An Emigrant’s Observations: The Russian Language Without the “Russian World”

English
By Anatoly
6 min. read

After nine years of living in Austria, I have discovered that I feel a certain envy when it comes to the German language. Here, it is the language of an independent country with its own identity, literature, and relationship with the past. Sharing a language with Germany fits perfectly naturally with this independence. Governments in Berlin may come and go, but Austrian cultural life does not become part of the next German chancellor’s political project. Spain and little Portugal have a similar relationship with their language and history, without exercising influence over Latin America today. And there is hardly any point in even discussing the idea that the English language belongs to one particular country.

With Russian, I find it much harder to feel that same freedom. Russia’s historical and cultural influence is enormous, and Putin finds it convenient to use this fact to present everything Russian-speaking as an extension of the state he rules. I have lived in another country for many years and condemn his policies, but I still speak the language I grew up with. What worries me is the very possibility that someone might consider this connection sufficient reason to include me in Putin’s “Russian World.” The worst part is that Russia itself is a multiethnic country with other languages that have long been suppressed by Moscow’s heavy hand.

There is a very specific reason for this concern. In the foundations of state language policy approved by Putin in July 2025, the Russian language is described as bringing people in Russia and abroad together “into a single cultural and civilisational community of the Russian World.” The state’s idea of linguistic belonging explicitly extends beyond the country’s borders. In other words, anyone who speaks Russian is automatically turned into some kind of representative of Putin’s values, simply because Putin himself has decided so, regardless of that person’s own wishes.

What concerns me is the political consequence of this formula. Speaking a language becomes grounds for claiming some kind of authority over a person who was never asked whether they wanted to belong to such a community. My desire to read Russian literature becomes convenient evidence of a connection with the state. Yet there is an enormous distance between loving a book and agreeing with a government, a distance that propaganda prefers to cross without involving me at all.

This attempt to claim ownership of culture looks especially strange when you remember how some literary works reached their readers. Bulgakov died in 1940, while The Master and Margarita was first published only in 1966–1967, with entire pages removed by the censors. Today, it is difficult to imagine Russian literature without this book. Its history remains a clear example of how the state treated a work that eventually became part of its cultural heritage. And if you look more closely at Russian culture, you will find that a considerable number of its poets, writers, painters, and other artists did not support those same authorities.

Similar relationships with literature continue today. In December 2023, the publishing house AST announced that it was suspending the distribution of books by Boris Akunin and Dmitry Bykov, citing the writers’ public statements. I find it difficult to accept a state’s claim to be the guardian of culture when the ability to participate in that culture depends on political obedience. It is convenient to take pride in a writer whose life is already over. A living author can still object, and that is when the limits of the authorities’ concern for literature become clear.

I understand why Russia frightens Austrians. They have their historical memories, and today’s war against Ukraine gives them new and frightening reasons for concern. During my years in Austria, I have encountered a willingness to separate individuals from their government far more often than hostility toward my origins. That is precisely why I believe it is important to distinguish between a justified fear of Russian aggression and suspicion that may extend to everything connected with the Russian language.

What worries me is how convenient this widening suspicion becomes for the Kremlin. Any story about hostility toward Russian speakers can be presented to people inside Russia as proof that nobody abroad wants them. Fear of the actions of a state becomes an argument for remaining dependent on that very state. I cannot say how much such stories actually discourage people from emigrating, but the invitation to seek protection from the same authorities that created the threat strikes me as a cruel manipulation.

At the same time, Russian political influence is perfectly capable of operating without the Russian language. Documents from the American investigation into the Doppelganger campaign, published in September 2024, described fake websites imitating well-known news outlets and accounts pretending to belong to local residents. According to investigators, the operation involved organisations working under the direction of the Russian Presidential Administration. Its objectives included reducing international support for Ukraine, and German residents were among its target audiences.

If you look closely at German-speaking bloggers today, you may notice that many of them confidently insist that Austria has only one problem at the moment: high fuel prices. And therefore, they argue, it is urgently necessary to make peace with Putin’s Russia. In my opinion, these are methods straight out of the playbook of KGB-era organisations, although I have no evidence to prove this particular theory.

Such interference exploits people’s trust in what feels familiar. Someone sees the recognisable design of a news publication, reads a message in their own language, and accepts it as part of their country’s domestic conversation. Open praise for Putin may be completely absent. Disappointment in domestic institutions and hostility between allies can also serve his interests. Of course, any connection between a particular author and such an operation requires evidence. But a person’s attitude toward Russia is, in itself, an unreliable way of identifying where the Kremlin’s political influence is operating.

I return to my feeling of “envy” and wonder whether I may be attaching too much importance to population size. An independent cultural life does not have to compete with Russia in the number of people involved. A small publishing house outside Russia can publish a book that has no chance of reaching readers there. That book can start a conversation, and both the language and the people needed for it already exist. There can be many such independent places, each with its own understanding of what deserves attention. But this worked a hundred years ago, when a published book could be something of a revelation, sometimes even a weapon. Today, however, state propaganda can respond to any account of events with three, five, or ten different and often contradictory stories, designed to confuse people, throw them off course, and blur the very questions of good and evil.

I feel uneasy starting this conversation during a war, knowing that someone may interpret my desire to maintain a connection with the Russian language as an attempt to justify imperial Russia. My extremely negative attitude toward Putin’s aggression does not change because of this desire. Yet constantly checking every thought to see how Putin might use it also gives him far too much power over my life. After all, surrendering such a powerful tool that crosses national borders as the Russian language to a dictator and manipulator without a fight is a dangerous and questionable path that only strengthens this tyrant’s power. I do not yet know how to take back something that does not belong to him in the first place. But I am certain that sooner or later, the Russian language will survive this virus too — a virus that has been poisoning the country and the world for 27 years.

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О проекте:

Меня зовут Анатолий. Я автор проекта «Жизнь эмигранта». В 2017 году я эмигрировал с семьёй из Краснодара в Австрию. Мы с женой работаем в маркетинге, а для помощи тем, кто хотел бы переехать, создали сайт Emigrants.life.
Проект «Жизнь эмигранта» ― это ежедневные новости о жизни, быте в Австрии и Европе. Переходите на сайт проекта Emigrants.life, подписывайтесь на наши страницы в Telegram , Facebook , Instagram, Twitter , а также принимайте участие в голосованиях в нашей группе в Telegram .

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