Andrej Wasiljew

Waking up to another grey morning in Moscow, Russia, I dragged myself out of bed, my mind heavy with the usual thoughts. At 26, the weight of my future and the state of our country feels like an anchor tied to my legs. After a quick breakfast, I headed out to catch the metro to my job at the tech company downtown.

The train was crowded as always, a sea of blank faces. I plugged in my headphones, trying to drown out the noise with some old-school Russian rock. My thoughts drifted to the bigger picture. Growing up, we were constantly fed a diet of patriotism and duty. But the reality of it all feels so distant now, like a bad dream you can’t quite shake off.

At work, the day passed in a blur of coding and meetings. The war in Ukraine hangs over us like a dark cloud, but discussing it openly is risky. One wrong comment, and you could find yourself out of a job or worse, kicked out of university. My friend Dmitry learned this the hard way after attending a protest.

By evening, I was back in my tiny apartment, the monotony of the day weighing on me. Some friends have retreated into their private lives, while others have emigrated. Many of us believe Putin’s overstayed his welcome, but there are no viable alternatives. We’re told to love our country, to sacrifice for it, but it often feels like our country doesn’t love us back. We adapt, we survive, and we carry on, hoping that someday, things might change. Until then, we live in the space between hope and resignation.