"When you have sausage in the fridge, you don't really want to fight."
How do Russians live in the new reality, part of which is war?
War is becoming a familiar—and therefore invisible—part of reality. It's barely discussed in public spaces or local online communities. Russians increasingly distrust political news from a wide range of sources. Apolitical Russians who justify the war are becoming more critical and increasingly doubtful of official explanations for the conflict. But this doesn't bring them closer to those who oppose the war: in fact, the only thing truly uniting Russians today is a shared sense of uncertainty.
Female employees Public Sociology Laboratories In the fall of 2023, we conducted ethnographic trips to three Russian regions—Sverdlovsk Oblast, the Republic of Buryatia, and Krasnodar Krai—spending a month each there and collecting truly unique data.
The researchers struck up conversations with acquaintances, new and old, during walks or evening get-togethers; they also struck up conversations with those with whom strangers often spoke—taxi drivers, manicurists, massage therapists, bartenders. The researchers sometimes deliberately introduced the topic of war into these conversations, sometimes waited for it to arise naturally and then developed it—and then recorded war-related fragments of their conversations in their diaries.
"NeMoscow" retold it for you research Laboratories of public sociology.
Why these three regions?
The Krasnodar Region is located close to the front. Buryatia has the largest number of mobilized and contract soldiers, one of the lowest income levels in the country, and is home to an ethnic minority. And the Sverdlovsk Region (Yekaterinburg is not included in the study) is a good example of an "average" region.
Sverdlovsk region
In the small town of Cheryomushkino, visible signs of war have almost completely disappeared over the past year: people have removed stickers from their cars; the previously visible farewells to the front, funerals, and burial services for mobilized soldiers have ceased to attract outsiders; and townspeople have become less likely to discuss the war among themselves. There are no permanent organizations associated with the war—for example, volunteer associations, patriotic education centers, or aid collection points for soldiers—in Cheryomushkino. Researchers say people are "weary of war."
Against the backdrop of a general decline in interest in the war, Father Konstantin, a priest at the local church, stands out. He recently traveled to the front, where he conducted funeral services and blessed soldiers for battle. In Cheryomushkino, Father Konstantin regularly organizes prayer services "for the soldiers." In an interview with a researcher, he used television clichés—for example, he seriously discussed the threat posed by "foreign agents" and "traitors to the motherland"—but the priest gave the impression of being a truly committed, ideological supporter of the war.
The local cinema is showing the film "Witness"—a propaganda piece aimed at presenting "an alternative view of the events in Bucha, Ukraine, and challenging the theory that war crimes were committed by Russian soldiers." Five minutes before the show, not a single ticket has been sold—though the cashier says this "isn't common, but it does happen."
Here's a description of a "charity concert in support of participants in a special military operation" called "We Don't Abandon Our Own":
"In the hallway of the cultural center, directly across from the entrance, a blank camouflage net is stretched. Next to it, a woman in a "folklore" costume is trying to figure out how to weave it. Nearby, on the sofas, a group of children aged 11-13 is playing with a tablet. To the right of the net is a stand with photographs of people in military uniforms, captioned "Defenders of the Fatherland." Most of the photographs are reports of patriotic events: schoolchildren writing letters to soldiers, women weaving nets and sewing socks, men in camouflage loading boxes of humanitarian aid into vehicles. In one of the photographs, I spot Father Konstantin, posing with a trench candle."
They tried to make the setting appropriate for the occasion, but neither the songs, nor the performers' stage personas, nor the poster, nor a single detail—except, of course, the concert title—hinted at the war. The ensembles "Firebird" and "Singing Birches" performed, and children breakdanced—just like at any holiday concert.
In conversations, residents of Cheryomushki express regret over the deaths in general—especially of very young people. "They just came back from the army!" exclaims, for example, manicurist Alena. Her colleague Lyuda echoes her: "They're sending children off to fight!" The blame, however, is placed not on specific individuals or the Russian government in general, but on abstract "powers that be": "These faggots are dividing up the land, damn it! And our boys are just fucking dying because they can't divide up this land!"
At the same time, people actively discuss military salaries: specific wages during the war, "grave" pay, and social benefits. However, when discussing military pay, those involved typically disagree on the appropriateness of such earnings, including from a moral standpoint: in their opinion, no amount of money is worth the lives, health, and integrity of a family.
Criticism of the war most often begins with the sharing of "insider" information from acquaintances on the front lines, which doesn't align with the official propaganda image of the "SVO": these are stories about how people take out huge loans and "buy these protective gear, these helmets, these fucking boots, these fucking gloves, and all this crap themselves," about losses whose scale doesn't match the Ministry of Defense reports, and about how gas is connected to every village in Ukraine.
