How I left Russia

Former “Novaya Gazeta” journalist Elizaveta Kirpanova reveals the price she and her husband had to pay when they left Russia after the start of the war

On February 24, 2022, Russia initiated a full-scale invasion of Ukraine. This conflict, termed by Russian authorities as a “special military operation,” has resulted in the loss of thousands of lives and triggered one of the most significant immigration crises in recent decades.

According to the United Nations, as of the end of the previous year, there were approximately 5.7 million Ukrainian refugees worldwide. Additionally, a substantial number of Russians who dissented with the Kremlin's policies were compelled to leave their homeland en masse, often due to the imminent threat of criminal prosecution for their beliefs.

Among these Russian exiles is former “Novaya Gazeta” special correspondent Elizaveta Kirpanova. She and her husband, actor Georgii Manucharov, departed Russia in March of the following year. They now reside in the United States of America as asylees. Kirpanova shares the beginning of her journey.

Holiday

I celebrated the arrival of 2022 in a small, cozy apartment near Moscow, alongside my boyfriend and his parents. Georgii's mother, Marina, carefully arranged elegant crystal glasses — an heirloom passed down through the family, a dowry from Baku that was brought down from the shelves only on special occasions.

I busily carried prepared snacks and dishes from the kitchen: red caviar, Armenian lavash, lobio, traditional Russian “Olivier,” and my own invention — salad with pomegranate, which, it seems, no one else liked except for me.

Georgii, my boyfriend, took charge of ensuring that the meat in the oven did not burn (after all, what would an Armenian table be without meat!). Meanwhile, the head of the family, Arkadii, who had not yet fully recovered from his illness, could only closely monitor the process and smoke a cigarette from time to time.

We settled down for dinner, and soon the president began his annual speech.

“The most important thing is that we overcame all the difficulties of the past year together,” Vladimir Putin broadcast from the screen. “We protected those who found themselves in difficult situations, especially older generations and families where children are growing up — the future of Russia. We firmly and consistently defended our national interests, and the security of the country, and its citizens.”

I must admit that the president was right about one thing: there were indeed many difficulties. I recalled the January protest in support of Alexei Navalny, during which my colleagues and I, who were covering the rally, were beaten by Russian police. Hundreds of protesters were detained, arrested, or received hefty fines.

Then there were two challenging business trips to the Far North, with countless conversations with locals about exorbitant food prices, unemployment, the authorities' harsh treatment of ordinary people, poverty, and alcoholism.

Throughout the spring and summer, the battle for medications for adult patients with spinal muscular atrophy continued. We partially succeeded in some regions but suffered a crushing defeat in Moscow.

In the fall, I covered the tragedy in Kuzbass: a mine explosion that claimed the lives of 51 people. Sadly, the country quickly forgot about this, the largest disaster in the coal industry in the last ten years, and its victims within a few days.

To add to the difficulties, the Russian Ministry of Justice actively began labeling my friends, independent journalists, and human rights activists as “foreign agents.” Many of them were already forced to leave Russia. It seemed that things could not get any worse. But I was wrong.

Newspaper

A few days after the New Year, Georgii decided to discuss our plans for the future. He shared with me his long-standing dream: to visit the United States and embark on a cross-country road trip from the East to the West coast, akin to the adventures of Ilf and Petrov. I recalled my earlier aspiration to study at an American university, and things seemed to align perfectly. If I were accepted, he could accompany me. According to Georgii’s proposed timeline, I had a year and a half to prepare my application documents, and just before his 30th birthday, we could set our plans into motion. However, there was one significant caveat to this plan.

My career, after four years of dedicated work in journalism, was finally gaining momentum. The editors at “Novaya Gazeta” had placed their trust in me to cover exceedingly important and weighty subjects, and on occasion, I managed to secure justice for the individuals I featured, compelling authorities to rectify their mistakes. It appeared to me that at this juncture, amid another assault on press freedom, my contributions could be more valuable than ever to ordinary Russians in small towns and villages, where the most intriguing stories remained concealed.

