I’m Russian and War in Ukraine Made Me Mentally Ill
- Alexandra Domenech
- a few seconds ago
- 5 min read
A few months ago, I found myself in a situation where I couldn’t say a single word in my mother tongue.
I’m a Paris-based Russian reporter, and for more than three years I have been covering anti-war resistance in my country. At this point, I should be used to the war in Ukraine.
But when I recently met a Ukrainian artist at a party, something strange happened.
I introduced myself to him in English. But since many people from post-Soviet countries in the room were speaking Russian (which is our common language), he asked: “Do you speak Russian?”.
“Yes,” I responded. “But I’m ashamed to speak it with you.”
That was the first time I had spoken with a Ukrainian since the war began. At that moment, I realised, with tears in my eyes, that I've never been able to overcome the feelings of guilt and distress that the war in Ukraine caused me. And so, I knew I had to write this piece.
The shock
What was I doing when my country invaded Ukraine? How did I get through the first weeks? Through the first year?
My memories are hazy, but I remember sharply specific scenes, sounds, and words.
Vladimir Putin announced what he called “a special military operation” on 24 February 2022 at 4.30 AM, Paris time. I didn’t sleep that night in France, and neither did my loved ones in Russia. We were all waiting for something to happen…
I remember listening to the last Russian opposition radio station, Echo of Moscow. The presenter said, in a trembling voice: “Our future and our children’s future has just been taken away from us.”
A week later, the radio station went off air, banned by the Kremlin. One of the shows was suddenly interrupted by a beep-beep-beep sound. And then there was silence. That was the sound of my country becoming a totalitarian state.
I remember the almost immediate cessation of flights between Russia and the West, including direct flights from Paris to Moscow, which I had taken all the time. It felt like the connection with my loved ones back home had been physically broken…
The guilt
I remember the words of one of my family members, addressing my younger relatives who were still in the country: “Leave, flee – you have your whole lives ahead of you. As for us, we’ve lived long enough; we will stay on this submarine until the end.”
And so, they left. Today, for our safety and for reasons I can’t detail here, none of us can travel back to Russia.
I still feel the guilt for having abandoned my elders.
But what was most difficult was this unbearable feeling, which is hard to name (guilt? shame? or a combination of both?), for what my country has done.
In the weeks following the invasion, every morning I struggled to get out of the shower. I remember the sound of the water running, and thinking, “I want to stay here forever, and never go outside again – and look anyone in the eye.”
And then one day, I had what I only later understood to be a panic attack. It happened on a rainy day in March. I was sitting on a park bench, with no one around who could help me. What’s more, I felt that no one could possibly understand why I was feeling that way…
It was all building up: the guilt, the anxiety, the worry for my loved ones.
I knew I wasn’t alone in feeling that way – I discussed this, but only briefly, with other Russians I know. Briefly, because we knew that the suffering of Ukrainians was much bigger and more important, and so we felt ashamed to talk about ours.
And when the data on the toll of this war on the mental health of Russians came out, I wasn’t at all surprised by the numbers. I will never forget one statistic: in the months following the invasion, Russians spent 70 percent more on antidepressants than during the same period the previous year.
Work, work, work
I felt that the only solution was to work hard. Work to keep myself busy; to tell as many stories of anti-war dissidents in Russia as I could, so that those people could have a voice.
But many of these stories only worsened my mental health. After I interviewed the girlfriend of poet Artyom Kamardin, who was tortured and imprisoned by the security forces for an anti-war poem, I had nightmares for at least a week.
What gives me nightmares, too, is the burden of responsibility: I must somehow make sure that my work doesn’t cause any harm to the people I interview inside Russia. What terrifies me is the intentionally vague legislation, passed by the Kremlin in the aftermath of the invasion, which allows the authorities to punish anyone they want, for any reason.
And although (God knows) I do my best to protect the people who speak to me from inside Russia, I can’t help but have thoughts such as: “What if they forget to delete our chat history and it is seen by the authorities? What if the article itself causes them problems?”
When someone speaks out under their own name, I can only pray that there are no consequences for them.
And even though I’m not in Russia, I soak up the climate of terror and paranoia in which these people and my loved ones live. Since the beginning of the invasion, we have begun to use indirect language when discussing the numerous topics banned by the Kremlin (including the war itself).
And I realise that even when I’m at home here in Paris, I use figurative terms and lower my voice when raising sensitive subjects. This is how deeply the fear generated by the Russian authorities is embedded in my psyche.
The things which soothe me
At times, I wonder how much longer I can continue telling stories of Russian dissidents.
And then comes an interview, at the end of which the person thanks me for listening to them. And says that even if the article is never published, they already feel like they have a voice again.
Or, one day, I receive a letter from prison, where the person, jailed for speaking out against the war, subtly makes fun of the ridiculous actions of the Russian authorities, their absurd accusations in court, and their lack of pure logic. And I can’t help but laugh. And that gives me the strength to carry on.
I also began to work on my feelings of guilt for this war with my therapist. She told me once: “You do realise that many people, like yourself, have absolutely nothing to do with this war?” It sounded trite to me at first, but it really sank in over time.
And so, when I met the Ukrainian artist at a Valentine’s Day party this year, although I couldn’t bring myself to speak Russian to him, I did give him a flower.
He accepted it with a smile – and that was more than enough for me.