No

The last time I saw my son was in 2019. At that point, the thought that our separation would last years didn’t cross my mind. But first there was the coronavirus pandemic, then the "special military operation" followed by a new operation to purge any dissent. They started to declare journalists "foreign agents", which essentially means enemies of the people. So I realized that my son could no longer return to Russia.

My son told me that I needed to hide all materials relating to him and our family outside of my home — photo albums, books, and other mementos. This was necessary in case law enforcement would come to search me, as his mother, and start rifling through everything with their dirty paws. To hell with them, let them break boxes and smash stuff — personal things should remain untouched, they are irreplaceable.

Sorting through the archives, packing them up and transporting them was unbelievably difficult. I was in my own home. This is my homeland, where I was born, damn it, where I lived under peaceful skies, confident in the future, and suddenly I have to be deprived of my own memories. And for what? Because my son calls a spade a spade?

Because of all of this, I had to vacate my old apartment and move into a new one. Now, this is how I communicate with my neighbors: we run into each other by chance in the stairwell, say hi, and that’s it. One neighbor tried to become friends with me — I politely but forcefully shut down the attempt. It could lead to danger: one word leads to another, and you don’t know what might slip out.

At my job I also don’t share my inner thoughts. My colleagues and I know each other well, we’ve worked together for more than two decades. Everyone knows that my son is abroad and where he works. But no one is prying into my private life. Everyone is trying to save their own skin, so we don’t discuss anything. I don’t know how we got to this point, but we’re scared of each other.

It’s an awful feeling: you have to constantly control yourself, and always remember that any person could be smiling at you one day but snitching on you the next. Not because they don’t like you — they might even do it unconsciously.

I find no peace at work, or at home, or at the store. It stays with me when I go to sleep and is still there when I wake up. I’m actually living through a double horror because I’m afraid both for myself and for my son. I’m always writing to him, "How are you over there? Please, look after yourself". Other parents like me are afraid in the same way. That said, I have no quarrel with my son’s life choices. Moreover, I’m proud of him.

I know of other Russian families who have wound up in similar situations. Ours is a collective horror. But we can’t even unite. If we start to get to know each other and meet up, there will definitely be some kind soul who turns up and carefully writes a denunciation — just like the granny who diligently added kindling to the fire that burned Giordano Bruno alive.

Of course, in a certain sense it’s easier for spouses than parents — they can cut all their ties with a country and follow the persecuted family member abroad. Meanwhile, we sit here. We’re all of an age where there’s nowhere for us to go, no one wants us anywhere. We’re no longer able to easily find employment, no one needs us — and it’s perfectly understandable and natural.

I have never been abroad and I can’t imagine what it would be like for me there. Here in Russia, my loneliness is internal. Everything around me is what I’m used to: my native language, customs, manners, cities. But you are totally turned inward.

In the meantime everything remains as it is: my son and I talk on the phone, write to each other constantly. Outwardly, we’re just like we were before: we talk, we do things, we laugh. But there’s a horror living inside of us. An unceasing, inescapable horror from everything: from the doorbell ringing, from the latest news, from someone’s words, from separation, from thoughts about the future.

There is still a glimmer of hope, though. I can’t imagine how my son and I will meet again, but I know that it will be magical: to hold him, hug him, sit near him, look into his eyes. I always look up at him from below. Not even because he’s a head taller than me — morally, he’s very big, I have immeasurable respect for his judgment, for the way he thinks. My little, big son. I hope that our future meeting is certain.

The mother of a Meduza journalist, who lives in Russia. For security reasons, we cannot disclose her name.