We did it. This channel has officially crossed 50,000 subscribers. I never expected to say that out loud.
So first—a massive thank you to each of you. Whether you’ve been here since the early days or just stumbled across one of my videos recently… You made this happen.

Today, I want to do something a little different. I’ll be answering the questions you’ve always wanted to ask—but never had the chance. Things about Russia, about me, the stories behind the stories.

Questions about Russian History


William asks: “The Soviet Union was hostile to religion. How is it that so many churches remain if being religious was prohibited?”

First, you’d be shocked to see how many churches existed before the 1917 Revolution. In my hometown, Nizhny Novgorod—a city of just 120,000 people at the time—there were 56 Russian Orthodox churches and three monasteries. 
And that’s not even counting the others: two Armenian churches, three Catholic, eight Protestant, three mosques, and two synagogues. If you tried attending Sunday services at a different place each week, it would take you over a year just to make the rounds.

Right after the Bolshevik Revolution, the new authorities condemned religion and persecuted priests and believers—sometimes even killing them. But the real destruction began in 1928—ten years after the revolution—when Stalin consolidated power. That’s when they started blowing up churches or converting them into something else entirely: factories, storage facilities, “culture clubs.” I remember spending months in the basement of one of those repurposed churches while researching my Russian Treasures series—it had become a public library. Those novels, by the way, dive deep into how religion was persecuted during that era—feel free to check them out.

As for what you see now? Many of those churches are either newly built or reconstructed. Putin presents himself as a religious man, so officials follow his lead. And on top of that, some of Russia’s wealthiest people donate huge sums to the Church… hoping, perhaps, that money can wash away sin.


Jon Ross asks: “When the Soviet Union collapsed in the 1990s, did ordinary people truly learn anything from it? Or is Russia doomed to repeat the same cycle again and again?”


I can speak from personal experience—I remember those times. And the truth is… no, we didn’t learn much. For decades, Soviet citizens were taught that politics was not their concern. Independent political activism didn’t exist. All important decisions were always made behind closed doors.

We were told what to do, where to go, what to believe—and we got used to it. Even elections were a joke: one candidate, no real choice. Most people showed up just to buy snacks that were hard to find anywhere else.

So when the system collapsed in the 1990s, most people didn’t protest or reflect. We just… shrugged and moved on. Only much later did some begin to romanticize the fall of the USSR—turning it into a tragic, nostalgic fantasy. But at the time nobody lifted a finger to save it, because deep down, we didn’t believe we could change anything. And that’s the core of the problem.

Is the cycle repeating? Yes. Because ordinary people still don’t have a real voice. Nobody’s asking them, “What did you learn from history?” or “What future do you want?” There’s no meaningful choice.

When all the power and resources are concentrated in the hands of a few, the elite can afford to fund the military, the police—and if needed, criminals—to keep everyone else in check. And what can you do in return? You either play along, you run, or you hide what you really think, hoping the state doesn’t notice you.

As for the elites—did they learn anything from history? No. Because that would require effort, reflection, and the ability to see beyond their own turf wars. And they’re far too busy dividing what’s left of the state for that.

Personal Questions

DF asks: “Do you have siblings? If so, are they still in Russia?”

Yes, I do have a sister—but she’s not in Russia.

Dougie asks: “Do you miss Russia—or anything in particular? Like holidays on the Black Sea?”

Come on… Like we had the money—or the right connections—to go to the Black Sea. My father was an inventor and my mother was an engineer at an automobile plant. We lived paycheck to paycheck and constantly borrowed money from our grandparents.

In summer, we went camping—usually somewhere along one of the Volga’s tributaries. It was magical. A small, quiet river winding through wild forests… Canoes, mushroom hunts, wild strawberries, and long summer days reading in a hammock strung between two golden pines. That’s what I miss.

If anyone knows a place like that in the U.S. or Canada—please tell me. I live in Southern California now, but I miss that northern magic terribly.



Henrik asks: “I know some Russians who are proud of Russia, love Russia—but avoid other Russians as much as possible. Do you have any theory on that?”

Oh yes—sounds very familiar. There’s actually a term for this in social psychology: in-group distancing. It describes a situation where someone identifies with a group but distances themselves from other members of that group—often to avoid being associated with perceived negative traits or stereotypes. Basically: “I’m Russian—but not like those Russians.”

And it’s not unique to Russians. I have a Chinese friend—highly cultured, well-read—who says he avoids other Chinese people because, in his words, “they’re too loud, too rude, too provincial.” It’s the same dynamic.

This kind of distancing is usually a sign of an identity crisis. You can’t stop being who you are—but you also don’t want to belong to the group that represents it.