Furthermore, I held the belief that “Novaya” had a certain level of “immunity”: we could not be censored, labeled as “foreign agents,” or shuttered. I could not help but wonder, who would dare to oppose a newspaper whose editor-in-chief had received the Nobel Peace Prize?

In general, I was firmly against hastily departing from Russia. On that day, Georgii and I had a heated argument, leading us to postpone our discussions regarding our plans. As it turned out, we found ourselves in the US not a year and a half later, but a mere four months after that conversation.

Bride

On February 24, I was wrapping up a report in the city of Kasimov, located in the Ryazan region, when Putin announced the beginning of a “special military operation” in Ukraine.

“Who would care about a story on Tarantino and the rescue of Pasternak’s abandoned house by the townspeople now?” — I thought and set aside my unfinished text.

Subsequently, I sold my ticket to the upcoming dance masterclasses, a dream I had cherished for over a year: there was no time for dancing anymore. In the evening, I headed to Pushkin Square, where an anti-war rally was in progress. And, for the first time in a long time, I attended not as a journalist, but as an ordinary citizen.

The following day marked my 25th birthday. Of course, I had no desire to celebrate on the second day of the war, but Georgii convinced me to get out of bed and leave the house. As it would turn out later, a surprise awaited me.

Early in the morning, amidst the backdrop of gray high-rise buildings, we departed Moscow and arrived at a holiday village aptly named “Journalist.” Adjacent to it was an equestrian club offering horse riding. A leisurely stroll through sun-drenched fields and a snow-covered forest was intended to culminate in a marriage proposal from Georgii, who had planned to approach me on horseback.

However, this plan did not unfold as intended: my horse swiftly galloped ahead, and Georgii's stallion, despite the novice rider's efforts, was lethargic and reluctant to catch up with me, instead yearning for the stable.

Georgii presented me with a ring in a rustic café near the country stable. I said yes and shed tears. How were we supposed to plan a wedding during wartime?

Later that evening, I was confronted with an urgent task: reaching out to Russians stranded in Ukraine following the onset of the invasion. I had to commence the article on the road and complete it while on my knees in the newsroom. While my friends wished Georgii a lifetime of family happiness and peace, I was in the adjoining room conversing with people gripped by fear. Their bank cards had suddenly ceased to function, air and rail connections were severed, securing gasoline and a vehicle for travel had become nearly impossible (and even perilous), and diplomatic missions remained unresponsive to calls and pleas for assistance.

Regrettably, that text had to be removed from the “Novaya” website a few days later, following the enactment of new laws. The law on “discrediting the army,” signed in early March, essentially rendered the work of independent media outlets a criminal offense. Over the subsequent weeks, nearly all my friends and colleagues hastily departed from Russia.

I found myself contemplating departure more and more frequently as well. The last straw was the rumors circulating on Telegram channels regarding mobilization. The Russian government might have sent my future husband to partake in violence or face death. I proposed that Georgii and his parents leave.

“We've already had to flee once,” Arkadii and Marina, who had escaped the massacre in Baku in the 1990s, firmly rejected the idea.

Back in March, they did not believe that mobilization would indeed be announced: it would transpire six months later. They did not oppose our decision, although they found it deeply distressing.

Marriage

We concluded that before departing, we needed to officially register our marriage. You can file the corresponding application at any “My Documents” center. Initially, the groom, Georgii, completed the form on the computer, and shortly after, I received an email:

“Elizaveta Andreevna, you have received an invitation to submit an application for marriage registration.”

I accepted the invitation, after which we were given the option to select a date and time for our registration at the registry office. The state system presented us with dates no sooner than 30 days from the submission date. This period is provided for in case of unforeseen circumstances, such as a couple deciding to postpone their wedding or even reconsider their decision to tie the knot.

