Since the beginning of the war in Ukraine, political repression within Russia has escalated dramatically, silencing dissenters and pushing many activists into exile. Masina’s interviewee, a former theater professional, became involved in resistance movements, providing aid to detained protesters and political prisoners. Her story is a vivid testament to the courage and resilience of Russian activists who continue to speak out against injustice despite grave personal risks. In this interview, she shares her harrowing journey from performing on stage to escaping her homeland in fear for her life, now adjusting to a new life.
Amidst rising protests in Serbia, the story of our interviewee serves as both a reflection of authoritarianism and a reminder of the consequences of unchecked power. Though Serbia has not reached the same level of political repression, growing concerns about media freedom, judicial independence, and civil liberties resemble the early warning signs seen in Russia. The experiences of Russian exiles like our interviewee, offer an important warning to societies everywhere: the erosion of democratic freedoms can happen gradually, until the point of no return is suddenly all too clear.
What was your occupation in Russia?
Before moving to Serbia, I worked in theater as an actress, director, and props artist. I also worked on various creative projects – designing sets and props for other people’s performances, and assisting in different workshops for creating theater puppets.
When did you realize that your safety was at risk?
I’ve always been politically active, attending protests while it was still safe (by “safe,” I mean physically safe: if you’re detained at a rally, you might be beaten, and later, at the police station, subjected to torture and abuse. The risk of sexual violence also increases, especially as a woman). I also sent donations to organizations supporting political prisoners.
Everything changed when Putin started the war against Ukraine. I vividly remember that day: the evening before, I had been finishing a puppet for a performance. I went to bed very late, woke up early, checked the news on my phone, and learned about the start of the war. I cried a lot, but soon my anger and rage overshadowed my despair. The feeling that I needed to act and help stop this outweighed my fear for my own life.
I reached out to an organization that supports people detained at protests – they urgently needed volunteers to coordinate with lawyers. My job was to respond to people who were in police custody and send others to bring them water, food, and hygiene supplies. To ensure logistical efficiency and that everyone received help, we gathered information from detained individuals (if their phones were not confiscated on the police bus). We tried to find out which police station they were likely being taken to. Based on this information, we would locate the necessary number of lawyers who lived nearby and were ready to assist the detainees.
Additionally, we had to coordinate drivers who helped transport lawyers to the police stations. This was especially important because, at times, people detained at protests in central Saint Petersburg could be taken to a nearby town, 70–80 km away. This happened because all the police stations in the city were overwhelmed with detainees (up to 1,000 people in a single day).
A month into the war, when half of my friends had already left the country and the other half were paralyzed with fear, very few people continued protesting because the level of police violence was extremely high. I was still helping coordinate the delivery of food and water to temporary detention centers (where people were held in administrative detention of 15 to 30 days).
I know that this cannot and should not ever be compared to what people under bombs in Ukraine are going through. Being beaten, raped, and then imprisoned is one thing; sitting in a bunker under massive airstrikes is something entirely different. But the fear for one’s life feels the same – because we are all human.
When protest activity was completely suppressed, my organization focused on helping local activists in smaller towns, and I started focusing on my own life.
What was the point where you had to escape and can no longer return home?
After the military mobilization began in September 2022, and even more of my friends left (at this point, I have only two friends left in Russia; the rest are scattered across the world, from Vietnam and Kazakhstan to Argentina and Mexico), I began volunteering with another organization. This one supports political prisoners accused under one of the most severe charges – treason (which can result in up to 25 years in prison). The organization provided both legal and humanitarian aid, such as sending food to prisons and detention centers.
I stopped all work and volunteering in Russia by the summer of 2023. From early 2023, I only occasionally volunteered, helping with some paperwork on the computer. All our communications were conducted through what seemed to us at the time to be relatively secure channels –Telegram and Signal.
At the end of summer 2023, some of my colleagues were summoned by the police. Most of them were already abroad. In early September 2023, my closest volunteer colleague’s apartment was searched. He is now under a travel ban for collaborating with an “undesirable organization.”
I left (or rather “fled”) Russia on September 6, 2023, with just a backpack. Since then, I haven’t returned because the likelihood of being detained at the airport upon arrival is very high. I haven’t seen my family since.
In June 2024, my father passed away in Russia, and I couldn’t return for his funeral. This is one of the deepest traumas I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
How is the Russian community in Serbia organized, and what problems are they facing?
After moving to Serbia, I had to take on various jobs – my profession isn’t in IT, but rather connected to contexts, meanings, and physical objects. I’ve worked in a shoe repair workshop, as a barista, a sales assistant, and a babysitter. I also teach theater to children.
I’ve met an incredible number of people who have become very close to me. Most of them are also not in IT. They are animators, 3D designers, directors, and people from other creative fields. A similar emigration experience, the trauma of moving, and a shift in lifestyle have brought us together into a very close and warm community.
I’m inspired by how people who had to pack their entire lives into a couple of suitcases – often bringing their pets with them – still try to volunteer and help here in Serbia. Whether it’s in a soup kitchen, animal shelters, or helping homeless people – they keep giving back.
We still face challenges finding jobs and obtaining residence permits. Remote work is a great advantage, but for those whose professions involve working with others, the language barrier and the need for a work permit are significant obstacles. Despite this, almost everyone I know is trying to integrate into the local community – taking language courses, looking for jobs in local companies, and joining interest groups with Serbian residents.
I know that in Novi Sad (where I live), having a bicycle has helped me and many others to socialize. Rides to the countryside with Serbian friends, conversations in nature, and other cycling-related activities have been incredibly rewarding.
