It was meant to be a showcase of Russian resilience. The St Petersburg International Economic Forum, a stage for Putin to project strength and stability, opened its doors this morning. Instead, it became a backdrop for a very different kind of spectacle: the hum of Ukrainian drones over the city's skyline.
For the delegates filing into the ExpoForum Convention Centre, the sirens were an unwelcome soundtrack. For the residents of St Petersburg, they were a jarring reminder that war has a way of seeping into everyday life, no matter how many layers of security you layer on. The attacks, described by British intelligence as a 'significant escalation', hit a fuel depot on the outskirts of the city. The fires burned for hours, visible from the historic centre.
On the streets, life continued with a kind of reluctant defiance. Taxis still ferried passengers to the forum. Businessmen in suits hurried past security checkpoints, smartphones glued to ears. But there was a new edge to the air, a tension that you could see in the way people glanced at the sky. 'They say we are safe,' one local woman told me, clutching her shopping bags. 'But you hear the explosions, you see the smoke. Safe feels like a fragile word.'
This is the human cost of a conflict that has now reached deep into Russian territory. For months, the war has felt distant for many in St Petersburg, a city more associated with imperial grandeur than frontline realities. Today, that distance evaporated. The strikes were not just a military operation; they were a psychological blow, a message that nowhere is immune.
British intelligence's heightened alert status adds another layer of anxiety. For the diplomats and foreign investors at the forum, the drone strikes are a reminder of the risks of engaging with a nation at war. For ordinary Russians, they provoke a more personal fear: what comes next?
The cultural shift here is palpable. War is no longer a backdrop; it is the foreground. The rituals of daily life shopping, commuting, sending children to school now come with a calculation of risk. The forum's grand speeches about economic resilience feel hollow against the crackle of anti-aircraft fire.
In the cafes along Nevsky Prospekt, conversations are hushed. People scroll through Telegram channels for updates, their faces lit by the blue glow of screens showing drone footage. The old certainties are gone. St Petersburg, the city of Dostoevsky and the Hermitage, is learning to live with uncertainty.
Class dynamics also surface in these moments. The wealthy can afford to leave, to retreat to dachas in the countryside or fly to safer destinations. But for most, escape is not an option. They are the ones who endure the sirens, who queue for bread, who watch as their city becomes a symbol of a war that feels increasingly endless.
As the forum continues, the world watches. But behind the headlines and the geopolitical analysis are real people, trying to make sense of a new reality. The drone strike on St Petersburg is a reminder that in war, the first casualty is always the feeling of safety.
