Meduza recently launched “The Emigrant Questionnaire,” a series about Russians living abroad. We plan to tell the stories of emigrants both famous and little known. Russian singer Monetochka filled out the first questionnaire. The second respondent is Elmira Drau, a 32-year-old English teacher who volunteered to take part — and we were delighted to take her up on it. Drau left Gelendzhik for Yerevan in May 2022 after someone reported her to the authorities over an antiwar comment in a Telegram chat. The only money she and her husband had came from selling their car. Neither had a remote job, and they didn’t know anyone in the city. At times, things were so hard that they had only enough money to feed their cat. Still, Elmira launched a new project (more than one, in fact!) that earns her an income. She also helps stray animals and is writing a book about emigration.
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What’s your name?
Elmira
Where do you live, and how long have you lived there?
I live in Yerevan. My husband and I moved here in 2022, and in March it’ll be five years since we arrived. Like many Russians, we hadn’t planned to move before 2022. In the very first days of the invasion, we looked into where we could move without too much difficulty and chose Armenia because I didn’t have a passport for foreign travel. Honestly, until then I hadn’t even known you could go anywhere with just a Russian domestic passport.
Early in the invasion, someone reported me to the authorities over a comment in one of Gelendzhik’s Telegram chats. People in that chat used to get together to go to various rallies, and when I opened it after the invasion began, I saw people inviting others to a rally in support of the president. I was absolutely outraged, and I wrote a long comment about how much I hated them all. They were saying, “We need to support our heroes,” and I replied that the heroes were the people speaking out against the war. Then I left the chat.
In mid-May, on a Sunday night, the local police officer called me and said there’d been an anonymous complaint. He said, “Come down to the station right now.” I refused: It was nighttime, it was Sunday, and I was scared. The next day, I got another call. I was in the middle of changing my last name on my documents, and someone from the passport office said they’d made some kind of mistake and I needed to come in urgently.
We were planning to leave Russia in just a few days, so I decided to go and check everything. They looked at my documents and said everything was fine. I walked out, and a police officer was right there waiting for me: “Let’s go sign the offense report.” At first I said no, but he said that if I refused, he’d call in detectives and I’d be jailed for 15 days. Well, let’s go, then.
I got into the car and pressed the button in the chatbot run by [the human rights project] OVD-Info, and they sent me instructions. At the station, they asked me all sorts of questions about my views on the “special military operation” and so on. I wouldn’t say they treated me badly, but being at the station was still hard. You feel like you’re all alone in the world, like you’re a minority of one. But then I walked out, turned on my phone, and all these messages of support came flooding in: Earlier, I’d texted a friend that I’d been detained. People offered to help raise money to pay the fine and find a lawyer.
We left 10 days after I found out someone had reported me. I was really worried about whether I’d be able to leave at all, especially because just a day before we left, an acquaintance of mine was detained, cited for the same administrative offense, and threatened with never seeing her child again. But even after I left, law enforcement officers kept coming to [my] relatives’ homes and asking, “Has she come back?”
What do you love most about your new country?
I ended up choosing Armenia by chance. I needed to get out of Russia very quickly, and on Instagram I came across a repost with guides on how to leave quickly. Armenia and Kazakhstan were on the list. Armenia looked more appealing, partly because you could stay for a long time without a visa. Once we arrived in Armenia, I relaxed a little: People are treated completely differently here. You realize your troubles are over and things will only get better from here.
I felt it in the very first minutes after we landed. There was a sign at Zvartnots Airport that said, “Welcome home.” After such a stressful flight, when I hadn’t even known whether they’d let me leave the country, that sign really struck me. Then it turned out our virtual cards on Russia’s Mir payment system didn’t work, and we couldn’t withdraw cash from an ATM — we didn’t know all the workarounds for transferring money yet. We got to the hotel and told the owner, and she said, “Check in, get some sleep, then sort things out and pay.” That won me over, too. I knew right away that we’d be all right here.
