I am a voluntary exile. I have been living in Vietnam for 2.5 years, and I am not considering coming back to my country as long as Putin’s regime is alive. I know the end of the war, which we all crave, and it does not matter whether it would be defeat or victory for Ukraine; it will bring an embarrassing loss to Russia. Frustration and desolation are devouring the energy of my country. I do not feel that my country needs me anymore. Spending a lot of time working on volunteer projects, taking part in political life, and being an active citizen, I have always dreamt about a free and prosperous Russia. The war turned on at the end of a personal fight. I could not find inner strength and hope for a better future to continue to resist the evil that had captured my motherland. I left miserably, saying proudly that it was the way of my protest. Actually, I feel only shame, helplessness, and an inability to forgive myself.

As F. Dostoevsky said, the worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing. Living in Vietnam turned into a bacchanal: dance, shopping, alcohol, dates — all in vanity, all falsehood, everything for the sake of distraction. Lost and broken. I am still looking for a person who lived and fought for their own principles, creeds, and ideals. I still hope that her soul and mind have not melted in the hot sun of Vietnam.

On 24 February, at 4 am 2022, Russia attacked Ukraine. That divided life of the people from two countries, before and after, my life was no exception. In the first hours, I was trying to reach out to my good friend from West Ukraine on WhatsApp to know that she was safe and ok. In the first weeks we could not understand what was going on and talked every day to comprehend reality, supporting each other. I made posts calling for peace and shared information that Russian soldiers did in her country, which she had sent to me. We tried very hard to keep up our friendship despite everything. However, for my own sanity, I had dived into a new life in Vietnam, and it drifted us away from each other. I still believe that we could become close friends, because that formed hole nothing could be plugged.

Why didn’t I protest? I tried. I drove to the main square to speak up against the war on the first day of the war, and I saw the crowd of police there, but some people were walking around the square talking about how they felt lonely, devastated, and frightened knowing that most of their friends, colleagues, and relatives supported the war. It was the most useless walk. Speaking up against the war was suicide; people landed in jail or left the country immediately. All those who did not support the war were declared traitors and enemies of Russia. New laws, new cases, and new policy made us live in Orwell’s world.

At that time, I worked on myself as an English tutor for kids, and when I came to teach a class, parents came to me and started conversations, trying to analyze all events happening around our country. I have never hidden that I was a member of the liberal Yabloko party, and most of them knew my attitude toward Putin, but they wanted to know what I was thinking about the war. We were all pretty out of it. One of my clients attacked me and shook my body, trying to convince me the war was justified and all the fault of NATO and Americans. Other clients told me that I was zombified by Ukrainians through my dear friend, who was actually awfully scared there, and I felt all her pain. My students asked me how their future would look and shared their fears and unwillingness to live as in North Korea. VPN came into our lives.

My brother has been working for the government his whole life, but he was discharged on the fourth day of the war. He called my mother and told her that I had better leave the country. My mother was on my side, but her job as a mother to keep her kids safe, she started to spy on my Facebook, YouTube, and other social media to know what I liked or posted, and she screamed at me from fear to beg me to stop and just to shut up and go. She counted days before my leaving, fearing that something bad could happen to me; she experienced the Soviet Union period, and she knew those authorities too well. Fear has settled in our house, and the made home life is intolerable.

My friend from abroad texted me that if I wanted to leave Russia, I just needed to say it, and he would do things to help me. My American ex-boyfriend offered me help as well. I was confused and lost. “A day ago,” most of the members of Yabloko opposed the war on their pages on Facebook, and “today” all posts were deleted. I called my friends, and she refused to talk with me. Later she explained to me that police threatened her. I was sitting alone, watching YouTube and sobbing. Every day became harder and harder to say out loud what we had in our heads. People in transport, in shops, or in queues became aggressive and warlike. One random man asked my mother how her Ukrainian relatives were there; she never had anyone in Ukraine, but we have a Ukrainian surname.

I made a decision to leave Russia with a heavy heart to save my mental health and protect my freedom. New passport, a lot of papers, certificates, a new job, tickets, money, luggage, and a new life was ready to begin. I needed almost five months to make my leaving real. Why Vietnam? It was not a choice but a fast option. My mother sat opposite me and wanted me to promise her that if she died, I would not dare to come back, and my brother would care about everything. I know she thought that it would be better for me to leave my country forever. I knew only one thing: it was impossible to fight in Russia for freedom, for peace, for rights anymore.