Waiting for a full month for the registration was not an option for us. We had already purchased tickets for the end of March, initially to the United Arab Emirates, then to Armenia to visit Georgii's relatives. This detour cost us less than if we had flown directly to Yerevan. Due to the disruption of air travel and the mass exodus of people from Russia, airfare to visa-free countries had soared several times over in those days.

After dealing with “My Documents”, we proceeded to the nearest Marriage Registry Office in the city of Vidnoe. When we inquired about registering our marriage on the same day, the headmistress, a stout woman with an unremarkable short haircut, responded coolly. She explained that while the law does allow for expedited marriage registration, it is permitted “only under certain circumstances.” For instance, if one of the spouses is seriously ill and can provide medical documentation to substantiate the diagnosis. Alternatively, if the groom is urgently summoned to the front, the marriage authority would require proof in the form of a summons. Another condition is if the bride is at least 30 weeks pregnant, validated by a medical certificate.

None of these circumstances applied to our situation.

A few days later, we returned to the registry office for a second attempt. Since we had not devised a concrete plan by then, we contemplated appealing to the headmistress's compassion. However, we were preempted before we could launch into a tearful plea. It turned out there was one more condition that allowed for an expedited marriage registration: a lengthy business trip by one of the parties, lasting at least six months.

Classifying departure from Russia due to the risks of working as an opposition journalist as a “business trip” is admittedly a stretch. Nevertheless, my editors supported this tactical maneuver. I presented the registry office with documentation of my upcoming overseas assignment, and the director agreed to accommodate us in her cramped office. No witnesses, no music, and no grand speeches. We hastily snapped two staged photographs in the wedding chamber before vacating it for the next newlyweds.

Georgii's parents were waiting for us at the exit, holding champagne and plastic cups bought from a nearby store. We sipped the bubbly elixir while perched on a “lovers' bench” against the backdrop of gray-green panels, typical of Russia. Brown slush squashed underfoot, and spring droplets glistened in the sun. Admittedly, this was not quite how I had envisioned the happiest moment of my life.

Following our visit to the registry office, we rushed to pack our belongings. After a futile attempt to squeeze our entire lives into two small suitcases, we decided to give some of our possessions to friends and donate the rest as costumes and props to the New Art Theater, where Georgii had been serving. A few days later, he had his final performance. Parting with his troupe, which had truly become a second family over the past 15 years of performing together, was an emotional challenge. Before discussing the reasons for our departure, he asked the actors to turn off their phones. The anxiety on the eve of leaving was so intense that we feared we might be under surveillance.

Airport

Late in the evening of March 21, we bid farewell to our parents. Before stepping into the taxi, Arkadii hugged me tightly and whispered in my ear: “Take care of our son.”

On our way to Domodedovo airport, we deleted all photographs and correspondence from our phones that even remotely hinted at criticism of the authorities or protest sentiments. We were concerned about potential checks and interrogations at customs, which could lead to being denied exit from the country. Fortunately, the border guards did not inspect our devices, but they did subject us to an additional search.

Shortly after the beginning of the war, a decree came into effect that prohibited the export of more than 10 thousand dollars in cash per person from Russia. Previously, a larger amount could be taken out by declaring it in advance. Now, even having just one cent more could result in the confiscation of the entire sum. That is why we each had $9,900 discreetly concealed in our bags, keeping an extra $100 on our cards just in case. This money had been raised from the sale of my parents’ apartment in my hometown of Rybinsk in 2021.

Upon entering the airport's “green corridor,” a drowsy border guard promptly inquired about the amount of cash we were carrying. Georgii calmly replied that we were abiding by the law. In response, the guard asked for a specific figure.

“Nine thousand nine hundred...” Georgii replied somewhat evasively.

“What? In rubles?” the customs officer inquired.

“No, in dollars…”

“Come with me.”