What I love most about Armenia is the people. Everyone here is ready to help: If you treat the country with respect, Armenians can sense it. They’re open and always happy to point you in the right direction. Locals would give you the last of what they have because you’re a guest. Second is the scenery. I’m from the Krasnodar region, and it mattered to me to have mountains nearby. Just a little way outside Yerevan, you’re surrounded by beauty.
Yerevan itself is also a beautiful city, at least the center. It’s well laid out, it’s a pleasure to walk around, you can get everywhere on foot, and I love walking. It’s big, with everything a city should have, but it isn’t as noisy or exhausting. You can rent a place in a quiet neighborhood and live in peace. I’m from Gelendzhik, which has about 80,000 people, so having a subway and living in a city of a million was a pleasant surprise.
It’s also easy to find something you enjoy doing here: There are tons of clubs and classes for adults, because so many emigrants came and everyone started something new. Back when there were more emigrants — a lot of them later moved away — something was happening every day: festivals, networking events, workshops. I’d go and think, “Wow, can you really live like this, with so many interesting things happening around you all the time?”
What was hardest to accept in your new country?
I don’t really think in terms of “hard” or “I don’t like it.” I know I have two options: Quickly accept everything that’s happening, or make myself miserable. In 2022, I decided I needed to assimilate quickly. I brushed off the little difficulties of adjusting to everyday life: I’d think, I could be in prison, and I’m not, so everything’s great.
The way people think took a little getting used to. People in Armenia live at a very relaxed pace. If you call a repairman, there’s a good chance he won’t show up that same day. But once I relaxed, I realized I needed to accept that pace: If you live that way, too, everything will be great.
The hardest thing to accept was having been forced to leave in the first place, because I miss home so much. It helped that everyone here was in the same situation, and that Russians stick together.
Armenians always try to support us. In the first year, they didn’t always understand why we were here, and there was a lot of pro-Russian sentiment. Taxi drivers would often tell me they needed a leader like Putin. They were saying it to make a good impression on us. But over time, the conversations changed. It mattered to me that, even though they didn’t always understand why so many of us had come, they still tried to make us feel welcome.
What’s your favorite place in your new city?
I love the Cascade in Yerevan. Before we moved, I decided to google where we were going, because, I’m embarrassed to say, I knew nothing about Armenia or Yerevan. I saw the Cascade and thought, “Wow, we have to go there.”
When we first walked around Yerevan, the Cascade really impressed me. Unfortunately, it’s unfinished. I think they’re planning to finish it, but it’s still a lovely place. You can grab a coffee, sit down, and look at Mount Ararat when it’s visible.
I also go to every coffee shop there is in Yerevan. If a new one opens, I’m there on the first day. Especially if it’s dog-friendly — then I’ll definitely be there.
Outside the city, Lake Sevan really impressed me, and it still does whenever we go. Its sheer size and incredible beauty are amazing. It’s a place where you can really recharge: You can come, sit, think, and watch the water and the seagulls. I really miss the sea, and Sevan helps me miss it a little less.
What’s your favorite local food?
I love zhingyalov hats — it’s a flatbread stuffed with greens, with as many as 20 different kinds of herbs. And, of course, I love dolma. I could eat those two dishes every day. Armenian food is pretty heavy and meat-based overall, but dolma is so good. I don’t make it myself; I only order it.
I don’t like fancy restaurants. I prefer coffee shops and little cafés, often family-run. We mostly get Armenian food delivered; I’m not that keen on going out to eat. Of the small Armenian restaurants, I really like the café Konservatoriya in Dilijan. We go there sometimes. They have dolma, Armenian wines, really good coffee, and desserts.
Have you taken up any new hobbies since moving abroad?
Lots. I always have a lot going on; I need to be doing something all the time, and when you’ve emigrated, it also helps you get back on your feet emotionally. I’ve started writing a book about emigration. It’s about moving and the experiences I think all of us who emigrated in 2022 shared. I’ve already posted a few chapters for anyone to read, and lots of people have written to say it’s hard to read because they’re reliving it all. That means it’s well written.
