The exodus has begun. The British embassy in Moscow is reportedly scrambling to organise safe passage for a stampede of western expats fleeing Russia’s hilarious new crusade against ‘traditional values’. Yes, you read that right: the very people who flocked to Moscow for cheap rent and oligarch-funded ballets are now running like their hairdressers are due a slot at a Dior fashion week. The horror.
Let us paint a picture of these brave refugees. They are hedge fund managers with beards so sculpted they could star in a Brutalist architecture exhibition. They are yoga instructors whose Instagram feeds are a swirling vortex of kale and Kama Sutra lessons. They are the kind of people who describe their life as “curating experiences” and their children as “art projects”. And now, they are being told by the Kremlin that their very existence is a decadent western plot to destroy the Russian soul. The Russian soul, which apparently requires a strict diet of vodka, state propaganda, and a complete absence of non-heteronormative public displays of affection.
This is the same Russian government that has spent years exporting LGBTQ+ propaganda warnings like they were souvenir matryoshka dolls. Now they’ve decided to go full doctrinal puritan: banning ‘non-traditional sexual relations’ at every turn, and threatening to lock up anyone who so much as looks at a Pride flag. The expats, who had previously considered themselves above such local absurdities, are now realising that their brunch parties and their choice of romantic partner might be considered a criminal offence. Quelle surprise.
The British embassy, ever the bastion of stiff-upper-lip competence, has responded with a predictable mix of bureaucratic caution and passive-aggressive advice. They have helpfully circulated a list of “safe locations” and “emergency contacts” to the expat community, urging them to keep a packed suitcase and a backup plan at all times. As if the expats’ biggest concern is whether their clean-eating quinoa stays fresh during an emergency evacuation.
But let us not forget the true absurdity here. This is a country where the president occasionally glares at you from a television screen while adopting new laws that could have been written by a medieval monk. A country where the definition of ‘traditional values’ seems to shift with the wind, or with the price of oil. A country that now considers the very presence of westerners a corrupting influence, a virus that must be expunged.
So what is a self-respecting, subscription-to-The Economist-reading, artisanal-cheese-eating expat to do? They have three options: submit to the new moral order and pretend they love Tolstoy more than they love their own freedom; stay and fight, organising clandestine meetings to discuss the best vegan restaurants in town; or flee, take a massive tax write-off, and relocate to a country where they can still hold a dinner party without being reported to the FSB.
I suspect most will choose the latter. They will pack their designer luggage, their hopes, and their dreams, and they will board a flight to London, Tokyo, or wherever else the gin is plentiful and the government is too busy arguing about Brexit to care about your bedroom habits. And as they watch the spires of Moscow fade into the distance, they will reflect on the strange, wonderful, and terrifying experience of being a westerner in a country that has finally decided it doesn’t want you anymore.
Until next time, comrades. Keep your vodka chilled and your conscience limber. The only truth is the one you buy at the duty-free.