We entered a small, brightly lit room with a long table and benches in the center. The border guard instructed Georgii to display his carry-on luggage first. He began by inspecting Georgii's wallet, meticulously counting every bill. Georgii attempted to explain that we intended to use this cash in Dubai for our “honeymoon” since we had recently gotten married. Ultimately, the amount matched what the law permitted. The customs officer proceeded to examine every pocket and compartment of the bag. Finding nothing of concern, he began to scrutinize my backpack. However, upon realizing that it was completely transparent, he expressed his disappointment:

“As I understand it, yours contains the same amount?”

“Yes…”

“In that case, on behalf of the Federal Customs Service,” the border guard said with a touch of sadness, “I congratulate you on your marriage and wish you a pleasant vacation.”

Upon landing in the UAE, I breathed a sigh of relief. We were aware that challenges still lay ahead, but we had already taken the first step toward peace and security. The mood was quickly lifted by the hot Dubai sun, even in early spring.

Dubai

On the very first evening, we had the pleasure of reuniting with my cousin, M., whom I had not seen in over five years. Back then, I was a student at Moscow State University, preparing for an internship in Slovakia, while she had delved into the study of Arabic basics at a university in one of the southern regions after embracing Islam. In due course, M. married a Tunisian, Z., who was well-versed in Russian due to his previous experience as an exchange student in Russia. More recently, they relocated to Dubai. Z. is employed as a sports trainer, while M. devotes her free time to caring for their newborn son.

Our first dinner together took place at a Yemeni restaurant, where we adhered to tradition by sitting on the floor within a specially designated area. Following our meal, we headed to the city center to admire the renowned “singing” fountains, the gleaming skyscrapers, and the Burj Khalifa tower, the tallest building in the world and the city's iconic landmark.

Over the ensuing days, we explored nearly all of the major tourist attractions recommended by M. and Z.: Expo 2020, the Global Village cultural fair, and the Gulf Coast. Occasionally, echoes from our past lives resurfaced: we unintentionally encountered Russian conversations or spotted souvenir T-shirts from “Putin Team” and traditional Russian hats with earflaps.

Dubai left us with two distinct impressions. On one hand, we were astounded by the unparalleled architectural grandeur, opulence, and the overwhelming presence of wealth. Dubai is undeniably an expensive city, where renting a single beach chaise lounge for a day costs 240 dirhams (approximately $65), and a meal for two in nearly any café sets you back no less than five thousand rubles (around $51). It's no wonder that among Russians, only millionaire Instagram bloggers seem to afford carefree living in Dubai with such prices.

On the other hand, Dubai is replete with double standards. Tourists marvel at the city's skyscrapers, yet few are aware that these structures were erected through the harsh exploitation of immigrant laborers hailing from countries such as Pakistan, Bangladesh, India, and Sri Lanka. These laborers are compelled to toil under grueling, almost slave-like conditions: at great heights, enduring extreme heat, and receiving meager wages.

While people talk about safety and the absence of crime in Dubai, they often overlook advertisements for sexual services that are thinly veiled as massage sessions. I personally witnessed hundreds of these business cards strewn about less crowded streets in Dubai. It is uncertain how many women, usually migrant workers, are coerced into this sphere. Prostitution is officially prohibited in the UAE, and according to the state's logic, that implies the problem does not exist.

We have observed numerous Russian bloggers with audiences numbering in the millions who have relocated to Dubai, yet none of them criticize the local authorities. This is not solely because it does not align with their professional roles, unlike journalists, but rather, any critique of the state carries grave consequences for foreigners.

The UAE ranks 145th out of 180 countries in the press freedom index according to Reporters Without Borders. The NGO reports that most local media outlets are either state-owned or affiliated with the government, while the activities of foreign offices are closely monitored. Independent journalists are frequently targeted by government agencies on allegations of spreading “fake news” or are simply deported from the country to hinder their broadcasting from there.

