Shattered Dreams: Life in St. Petersburg Under the Shadow of War

Nearly four years after Russia commenced its extensive military campaign against Ukraine, St. Petersburg finds itself in an unusual state of uncertainty.

Although the fighting is far away, drones occasionally buzz overhead, airports close unexpectedly, and military recruitment advertisements dominate public transport stops.

The Moscow Times interviewed five residents of Russia’s second-largest city to explore how the ongoing conflict has altered their daily lives. Their last names have been omitted for their protection.

Maria, 32: «I envision men dancing, not killing»

Maria runs a dance school in the heart of St. Petersburg.

“It comes in waves,” she explains, reflecting on the fluctuating student enrollment since the war began. “The first wave of departures was immediate after February 24, 2022, with many regular students leaving the country. The second wave hit us during the mobilization in September — that was tough.”

The international ties that once added richness to her school have mostly disappeared. “We would regularly host foreign instructors for workshops. Now, having someone visit once a year feels like a major event.” Traveling abroad has become far too expensive. “It’s not that obtaining a visa is impossible — it still is — but flight prices are out of reach.”

Maria attempts to find levity in her challenging circumstances. “I often think about how much better it would be if men came to dance instead of going to war and killing their neighbors. I even considered making that our school’s social media slogan, but I know I’d be arrested immediately.”

Regardless of the hurdles, dance lessons go on. “Men are actually returning to dance these days. Maybe that’s a silver lining,” she remarks. “We continue to dance and hold onto hope for a brighter future.”

Tatyana, 38: Silence as a means of survival

Tatyana, who works at a photography studio, divorced in September 2022, right after the Kremlin announced its ‘partial’ mobilization for the conflict. “Bad timing,” she quips, though she feels no humor in it.

“During normal, peaceful times, personal issues can hit you hard, but you’re not burdened by fear for the country’s future,” she shares. “Now, you can’t help but consider whether it’s safe for you and your child to stay here. That weighs heavily on your everyday existence.”

Her daughter returns home from school with assignments about ‘our heroes in the special military operation’ and memorization tasks on poems about defending the Motherland. WhatsApp parent groups have devolved into “an endless flow of propaganda posts” celebrating military achievements and promoting fundraising for soldiers.

“If your views differ from the majority, you end up with two choices: either remain silent out of fear or…” She hesitates. “I opt for silence. If I speak out, there’s a chance that among the 35 parents, someone will report me.”

Her salary of 80,000 rubles ($1,000), once considered ample, now hardly covers rent and essentials due to soaring prices.

“Three to five years ago, that was good money. You could save, pay for vacations, and afford children’s activities. Now, it’s impossible to plan anything. There’s hardly any money left, and every day brings new laws and restrictions. You never know what will be banned tomorrow or what will skyrocket in price.”

Artyom, 47: A doctor who stopped following the news

Artyom is a trauma surgeon who made a drastic choice six months ago: he completely stopped following the news.

“I unsubscribed from all news sources because I could no longer handle it. It made life much easier,” he reveals. However, he can’t avoid the military recruitment ads at bus stops promising 200,000-ruble ($2,500) salaries for contract soldiers, a figure that triples his own earnings.

“The enlistment bonus is 3 million rubles ($37,600). Given my salary, I’d have to work over four years to make that much. Meanwhile, soldiers receive this sum just for signing a contract,” he says with bitterness.

His work constantly brings him face-to-face with the war’s repercussions. “I often see soldiers after their service. That’s the most challenging aspect for me because you can’t know what mental state they’re in.” Many arrive carrying a particular demeanor: “Typically, they’re quite aggressive, embodying a mentality of ‘I’m a hero, everyone owes me’.”

He lives with his wife and 12-year-old daughter. “If we could, we’d leave. But that’s not feasible on a state hospital doctor’s salary,” he says. They’re exploring European university scholarships, hoping to eventually send their daughter abroad for studies. “We want to give her the opportunity to learn in a nation free from dictatorship.”

The work environment has grown toxic. “My colleagues don’t support me — everyone is generally quite nationalistic, perpetually discussing NATO and how the whole world seeks to destroy Russia.” To Artyom, this mindset is baffling. “As a doctor, you should advocate for life, for every life. But for many people, apparently, only Russian lives matter, while it’s acceptable to eliminate Ukrainians because they’re labeled as ‘Nazis’.”

Oksana, 42: Racing against time and repression

Oksana established her private elementary school guided by a simple vision: to treat each child with respect and understanding, nurture their unique development, and create a secure educational setting. These principles, she emphasizes, “unfortunately represent everything that free public education fails to provide.”

The war has intensified the urgency and danger of her mission. In public schools, children now create greeting cards for “Crimea Annexation Day” and produce artwork glorifying military themes. Teachers are being urged to integrate “patriotic education” into all subjects, including mathematics problems featuring soldiers and weapons.

“The military propaganda in state schools is appalling,” Oksana remarks. “Not everyone can afford private schooling, and many of our families have left the country.” Nevertheless, her school persists in serving families that align with her values. “We have amazing children and wonderful parents — they’re the only reason I still believe all is not lost.”

Oksana lives with the continual dread that her school might follow Belarus’s path, where private schools have been systematically shuttered or coerced to adopt state curriculums. “For nearly four years, I’ve feared that what transpired in Belarus could occur here — that private education will struggle to survive.”

Daily, she strives to create a semblance of normalcy for her students. Yet, each new restrictive law complicates her efforts further. “You try to hold onto the dream of that bright future we all planned for our children. Yet with each passing day, every new law, and each heart-wrenching report of bombings and casualties in Ukraine, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain that belief.”

Nikita, 22: A journalist turned delivery driver

Having studied journalism for four years, Nikita now finds himself delivering packages for Yandex, navigating the streets of St. Petersburg with other people’s belongings rather than pursuing stories.

“To be honest, I grew weary of my university courses. I didn’t gain much from them,” he admits.

But there’s more behind his decision. He became disillusioned with the pervasive propaganda on campus, from compulsory classes on “information security” that really focused on spotting “fake news” from Western sources to professors instructing students to write patriotic articles about local military families.

And what prospects await him with a journalism degree now? “All media outlets where one could actually work as a journalist are either blocked, classified as foreign agents, or their journalists have fled the country. What remains? Russia Today? Channel One? I’d rather deliver packages,” he muses.

He’s accumulating savings, though he’s unsure for what purpose. “Perhaps to leave? Or to wait for changes? I really don’t know.”

His elderly neighbor often questions why he hasn’t enlisted — the pay is better than any civilian job for someone his age. “I don’t want to kill people, neither for free nor for money,” he responds.

“I spent four years learning to be a journalist, and now journalism as I knew it no longer exists here. So, I deliver packages and try to avoid contemplating what I’m meant to do with my life.”