Women often argue with the "male" logic that sees war as easy money: "They're just going for the money. My kid said, 'I'm going to join the SVO.' I say, 'Yeah, I'm not going to stand up, bitch, I'll give my life, but where the fuck are you going?'"
The Republic of Buryatia
Buryatia is a small region in terms of size and population, with strong horizontal ties. Family ties and pressure from close circles are important factors in decisions to leave or return to the region after mobilization begins. They also make participation in any protests riskier, as the consequences can affect not only the immediate participants but also their families.
At the same time, people here associate themselves with the state more strongly than with any other group, believe that the state represents their interests, and are loyal to state structures such as schools, universities, or local government.
During her entire stay in Buryatia, the researcher didn't hear a single discussion of the war with Ukraine on the streets, in stores, cafes, or other such places. In Ulan-Ude, one can see Z-patches on men's clothing, pro-war stickers on cars, Russian flags on residential buildings, and St. George's ribbons on passersby's bags. But in the public sphere, the only reminder of the war is advertisements for contract service.
In Ulan-Ude, a group of young city musicians organized a public send-off for their friend as he entered the army. A festive atmosphere permeated the event: those gathered played games, danced, and made toasts.
The researcher spoke with the hero of the occasion and found that he did not share the general enthusiasm:
"I asked him if he wanted to join the army. He replied that his whole family was military and that all his older brothers were currently fighting in Ukraine. Although he didn't say it outright, I got the sense that he didn't really have a choice. 'I really wanted to before, but the closer I get to serving, the less I want to go,' Baatar admitted."
Most of Baatar's friends are against the war, but they avoid talking and thinking about this "heavy" and "depressing" topic, preferring to engage in non-political art.
Here's how the so-called "Father's Day" is celebrated, organized by the Buryat branch of the "Defenders of the Fatherland" foundation and dedicated to the men who lost their sons in the war. It consists of three parts: the opening of the "Father of a Hero" photo exhibition, a celebratory concert with the presentation of certificates to the fathers of fallen combatants from the head of the republic, and a tea party.
"I couldn't shake the image of a wake at a funeral. However, the people around me didn't seem to perceive it as a wake. Without knowing the situation and context, I would have assumed I was at some kind of museum reception. People were smiling and making small talk. Volunteers were pouring tea for everyone. I ate a couple of cheese sandwiches and headed toward the locker room. In the foyer, at the information desk, I picked up a brochure advertising contract service," the researcher wrote in her diary.
Most of the interviewees say that they or their relatives help the Russian army in one way or another: they send money, purchase necessary equipment, or manufacture it themselves at volunteer centers.
Volunteering likely gives them a sense of control. Unable to bring back their relatives or stop the war, they feel like they're doing something.
Inga, a member of the volunteer center in Ulan-Ude, said she was encouraged to join the volunteers by a friend. She came to her in tears after a difficult day: her husband hadn't returned from the front, and she'd also had a fight with her driving instructor. "What are you crying about? Are you working?" the friend asked, and Inga replied that she wasn't. "You have this guy nearby… Go weave some nets," the friend recommended. So Inga joined the volunteers and truly felt better.
At the same time, residents of Buryatia participate in various forms of support for the Russian army not because they support the war, but first and foremost because they want to help “their own,” that is, the residents of the republic—regardless of their ethnicity.
A lama in the village of Udurg shared his observation: at the beginning of the war, he saw volunteers who were eager to help their loved ones; now, he often sees these women say, "Even if it doesn't go to my son, it goes to someone else; let him go help."
The norm of helping "one's own" forces even those who don't support the war to participate in war fundraising. But those who oppose the war can voluntarily and truly volunteer to help their loved ones at the front, primarily because for them, the Russian army and the mobilized residents of the republic are completely different.
"Putin's behavior was very wrong. How could this be? To attack Ukraine like this?!" the elderly woman exclaims indignantly. However, a little later, she proudly recounts how the Buryats are helping their own people on the front lines:
“One nephew is fighting in Ukraine. They sent him on his first mobilization, and right away they arrived at night and took him from his home. Well! Then they gave him some time to think, to pack up, and then they took him away. I wish this war would end soon! <…> That’s how this war started, everyone’s sending everything there, sending it, even trucks [with humanitarian aid]. Oh, they sent two or three trucks from our village, helping, you know, the soldiers, the guys. They supply food, meat, and money there; they send someone in charge, responsible people, directly from the administration. <…> Overall, our volunteer group, the women who went there, are apparently helping a lot. Well, the Buryats are great in that regard, of course.”