We lost. I lost. I went into voluntary exile to seek a life abroad.

This story happened to me when I was teaching English in a center in a little town, Quang Ngai, Vietnam. This is a story about a magic hermit crab.

Min was a chubby, cute boy with dimpled cheeks and a silent student in my class. He had always refused to take part in different activities at my lessons. He was drawing cars in his notebook instead of learning English. I tried to get him involved in the games but suffered a fiasco. I decided to give him time to adapt to me and his classmates, who made fun of him for his body and his silence.

One day, I had a picnic at the beach with my friends; we had fun and were up late. It was a great evening; the sea was calm, and stars sparkled with joy in our souls. I was fascinated by a really beautiful spectacle that unfolded right before my eyes. A bunch of kids with lanterns in their hands were walking along the sea; they stopped and bent down and got something from the sand. They were very noisy, laughed, and screamed.

- What are they doing? - I asked my friends, who had been living in Vietnam much longer than me.

-They're hunting hermit crabs. They keep them as pets.

I saw a very familiar figure who reminded me of a bear cub with his clumsiness; he was waddling behind everyone with a big lantern. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at his feet and bent down and caught something with a swift motion and put it into the plastic jar.

- Hi, Min! Did you get your crab? —I asked friendly.

- Hello, teacher, - he said and ran away.

Next day, at break time, I saw students of my class in the center who were crowded around him and pushed him trying to take away his little green box.

- What is going on here? - I asked strictly.

- Min is a liar! —screamed they.

- You cannot be talking like that!

- But teacher, he is saying that his hermit crab is talking!

- Probably, it is a magic one and can talk? Let me see, please.

I took the crab, which was hiding in his shell, carefully and brought it to my ear and nodded my head.

- Wow, amazing! Crab can speak English, such a rare thing! He says to go to the classroom!

Children got excited and tried to snatch the crab from my hands, begging me to let them talk with the magic crab.

- Behave yourselves! It is Min’s friend. Please keep him safe. – I gave it back to him—ask your friend if he would like to help us with English.

Min nodded in agreement.

Since then, the hermit crab had been a regular guest in our classroom; he helped us with grammar mistakes, was a part of games, and even gave us directions, which the kids and I followed without hesitation. Step by step, Min became an active, funny, and brilliant student.

That’s how our class got a vital spark.

This is a tale of how a little magic can make all the difference.

This story is about jeans. Jeans, like many other Western goods, were forbidden in the USSR. They considered them a symbol of capitalism and everything malicious in the world.

But forbidden fruit is the sweetest. Many people dreamed about jeans. My neighbor was not an exception to the rule. He dreamed deliriously of having them.

In Soviet times, people formed a close-knit social network and leaned on each other for support. We knew each other very well and often helped each other, neighbor to neighbor. Adults were very busy at work, and we, children, spent our time in the playground with local stray dogs and cats.

One such dog was Julka. All the residents fed her, and she slept in the basement of the building. She was a calm and quiet dog. She loved kids, and kids loved her.

One day he got them, and they cost him a fortune. He was so happy to have them. They fit perfectly and felt like a second skin, as if they were tailored just for him. He was in seventh heaven and could not believe his luck; he had been dreaming about them for years. At first, he saw them in an American movie about cool guys, and he knew that he had to have them. It was not an easy way to get them. He met the right people, saved money for a long time, and risked his freedom to get them.

That day he was wearing them with a white T-shirt that said USSR on the front. He looked more handsome than usual, and everyone envied him. He bathed in rays not only from the sun; it was a pretty sunny day but also glory.

Julka was chewing a bone quietly next to the entrance door where the other neighbor put it for her. She was happy to have such a treat.

He moved with tripping feet to the entrance door and tried to open it. At that moment, Julka sprang up and charged at him without warning. He felt his heart race, and he shook his leg, trying to shake her off, but she got her teeth in the denim and hung.

He barely got free; Julka dropped the jean leg out of its mouth, and he kicked her against the wall hard with his free leg. The dog whined and pressed its body to the floor.

He looked at the torn part of his new jeans and ran to his flat. Julka was licking her legs. The man appeared at the doorway with messy hair and wide eyes; he was holding a rifle in his hands, but Julka was not paying attention to him.

As silence broke, the sound of a gunshot echoed.

He was sitting beside the dog’s body, sobbing and saying again and again.

“She killed my jeans.”

“Mum, it was just pants!” said I, crying.

“It wasn’t. It was his dream,” she said, comforting me.

I can never tell why people make anything their dream.