included Counting Stars by OneRepublic, Radioactive by Imagine Dragons and other songs widely popular among the Russian middle-aged audience (not). Despite that, the appeal of two teenage girls with a pink guitar was irresistible, and soon our guitar case was filled with shiny coins, wrinkly banknotes, five peaches, a deck of cards, two seashells, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. One young man didn’t have much money, so he gave us two ice creams that he had bought on his way home. Another old lady said that her pension wasn’t enough to even feed herself, but that we were always welcome to stop by her place for pancakes – she even gave us her address. My friends and I grew up struggling, with making the ends meet, surviving cruel (severely underpaid) schoolteachers and navigating strained relationships with our parents, but this struggle instilled us with a sense of comradery, responsibility, courage, character and a certain grade of unbreakability. Until I came to the US, I never smiled at strangers, yet I would sell my last belongings if it meant that I could help my friend. There was no place for selfishness or individuality or self-interest: my friends and I were one, sharing everything from our struggles to our homework answers. If this is labelled as Communism, then I am happy to be one. Smiles still mean nothing to me when they’re only for show; when behind a smile there’s a calculating heart, with each beat repeating only one sound, I, I, I, I, I.
Despite growing up in Russia, I have lived in marvellous places, from Australia to the UK to the US to Turkey. I quickly discover yet another dimension of my personality whenever I settle down in a new place. In Australia, I developed a laid-back approach to enjoying my hobbies, long blacks and slow walks on the coast. In Turkey, I learned the century-old rules of hospitality, spirituality and caring for animals. In England, I became an expert in small talk and proper manners. Wherever I go, I bring my own philosophy, rooted in comradery, humanity and solidarity, while also adopting the values of my new country and enriching my perspective. There isn’t a single way to be Russian or American or Chinese. We’re all a mix of our childhood successes and traumas, TV shows we’ve watched, books we’ve read, people we’ve met, classes we’ve taken. It’s always important to listen to one’s story before assuming that where they come from shapes who they are. Chances are, it does, but not in the way you think.
I am my own person. Whether it’s immigration or abortion or wars, we are quick to judge people based on where they come from. Labelling people as conservatives, enemies, baby murderers, terrorists, without speaking a word to them beforehand. I may be from Russia, but my personality is a conglomerate of tangled ethnicities, difficult life choices and multi-national influences, from Beyonce to Bernard Werber to my grandma’s Tatar singing – as her Alzheimer progressed, she forgot how to speak Russian, so my last memory of my grandmother is her in a red dress, singing a Tatar song in the kitchen. As a 15-year-old girl busking on the streets of my hometown, I did not have the power to start wars or end them; I barely had the power to convince my mom to let me stay out past 10 pm. Now I can do much more: I have the platform to write and spread information, I have enough money saved to donate to the relief efforts, but it is still not enough. I am, after all, a girl who’s trying to do well in her classes, find a job that would sponsor her visa, navigate the dating scene, all while living in the 21st century failed capitalist state.
I am Russian, but my world is much bigger than my nationality. I carry responsibility for my choices and my mistakes; for the help I’ve given and rejected; for the words I’ve said. I cannot carry the responsibility for my nation because this burden would crush me, leaving nothing but a wet spot on the asphalt. My story is that of beauty, hard work, dreams and ambition, love, friendship, joy and adventure. And I beg to be judged by that.