Gradually, people became accustomed to even the most tragic consequences of the war—deaths and funerals. Here's how one Ulan-Ude resident, who works at a higher education institution, describes this change:
"Initially, we discussed every death and went to the funeral. I remember our boss basically pressed us: 'They're burying a graduate of yours, of our alma mater. Make sure everyone comes tomorrow.' We didn't even know the man. They told us, and we went, stood there, and saw him off. That's just how it was. And now I don't even know who the last one was that died, or if there were any, or how many there were."
An elderly volunteer from Ulan-Ude, Antonina Petrovna, says in a matter-of-fact tone: "I have eight grandchildren, all boys. Four more died, all boys." "Did they die at the front?" "Well, yes, that's how it happened."
Many residents of Buryatia don't want to lose a resource essential to survival—their social connections. Here's how Batod, a history teacher, describes the dynamics of discussions about the war and why, at some point, these discussions petered out:
"If you consider the first days and weeks of the Second World War, then every family, every group of people—colleagues, others, friends, this and that—they were divided into two camps [supporters and opponents of the war]. <…> But then, gradually, some people realized that they had to go on living. And what about me and these people? <…> These are unpredictable times. Something happens to me, and I'll turn to them. And they'll turn to me, and so on."
Krasnodar
In Krasnodar, the letter Z appears on the facades of cultural institutions, on public transportation and bus stops, on fences, and on billboards. Advertisements for new apartments or recently opened supermarkets often appear alongside #ForTheMotherland posters or recruitment notices for contract service.
Volunteer groups in the city exist under the auspices of several political parties. Humanitarian aid is collected in Orthodox churches, and in some, parishioners are weaving camouflage nets and sewing underwear for the wounded.
Residents of the Krasnodar region speak of war as simultaneously something distant, unaffected by their daily lives ("they don't call us up," "it doesn't reach us"), and something mundane, a familiar part of everyday life ("drones are falling everywhere"). This paradoxical perception of war allows them to come to terms with what's happening.
Before the war, pensioner Irina worked “in various charitable, socially-oriented projects,” but now she is involved in “projects related to the SVO”:
"So, I'm just doing it myself now, just for myself... For example, at the Luhansk hospital they need bed linens, towels, and other things, so I just ask my friends who has what, so I go myself, gather it, wash it, iron it, take it, and hand it all over to the warehouse."
Vitaly, a resident of the small town of Novonekrasovsk, believes it's important to help civilians and refugees in Donbass, not the Russian army:
"We only help civilians. That's our policy. Well, firstly, because we have an entire ministry there for the army that's supposed to handle this—the state should be responsible for it. We basically stay out of it. And no one will help the civilian population except us."
Antonina, an elderly cultural worker from the same city, volunteers because of her pro-war views. She sharply condemns those who refuse to participate in humanitarian aid collections, especially if they have the financial means to do so: "He drives a car worth several million rubles and begs for a thousand rubles." She herself "does everything she can": "I weave fishnets, knit socks, sew underwear, make borscht and soups. I help everyone as much as I can, I make parcels, we gather things there, I invite people there, we collect food and money, and send parcels there."
34-year-old Konstantin points out that few people in Kuban are tempted by military earnings:
"So, a lot of people go to war because it's a simple way to make money. People in Kuban are more or less well-fed anyway, and it's not that easy to lure them there with money. They have a vegetable garden, at least. When you have sausage in the fridge, you don't really want to fight."
And yet the proximity of military action has an impact:
Denis, a resident of Krasnodar:
"Krasnodar is quite close to all this, so there's a certain tension in the city. We don't really talk about it openly, but people live, frankly, in a state of tension, and—what can I say?—me too. We know that volunteers are leaving here for Ukraine; we see it all, we live in it."
Elena from Novonekrasovsk feels similarly, but “tries not to think about it”:
"We're still close. There are concerns, of course. And then there's that ill-fated Crimea. If something happens to Crimea, what then? What if they decide to cross the strait here, to us? But I prefer not to think about it for now, because when you start to get worked up and panic, I don't see the point in living, suffering, while productivity declines, and I can't do anything about it."
However, according to most of those interviewed, the war hasn't directly affected them: they don't have any relatives or loved ones who went to the front, and they continue to go to work, take their children to school or kindergarten, and vacation at the seaside. In other words, the traditionally laid-back southern region has largely remained that way.