I experienced it myself, very sharply, when Russia annexed Crimea. At first, I held onto this naïve hope—that people would recognize how wrong it was to steal land from your neighbors. But to my horror, many of my Russian subscribers justified it. They said, “Crimea should be Russian,” and dismissed international law and borders as irrelevant.

That’s when a simple litmus test started circulating: “Whose Crimea is it?” If the answer is “Russia’s,” the conversation was over. No further discussion needed—you already knew where they stood.

Here in Southern California, the Russian immigrant community is incredibly diverse—you never know who you’ll run into. It could be brilliant software engineers and scientists…or former sex workers, small-time hustlers, big-time scammers, retired businessmen, and mail-order brides. There are political exiles, too—and plenty of honest, hardworking people just trying to build a better life.

Not far from where I live, there’s an old apartment complex with a stunning view of the lagoon—but everything inside is falling apart: no air conditioning, broken appliances, constant repairs. It got such a bad reputation that no Americans wanted to live there. So the landlord started renting to newly arrived Russian immigrants—people who had just crossed the Mexican border and had nowhere else to go.

They paid outrageous prices simply because they had no other options. Soon, the place turned into a little Russia. 
And from that wildness came stories: Funny ones, heartbreaking ones. Some of these people are building real businesses.
One young woman ended her life. I’ve often thought: this place could be the setting for a play—so many human contradictions in one building. But all the stories I’ve gathered came from a friend who used to live there. Me? I’ve never set foot inside. God forbid.



Maria asks: “In your own words, what’s so special about your books?”

Well, half of my adult life was spent in Russia, the other half in the U.S.—and that gives me a unique perspective. I can look at historical events from both sides of the mirror.

If I had stayed in Russia, I’d never have found the émigré memoirs tucked away in church libraries across America, or the forgotten travel notes of tourists who visited the Soviet Union in the early 20th century.

And if I were just a diligent American author—even one fluent in Russian—I still couldn’t offer readers a full immersion into Soviet life. Because it’s not just about facts—it’s about those small, intimate details only locals know.

All of my books are about immigration—or rather, transformation: the moment we cross from one world into another. In the past, people followed the same script for generations. Today, we move cities and countries, switch careers, start over in relationships. At moments like that, our true selves are revealed.
I came to America like the Little Mermaid—following the man I loved. But I paid a high price for immigration: I lost my voice. My English was terrible. Not exactly the ideal start for an aspiring writer.

I lived in California and kept writing in Russian, hoping one day the spell would lift—that I’d finally speak and write like everyone else around me.

Let me show you how my books are born, using The White Ghosts’ Empire as an example.

One day, an elderly relative of my husband told me how her parents had fled the Bolsheviks after the 1917 revolution. 
They ended up in China—along with tens of thousands of Russian refugees—and had to adapt to a new, exotic world.

I was immediately hooked. I flew to Shanghai to find out what had happened and I discovered a world that completely blew my mind. 

Back in the 1920s, Shanghai was called many things—the Splendor of the East, the Whore of Asia. A city fueled by war, trade, and foreign ambition. Great Powers were exploiting China for its labor and opium markets, but into this delicate colonial ecosystem stumbled the Russians—and, as always, ruined it. They didn’t just disrupt things economically. They shattered the very myth of white superiority.

I could vividly imagine what it felt like to arrive in a place where no one wanted you. While writing The White Ghosts’ Empire, I poured all my fears into the story:
    •    What if I can’t make it in this new country?
    •    What if they never truly accept me?
    •    What if I never master the skills I need to survive?

But my characters taught me something. They were penniless, undocumented, rejected by both the white Europeans and Chinese, and yet, they always straightened their shoulders and rebuilt their lives. Nothing could break them.

That’s what my books are about: resilience. The people who survive—even when they’ve lost everything.
I hope you enjoy this story. And by the way, if you do—please leave a review. Young Adult fiction gets reviews easily. 
But serious readers who love well-researched fiction? They’re usually too busy to bother.
The thing is, Amazon won’t promote books without reviews. So if you liked it, please help me out. One line makes a difference.


Ukrainian War


Thormod Larsen asks: “Can Russia, at some point after the war against Ukraine, become a ‘normal’ country—a democratic, non-authoritarian one?”

The short answer is yes—but it won’t happen on its own. A country doesn’t become dangerous because of ideology alone. It becomes dangerous when power and resources concentrate in too few hands.

First, those elites fight turf wars with each other, then—if given the chance—they turn outward and start real wars with their neighbors. Always. It’s a pattern as old as power itself.

I actually have a whole video breaking down the psychology behind it. If you haven’t seen it yet—watch it. Because if we don’t understand the “why,” we’ll keep repeating the same mistakes.