Dubai's stance on the Russian-Ukrainian conflict is also puzzling. According to reports, Abu Dhabi endeavors to maintain neutrality and offers to mediate between Ukraine and Russia. Simultaneously, the Emirates abstain from joining the anti-Russian sanctions imposed by the West and cooperate with Moscow within the framework of OPEC+. Consequently, it remains unclear what fate awaits Russians residing in the UAE who publicly voice or have already voiced their opposition to the war and might be held accountable for it. Since 2014, the two countries have had an agreement for the mutual extradition of individuals located on the territory of one of the parties for criminal prosecution. As of August 2023, there are no publicly known cases of extradition from the anti-war community, but that may change in the future.

We spent just under a week in Dubai, and during that time, we realized that it was not a place where we could see ourselves living. Thus, I felt a sense of relief as we departed, looking forward to our next destination, the “pink city” of Yerevan.

Yerevan

The capital of Armenia felt like a completely different world to us after Dubai. The scorching heat was replaced by a chilly March cold. Instead of towering glass skyscrapers, we were surrounded by Soviet and post-Soviet buildings, which were more familiar to our eyes. The city's architecture was defined by the famous beige-pink tuff stone, seemingly used for everything in Yerevan. The first signs of spring emerged as leaves started appearing on the trees, slowly bringing life back to the city.

We were warmly welcomed by numerous relatives from Georgii's side, and over the next three weeks, I would have the pleasure of meeting them all. What did this mean? Well, it meant that our hosts consistently set a grand table laden with a variety of Armenian delicacies: Eastern barbecue, kebab, dolma, lobio, an assortment of snacks featuring cheese, herbs, and eggplants. Wine or something stronger filled our crystal glasses, and, to conclude the feast, we enjoyed traditional coffee brewed in a pot called dzezva. We indulged in such feasts almost daily, and our waistlines inevitably expanded.

Despite the joyous occasion of welcoming Georgii's wife (myself), somber conversations often dominated the dinner table. The underlying reason for this was the long-standing military conflict with neighboring Azerbaijan over Nagorno-Karabakh, known as Artsakh to Armenians. The memories of the results of the Karabakh war in 2020 were still fresh. According to Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan, nearly four thousand lives were lost. Almost every person we met had lost a relative or close friend, if not in the recent hostilities, then in previous conflicts. The Artsakh conflict has been ongoing since the early 1990s.

During our conversations, a sense of resentment toward Pashinyan was palpable. There were high hopes for him after the “velvet revolution,” but many of them went unfulfilled. There was also resentment toward Russia for what was perceived as insufficient assistance in resolving the conflict. Resentment toward Ukraine for supporting Baku in the last Karabakh war and cooperating with Turkey, an ally of Azerbaijan, in supplying weapons against Russia. Simultaneously, there was empathy and bitterness directed toward the Ukrainian people, who had been enduring military attacks for the past year and a half. Armenians could relate to their pain all too well.

It was difficult to imagine the suffering our relatives were going through as thousands of Armenians were forced to leave their native Artsakh due to “anti-terrorist operation” initiated by Azerbaijan in September 2023 under the guise of “restoring constitutional order.” As I write this text, hundreds of cars and buses, packed with refugees and their belongings, are trapped in never-ending traffic jams on their way to Armenia.

Back in spring 2022, we never imagined that we, too, would become refugees. Some of our relatives naively believed that the war would end swiftly, and we would soon return home. Others advised us to head to Europe, which initially seemed like a viable option. Some former colleagues from “Novaya” had relocated to Latvia, where they were planning to establish a new media outlet that I could join.

Additionally, we considered the possibility of obtaining American visas and flying to the United States, where my parents and younger brother had been residing for a year. However, the visa application process proved to be a significant challenge. The interview dates at the U.S. Embassy in Yerevan were booked years in advance. Furthermore, leaving Russia after the war's outbreak essentially severed our “ties to the homeland,” a primary reason for visa denial.

In early April, during our second week in Yerevan, the pressure on my colleagues who remained in Russia escalated. One of our journalists, special correspondent Irina Tumakova, was labeled a “foreign agent.” Dmitry Muratov, my editor-in-chief and a Nobel laureate, was assaulted on a Moscow-Samara train. Anxiety mounted daily. It seemed as if we were still within Russia's reach, and a swift departure from Armenia was imperative.