I also volunteer: I rescue cats and dogs and find homes for them. It helps keep you grounded a little: The news leaves me with this constant background anxiety, and doing something useful makes it easier. Right now, I’m fostering a cat we took home from the forest because we couldn’t bear to leave him there. Sometimes I go to community cleanups. All of that helps you realize that your life is here and now.
When I’m inspired, I paint — whatever comes into my head. I have a blog about English, and I’ve made a lot of friends through it. I study languages: Over these four years, I’ve learned Spanish and started learning Armenian. It took me a long time to get around to it, but now I’m taking it seriously.
Have you managed to make new friends? How?
I have just one friend left in Russia. We’ve been friends since childhood — we’re like sisters. Keeping that friendship was really important to me, and I’m glad we’ve managed it.
My whole social circle has changed here, and I’m really happy about it, because the people who left are just amazing. Most of the people I meet here are really interesting and creative, with tons of projects and ideas. I’m an introvert, but I still managed to push myself to get out and meet people. In Yerevan, it was a bit like being kids in a sandbox: “Want to be friends?” “Sure.” All it took was sharing a couple of fundamental values, and suddenly you were best friends: Tomorrow you’re getting coffee, the day after you’re going somewhere else together. It all came easily because everyone needed people to talk to. I’m still friends with lots of them, people I’ve known almost since our first weeks abroad.
I’ve managed to make local friends, too. I met my first through helping animals, and the second and I bonded over coffee. Armenians are very open people; they’re always happy to meet someone new. I can strike up a conversation with someone in line at a coffee shop, and we’ll exchange contact information and make plans to get coffee. Talk for five minutes, and they might already invite you over. But that happens if you’re a nice, open person yourself: Then people treat you the same way.
Do you have enough money to live in your new country? How do you deal with financial difficulties?
We hadn’t planned to move, and we had no savings. We sold the car, which we still had a loan on, and afterward we had about $1,500 left. We used it to buy tickets, get the cat’s paperwork done, buy suitcases, and book a hotel — and in the end, we had about $500 left, no more.
I don’t know how we would’ve survived without the shelter run by Kovcheg. By sheer luck, I found out about it after we’d arrived, and I applied, but we didn’t hear back for a long time. Our hotel stay was almost over, and rents in Yerevan were high then. And it wasn’t just the prices: There simply weren’t any one-room apartments or studios available — they got snapped up so fast that renting anything was almost impossible. Then Kovcheg contacted us and offered us a place to stay. There, we teamed up with some other people who were looking for housing, too, and rented a big apartment together. It worked out pretty cheap.
Neither my husband nor I worked remotely. In Russia, I taught English in person at children’s centers. After I left, some of my students switched to online lessons with me, and I had to learn how to teach that way. The money barely covered anything: For the first few months, things were so bad that I had to choose between buying food for myself and buying it for the cat. Of course, we chose the cat: We’d brought him with us, and we owed him a good life. It was really hard, honestly. Sometimes I wondered whether we’d eat that day.
But I don’t spend much time dwelling on how hard things are. If it’s hard, I need to do something quickly to make it easier. We needed something to live on while my husband and I looked for work. So I started making videos about English on Instagram, thinking maybe someone would find me there. Gradually, the blog started growing, and since a lot of people had emigrated and needed English, things went pretty well. But that took a few months. Then my husband found a job, and things got a little easier, but for a while we were still on a very tight budget, counting every penny, and the exchange rate was really bad, too. Then the blog grew to a few thousand followers, rents fell, and things got much easier.
The first year and a half to two years were still tough. We rented awful apartments with terrible interiors that I’d never have lived in if we’d had enough money. We really had no luck with apartments. In those first months, I wasn’t thinking about what a great city this was: We didn’t have the chance to walk around and enjoy Yerevan; we were thinking about how to earn a living. Later, we got a taste of how lovely and fun it is here, and how good the food is. But even in those first months, when we were thinking about survival, I never considered giving it all up and going back.
What are you doing to learn the new language?