If we want a normal Russia someday, we can’t keep feeding authoritarian regimes with money, trade deals, and advanced tech. Look closely at Iran, Cuba, China, North Korea—and yes, Russia. Where do they get the fuel for their “military adventures”? It almost always comes from the outside. Resources flow in, power becomes unchecked, and unchecked power grows into grandiose delusions. That’s what leads to war.

As for ordinary Russians—and how they might someday reconnect with the global community—that’s a story for another video. It deserves its own space.

Harry writes: “I’m Ukrainian. You’re Russian. Is there any hope for an honest peace—one that doesn’t rip us apart and leave only ashes? Can something truly transformative emerge, or are we just headed for another Dark Age?”

It depends entirely on who in Russia you’re talking to. Not all Russians are the same. Let me try to break it down.

Group one: 
These are the people who rejected the war from the very beginning—and said so, openly. They protested, they left the country, or they stayed and risked everything to speak the truth. Ukrainians, in my experience, don’t have a problem with them. This group already sees the path to peace.

Group two: People who say, “The war is wrong—but now that we’ve started it, we can’t afford to lose.” They see losing as humiliating for Russia. They tie national pride to empire. For them, it’s not about good or evil—it’s about identity. They borrow a sense of greatness from a fantasy, even if their personal life is falling apart. But I believe this group could change—if they saw that peace brings them more dignity, more connection, and more opportunities than war ever did. They’ll try to forget the war once it ends, because facing the moral cost would be too painful.

Group three:
 Those who stay silent. Many of them don’t speak up because it is dangerous.
 In Russia, you can be sentenced to years in prison for graffiti that says “Peace to the world,” or for a single anti-war post on social media. Restoring relationships with these people might be the easiest. They didn’t hate. They just hid.

Group four:
 The die-hard believers. The ones who cheer for war, who carry deep hatred, and will probably take it to their graves.
They are the hardest to reach. But they’re not the majority, and if the regime changes, they’ll be left behind—just like the Nazis who never stopped believing in Hitler, even after Germany moved on.

Group five: 
The cynics. They don’t care about Ukraine or ideology. They just saw a chance to advance their careers, make money, or protect their status. Many soldiers, bureaucrats, and arms industry workers fall into this group. And just like weather vanes, they’ll turn wherever the political wind blows next.

So no, we won’t make peace with everyone. But we can choose wisely. There is hope for peace, but it will be built person by person—not by pretending everyone is the same, or that forgiveness is owed without justice. If something transformative comes, it will start with those who still believe in decency. And that’s already more than nothing.


Eric asks:
 “You say the West can’t defeat Russia with sanctions or summits, but with understanding. How would that understanding actually translate into action?”

That’s a very important question. Let me start here: We shouldn’t aim to “defeat” Russia.

Because when people feel humiliated and cornered, they don’t reflect—they retaliate.

What we do want is a peaceful, cooperative Russia. A neighbor we can travel to, do business with, exchange ideas with—
A place that’s part of the global conversation, not threatening to burn it all down.
To get there, we have to understand what drives the aggression in the first place. And here’s the truth most people miss:


Russia is suffering from an identity collapse. For 300 years, the Russian dream was expansion—empire, greatness, glory. But in the 1990s, the USSR fell—and with it, the story ended. And no one offered a new one.

The war against Ukraine is Russia’s attempt to reclaim its lost imperial identity—to feel visible again, to matter in a world that has moved on without it.

So now what? What does a regular Russian person identify with—if the only success stories they see are wealthy elites who fled to London or Dubai with stolen money?

Some people retreat into family life, which is good—but not everyone can find meaning there. Others crave something bigger. They want to feel important and respected. But they face suspicion abroad, frozen bank accounts, impossible visa barriers—and no stage to prove themselves.

Even today, Russian-Americans who’ve lived in the U.S. for decades—some wealthy, well-meaning, eager to retire in quiet places like Portugal—are treated as threats.

Just because of where they were born.That’s not smart policy.

If we want a different Russia, we need to break the regime’s monopoly on talent, dreams, and national pride.

If I were advising the White House, I’d say: “Make a program specifically designed to attract the best and the brightest from Russia. Open doors. Make it clear: If you’re not part of the Putin regime—if you believe in peace and collaboration—you’re welcome to come to cooperate and create something cool.”
Send the message: “We respect you. We value you. We see you.”

And you know what? It’s already starting to happen. I’m one example. A Russian author with a funny accent, speaking about the most Russian things imaginable—And 50,000 people in the West are listening. That’s not nothing. That’s hope.

When I reach 100,000, I’ll be a living example of what’s possible. I’ll keep promoting my books—not just for me, but to show other Russian voices: You don’t have to hide. You don’t have to be ashamed of being who you are. You don’t have to wait for permission to speak.

We’re already doing the work—right now. We’re building a living ecosystem—where interconnected life is not just possible, but real. That’s how transformation begins.



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