Soon, we decided to embark on a daring journey: flying to the Mexico-U.S. border, where we could seek political asylum. We purchased tickets to Mexico City and began preparing for the challenging road ahead. One of the crucial steps in our preparations was a church wedding. We believed that with God's blessing, we could navigate this path with greater ease.

Wedding

Armenian churches, to me, are among the most beautiful in the world. They captivate with their asceticism, dimness, and a touch of mystery. They always instill a sense of peace.

Originally, we planned to have our wedding at the Khor Virap monastery, which offers breathtaking views of Mount Ararat. However, its abbot, after meeting with us, requested an extensive list of documents for what seemed like a simple ceremony. These documents included certificates confirming that we had never been previously married and certificates of baptism for both Georgii and me. These were documents we had never possessed in our lives. Additionally, there was the complication that I am “Orthodox,” and the priest remarked that “we need to discuss this with the bishop.”

In Armenia, they say that if you want to accomplish something, you should do it through your connections. So, we began searching for another church where we could marry without unnecessary bureaucracy. Georgii reached out to his godfather, who contacted his brother, who in turn contacted his friend, Priest Ter Saak, the abbot of a modest church in the small village of Mrgashat in the Armavir region. He informed us that he could perform the ceremony without all the required documents, but some would still be necessary for an official wedding certificate.

Obtaining this church wedding certificate was crucial to us, as it could potentially aid us in the US. Many American churches assist refugees and asylum seekers with immigration issues, and this certificate could serve as strong evidence of our faith and involvement.

Hence, we began the process of collecting the remaining documents. Ter Saak provided my husband with the contact information of a priest from Moscow who served in the church where Georgii was baptized 25 years ago. Georgii sent him old photos from the baptism, along with dates and names of witnesses – essentially, everything that was known about that day. Subsequently, the priest provided him with the necessary certificate. I had to reach out to my aunt, who attended a small church in Rybinsk where I was baptized – also 25 years ago. Despite the loss of their archives, the priest agreed to assist us.

Father Ter Saak assured us that with these documents we could approach any Armenian church. However, we were so touched by his understanding of our situation and his willingness to help that we decided he should be the one to officiate our marriage.

***

On April 10th, Mrgashat welcomed us with clear skies and abundant sunshine. The distant Mount Ararat, adorned with a snowy peak, was visible in the horizon. Apple trees were in full bloom, painting the landscape white.

During our car ride to the village, I diligently rehearsed the phrase: “հնազանդ եմ” [khnazand yem], which means “I am obedient.” Our relatives had explained to us that during the Armenian-language ceremony, the priest would ask Georgii if he was ready to be the head of the family and care for his wife for the rest of his life. He must agree. Then, for me, whether I was prepared to be obedient to my husband for the rest of my life. I had to answer “հնազանդ եմ” – three times.

This phrase repeatedly slipped from my memory, but when Father Ter Saak posed the question during the ceremony, I responded “obedient” with such clarity that there was no need to repeat it.

It was a poignant ceremony, bright yet somber. Without extravagant wedding attire. Instead, we rented traditional Armenian costumes called “taraz” (which, in hindsight, I would not trade for anything). 

Without my family.

Without my father-in-law Arkadii — he was medically restricted from flying at that time. He observed the ceremony through FaceTime, tears in his eyes.

Without our friends. Only one person stood by my side, a dear friend who happened to be in Yerevan during that time. 

Among the closest people, only my mother-in-law Marina was able to attend. She was dressed elegantly in a black dress adorned with sequins, stylishly coiffed, and wearing her trademark burgundy-framed glasses. She had come to bid us farewell once more before our departure to the US. Later, she would say, “I had a premonition.”