Not that much yet: I’ve downloaded various apps, and I’m learning how to write and say things. There’s one difficulty: For some reason, everyone speaks Russian to me. I try to say something in Armenian, and they switch to Russian because they want to make me feel comfortable. But I actually want to speak Armenian.
For now, I’m learning through apps, but I want to start lessons with a teacher: Personally, I need quick results, and a teacher gives me motivation — if I’ve paid, I have to study. Besides, Armenian varies a lot from city to city, so it would be important to me to study with a native speaker specifically from Yerevan.
How do you cope when you really miss home?
Writing the book helps me a lot: It helps me think a lot of things through. My main character is from my hometown, too, and I put my own feelings into the book, along with feelings that readers might relate to. It also helps to know that I’m needed here: I’m involved in activism — for example, I privately help LGBTQ people leave Russia, and I find homes for animals.
On my blog, I write about politics as well as English. I used to have a blog devoted entirely to feminism. I still run a low-cost English group for political emigrants who can’t afford lessons — that’s a small act of activism, too. When antiwar rallies were being held, we often went to the embassy with signs. We used to take things to a shelter for Ukrainians. A bit of everything, really: I do what I can.
When I lived in Russia, I felt like I was living under a concrete slab. It’s hanging over you, but it doesn’t crush you all at once — it does it little by little. They pass some law, and it presses down on you a little. Then you think, “Well, life goes on, everything’s fine.” Then it presses down a little more, and again. Here, that slab isn’t hanging over you, and you realize you can do whatever you want.
Sometimes homesickness still hits me. Then I read the news, and it passes pretty quickly. I also realize that I miss a home that no longer exists: It lives on in our memories. It’s great to have those memories, to be able to go back in your mind and spend a little time there. But then you need to be here.
Do you feel you’re losing your connection to your home country? Is it possible to keep it?
I don’t know if I ever had a connection to Russia as such. I miss the Krasnodar region, the sea, my relatives, and my friends, but I always wanted to leave Russia itself — just on my own terms. When I watched “Friends” as a kid, I thought, “Wow, what a great life they have. I want that, too.” I’d look at that New York apartment, while at home I had overhead storage cabinets and a rug on the wall — I wanted to leave so badly.
I keep in touch with my family, but not all of them: Some of my relatives are, let’s say, on the other side. But I have a grandmother I love very much. She supports me in everything I do, including emigrating, and we message each other almost every day. I have a wonderful godmother who always said I should live somewhere else. She’s an amazing woman who values freedom, and I really like her views. We talk from time to time.
I used to have two close friends, but unfortunately, it turned out that one of them and I saw things completely differently, and we couldn’t keep in touch. There are values that are fundamental to me, and in 2022, it became clear that a lot of people didn’t share them. She was one of those people. I decided I’d rather keep our friendship as a happy memory than fight, and we went our separate ways peacefully.
Are you happy living abroad?
I believe being happy is a choice. Here, bombs aren’t exploding over my head, it’s safe, and I can speak my mind. I have sad moments like everyone else, but overall I’m pretty happy, and I think I have a decent life.
I didn’t think I was unhappy even when we were sleeping on a mattress on the floor and had no money for food. First, I didn’t have time to think about it, and second, I was afraid: If I admitted to myself that I was unhappy, I’d fall apart and stop doing anything at all. That’s beating yourself up, and it’s really harmful. So every day, I choose to be a happy person that day, and that’s how I live.
How do you imagine returning home?
I’d definitely like to visit, see my grandmother and grandfather, and just walk around the places I grew up. But I’m not sure I could live in Russia. Even if the government changes and something happens, the people who report others to the authorities — the reason I left — will still be there, and I’d find it hard to live alongside them. So I’m more likely to picture coming back for vacations, maybe once a year, but probably not living in Russia permanently.
More about Russian emigration
- Russians who fled after the 2022 mobilization tell Meduza how they rebuilt their lives abroad — and what they’ve lost along the way
- Leaving Russia doesn’t necessarily mean leaving trouble behind. Fortunately, help is out there: Meduza has compiled a list of organizations that support Russians abroad.
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