emigration [Theme] Page 1

Leave! You will never be as comfortable and calm in Russia as it was during your (or your parents') formative years. In business, in art, in society. in the social hierarchy. <...> People who in the recent past could easily be called anchovies, cattle, cattle will begin to respond - both in word and deed. Sometimes it can even hurt. Air (sometimes pretty poisoned), which you successfully sold, calling it creative, will no longer be bought. <...> Everything can turn out even "worse" - you can be forced to answer for the words. Just imagine: they wrote something in their cozy blog at night... <...> It was fun and scary. And in the morning they came to you. And all in an adult way. Under protocol. Leave! Save yourself. Believe me, you are a rare, almost unique population that managed to live absolutely happily, comfortably and without problems for several decades in a country where everything was unbearable - from the weather and the landscape outside the window to the people, faith and traditions.

- I believe that Chulpan Khamatova was sent so that by her example anyone could make sure how unenviable the fate of a person who lost his homeland.

Farewell elite!

And I will go to Israel.

... you bastard will learn to love your homeland - not as a guest, but as normal people should: with passion, devotion, hatred, and disgust.

... that I, like all expats, treat my homeland at the same time aggressively and sentimentally. I love everything, and everything does not suit me.

Those who decided to stay precisely because they would soon be able to return began to torment some vague sense of loss. The prospect of staying in the States did not seem as bright as before, although, in essence, nothing changed. And those who intended to return and before whom Europe, the old homeland always loomed, suddenly felt that now this is not paradise at all, but a devastated land full of all sorts of problems. It was like a weather vane: it turned one side, then the other. The touching illusions that they all lived with burst. Both those who wanted to return and those who wanted to stay equally felt like deserters. This time they deserted themselves.

What you least expect happened in my life too often: it was one of the unwritten laws of emigration.

This phantom war with invisible wounded and invisible dead, silent bombs exploding and silent cemeteries is coming to an end. What will be left of all this? Shadows, shadows - and we are just shadows too.

Everyone here can start over, changing everything that is given to him by nature: face, bust and even name. As if it were a masquerade or a source of eternal youth.

As elsewhere, I also got acquainted mainly with museums and cathedrals here - not because I loved God or art, but simply because cathedrals and museums did not ask for documents. Before the crucifixion and paintings, it was still possible to remain just a person, and not a subject with dubious documents.

Fear of the police never leaves the expat. Even in a dream. Even when he has nothing to fear.

You can always quietly leave this country. When you are reminded of this, you fucking get out of here.

Into the grave of a nomadic life?