Disease

For several months, Marina had been troubled by stomach pain. In Russia, she consulted with many doctors, but all of them, without exception, only mentioned digestive disorders and advised her to adjust her diet. The Yerevan gastroenterologist, whom my mother-in-law visited after our wedding, suspected a more serious illness. However, they did not disclose the exact diagnosis and recommended further examinations to be conducted in Moscow.

In a few days, we were scheduled to fly to Mexico. Suspecting the seriousness of the disease, we contemplated staying in Armenia and postponing the trip. But Georgii’s parents assured us that regardless of the doctors' conclusions, they would face everything together.

On April 18, with heavy hearts, we departed for Mexico City, where my good friend P., who had previously studied in Moscow as an exchange student, welcomed us. Two days later, we headed to the border city of Tijuana, where we requested asylum with American officials. As per the rules, we were not allowed to travel further until we received official status. Subsequently, we were directed to an immigration detention center, where I stayed for nine days and Georgii for almost three weeks. You can find more about this experience in the second part of my report.

During our detention, my mother-in-law received a precise diagnosis.

Ovarian cancer at the third stage.

Multiple metastases throughout the abdominal cavity. 

Urgent treatment was imperative.

Marina immediately sought help at a government clinic in the Moscow region, but unfortunately, the necessary medications for her treatment, which should have been provided for free, were unavailable. Due to the outbreak of the war and the resulting sanctions, there were frequent disruptions in the supply of essential drugs to the regions. Therefore, we decided to consult a private, reputable doctor in Moscow and procure the medications at our own expense. The initial round of chemotherapy was covered by family friends, to whom we are eternally grateful. Tumor markers began to decline rapidly, filling us with hope for a quick remission. Subsequently, surgeons successfully removed the metastases, but then...

Complications set in.

Following the surgery, Marina developed an infection. The doctors began discussing the need for a second round of chemotherapy with a more aggressive drug, for which we no longer had the funds. By the end of September, I, who had never previously asked for financial assistance for myself, was compelled to seek help through my newspaper. Dozens, if not hundreds, of compassionate individuals, our readers, responded to my appeal, and within two days, the required amount of money for my mother-in-law's treatment had been deposited into her account.

Marina was unable to commence the second chemo immediately. Before that, she needed to undergo several additional minor operations. We anxiously awaited the doctors' approval for approximately a month. It was the most agonizing month of the entire year. Several times in the middle of the night, Georgii’s father called him, unable to conceal his sobs, and informed us that Marina's condition was deteriorating rapidly. Yet, each morning, to our astonishment, he reported her improvements. The doctors described my mother-in-law's situation as a “miracle.” We clung to that miracle with unwavering hope while dreading another nightmarish phone call.

Bullying

During this challenging time for our family, there were individuals who sent hurtful messages to me, and some even did so publicly. Anastasia Mironova, who introduced herself as a “writer and publicist” and had previously written controversial columns in “Novaya,” accused me of dishonesty and deception in front of thousands of people. She found it hard to believe that in Moscow and the Moscow region, one could not access free medical care and insinuated that fundraising for late-stage cancer treatment was only done by “crazy people”, “believers in miracles”, or “liars.” She did not forget to mention that my husband and I “calmly flew to the US, spending a lot of money, leaving our mother in Russia at the mercy of the 'damned Russians'.” She also accused me of being involved with a “desperate mafia” when as a journalist I attempted to raise funds for expensive medications for children with SMA.

Back then, and even now, I see no point in defending myself. A friend once told me:

“The woman has the 'survivor's mistake' — this didn't happen to her, so she believes it couldn't happen to others,” and she was right.

One of my mother's friends could not hold back and expressed her indignation to this “writer” through private messages. Mironova could not even remember who she was talking about and replied: “Who is Liza? I live in a village in the Novgorod region... don't write to me anymore, I don't talk to people who address me as 'you'... brrr” (the spelling and punctuation are retained).

Mironova never attempted to contact me to hear my side of the story. If she had, I would have provided her with all the evidence: medical records, appointments, and a breakdown of how we spent the collected funds. But she did not care. Like she did not care about the consequences her posts had on all other victims. Her goal wasn't to shed light on the issue of fraudulent fundraisers, a problem that indeed exists in Russia. Her objective was to “gain” new subscribers through a public scandal. I see no other reason.

I must admit that her malicious post about our fundraising campaign deeply hurt me. She hit a raw nerve: I genuinely felt responsible for the fact that Georgii, Marina's only son, could not be with her, despite doing everything he could to help her from afar.

I feel responsible for taking him so far away, knowing that we would not be able to return for a long time.

I feel responsible for our absence at her funeral…

Marina began the second round of chemotherapy, but her body could not withstand it. She passed away on October 29, 2022. On that day, I lay in bed with swollen eyes, drowning in guilt and sorrow. I tried to find any justification for what happened, but I could not. I will never be able to make amends for the fact that my father-in-law Arkadii is now completely alone.

Loneliness

Almost a year has passed since Marina's death. Yet, I still find it difficult to accept that she is no longer with us.

It is hard to believe that the four of us will never gather around one table again. We won't be cooking kebabs, dolma, and homemade dumplings together, following her special recipes. We won't be listening to Igor Sarukhanov on the record player or watching “The Bride from the North,” an old movie about a Russian girl marrying an Armenian. We won't quietly and intimately celebrate the New Year in that small apartment near Moscow, which lost its light, comfort, and warmth with Marina's departure.

Arkadii welcomed the year 2023 with us through the screens of an old phone. It seems that he will spend another New Year alone.

In April of this year, we were granted official status — asylum, which is the subject of my third report published in “Novaya Gazeta Europe.” With this status, we are entitled to permanent residence. We will be submitting our applications to the Immigration Service within the next month. If we are approved for a Green Card, we can apply for American citizenship in a few years. This, in turn, will allow us to submit a petition for a reunion with Georgii's father. He will receive an immigrant visa and come to the United States. Unfortunately, this process can take a long time. We cannot afford to wait 6-8 years for a reunion. We want to see each other sooner.

Right now, we cannot leave the US ourselves. To do so, we need a Green Card and a special Travel Passport, which we have not received yet. The waiting period for these documents currently ranges from one to three years.

We thought Arkadii might come to us for Christmas and New Year. To do this, he needed to obtain an American B1/B2 visa. Since the US embassy in Moscow is closed, Russians now have to go to other countries to get it. We decided to apply for a visa through the US Embassy in Astana. Interview dates for non-residents often become available there. Furthermore, traveling to Kazakhstan does not require a visa, there are no transfers, and air tickets are not very expensive.

Despite these advantages, the trip to Astana did not seem easy to us. Primarily because Arkadii is not recommended to fly for medical reasons. Although the doctor assured us that the short flight should not significantly affect his health, we still had concerns.

To obtain an American visa, we contacted a travel agency. They helped us fill out the application and secure an interview date using a bot. At the end of August, Arkadii successfully arrived in Kazakhstan. The next morning, he was at the imposing stone building of the U.S. Embassy.

During the interview, he was asked only a few brief questions: “Where do you live?”, “What is your occupation?”, “Are your parents alive?”, and “Where is your son now?” Arkadii honestly answered them all: he lives in the Moscow region, has worked as a manager at the same company for over five years, his parents are deceased, and his son is an asylee. Afterward, he received a polite rejection. The reason was that he did not establish strong enough “ties to his homeland.”

We understand and can explain the consul's decision. American authorities are stringent when it comes to visa applicants with relatives living in the United States, especially if those relatives, like us, sought asylum at the U.S.-Mexico border. Despite this, we had hoped for approval. After all, we were able to demonstrate the basis for asylum: the court granted us this status and dropped all charges of illegal border crossing. As individuals, we find the embassy's decision unjust, but we cannot dispute it.

Nevertheless, we hope that we will reunite with Arkadii soon. If not in the US, then perhaps in another country. All we need is patience.

Elizaveta Kirpanova
Georgia, United States

*All photos belong the author