There’s a strange paradox at the heart of modern Russia: the louder the elites proclaim their patriotism, the faster their wealth escapes the country—into luxury villas, foreign passports, and offshore accounts.
My name is Elvira Bary. I’m a writer born in the Soviet Union, and today, I want to take you inside the hidden logic that drives Russia’s richest citizens to spend instead of invest, flaunt instead of endow, and chase status instead of building a future.
If loving your country truly means anything, shouldn’t it mean leaving it better for the next generation?
In Russia, the reality is far more complicated—and far darker.
What True Love for a Country Looks Like
True love for your country isn’t loud speeches or patriotic slogans.
It’s what you build. What you leave behind. What you choose to make better with your own hands and your own wealth.
America taught me that.
I live in Southern California now—a place of stunning natural beauty. But what impresses me most isn’t the scenery. It’s what people choose to create here.
The Segerstrom Center for the Arts, founded by a local philanthropist, brings world-class beauty and performance to ordinary people.
Hoag Hospital, one of the top nonprofit healthcare systems in the region, exists because a single family invested in public health instead of private luxury.
Parks, libraries, research grants, hiking trails—even the benches by the ocean—carry the names of people who gave something back. Because here, true wealth isn’t measured by what you can buy. It’s measured by what you can build.
And once upon a time, Russia had this too.
Before the 1917 Revolution, wealthy Russian families built schools, theaters, hospitals, and shelters for the poor. Their names stood on buildings, and they saw themselves as builders of something lasting.
Back then, Russia was among the world’s fastest-growing economies. Its richest citizens weren’t saints—but many gave back.
Then the Bolsheviks came. The Soviet regime declared that private wealth—and private charity—shouldn’t exist. Only the state could provide anything good.
And it made sense, in a cruel way. If people rely on the state for everything, it’s easier to control them. Especially in a vast, disconnected country like Russia.
But something even deeper was destroyed: the ancient link between generosity and leadership.
In every culture, from Rome to the Vikings to Imperial Russia, those who gave to their people earned status. A ruler opened his wine cellars. A chieftain held a feast. A tsar funded a hospital. Giving was the first step toward legitimacy.
Modern dictators can’t afford that.
They crush any space where new leaders might emerge.
That’s why, in the Soviet Union, libraries weren’t named after the people who built them, but after fallen war heroes and party leaders. Schools and hospitals had numbers instead of names—stripping away any trace of individual legacy, with only rare exceptions.
When you erase individual contribution, you erase the idea that people—not the state—can shape their communities. Or their futures.
The Colonial Style of Government
From the very beginning, Russia ruled like a colonial empire—but instead of turning outward, it turned the model inward.
Western empires sent ships to conquer and exploit distant lands. Russia lacked open access to the seas, so it colonized itself. There was no need to sail. The Russian elite simply plundered their own people: peasants, ethnic minorities, border regions—from Ukraine to Yakutia to Kamchatka.
The pattern was familiar: railroads, yes. Schools, sometimes. But above all—extraction and control. Like the British in India or the Belgians in Congo, the Russian state never saw its subjects as equals. They weren’t fellow citizens. They were resources in human form.
And when that’s your governing model, your idea of “home” fractures. Home isn’t your country. And “your people” aren’t those who share your passport.
Russian elites don’t hide their fortunes in China or Iran, despite calling them “allies.” They send their money to London, Paris, or Zurich. Because no matter what they say, they trust only one thing: the rule of Western law.
But don’t be fooled—their real home isn’t the West either. It’s not geography. It’s not culture. It’s their circle. Their class. Their assets. That’s where their loyalty lies. That’s where they invest.
Is this unique to Russia? No. It’s the operating logic of every modern dictatorship: strip the country, send the money abroad or bury it inside the power structure, smile for the cameras, and declare your love for the Motherland.
During the Soviet era, this colonial mindset reached its peak—even as officials loudly claimed that “all power belongs to the workers and peasants.” The only difference was structural: Soviet elites couldn’t invest abroad. Their power wasn’t tied to money, but to position in the hierarchy. Status was the currency. Loyalty was the investment.
The Soviet regime didn’t modernize Russia—it froze it. It trapped the country at the dawn of the 20th century. Imperialism, conquest, forced labor, militant nationalism—these weren’t Soviet innovations. They were inherited instincts from the pre–World War I world.
And when the Soviet Union collapsed, nothing meaningful came to replace it. So the country defaulted—back to 1914.
And now? We’re watching the sequel.
A pointless war. A collapsing economy. A million soldiers who hate their commanders. A society paralyzed by fear.
It’s as if history said: “You failed to fix your country in 1917. Let’s try again.”I wrote a historical novel about that time, Russian Treasures. And with every passing day, the parallels feel sharper.
What the Russian Oligarchs Buy
Walk down Tverskaya Street in Moscow, and you’ll see what “rich” looks like in Russia.
In this world, wealth isn’t about building. It’s about broadcasting.
To be truly rich in Russia, you need to check seven boxes. None of them involves charity.
- Braggable real estate. A mansion in Rublyovka or a glass-walled tower in Moscow-City. Location, views, and bragging rights.
- Transport. It used to be Range Rovers. Now it’s Bentleys, armored Aurus sedans, private jets, and yachts.
- Foreign property. Top picks are London, LA, Paris, and Dubai. Since sanctions hit Europe, Russians became Dubai’s biggest luxury buyers—one in every five high-end homes sold in 2024 went to a Russian.
- Education abroad. Swiss and UK boarding schools are status markers. Ivy League, Oxford, or Cambridge? Even better.
- Wardrobe. Designer everything. If you aren’t wearing your net worth, people think you don’t have one.
- Art. Fabergé is passé. Contemporary art that travels well—on jets and into vaults—is the new power flex.
- Parties. Think billion-ruble weddings with Jennifer Lopez as the lounge act. One 2016 Moscow wedding reportedly cost over $13 million.
But why no endowments? Why no hospitals or libraries with their names?
Because Russia’s social ladder isn’t a staircase—it’s a sheer cliff. And it’s guarded. You climb it not by building things, but by signaling you’re a useful person for those who are already at the top.
And that signaling happens in three fonts: State position. Spectacle. Force.
A deputy minister’s son outranks a tech millionaire—because his dad can erase fines and issue permits.
Spectacle signals access and privileges. Tuscan villas during wartime prove you’re elite. Sanctions don’t touch you. You can still party in Europe.
And force? That’s the scariest status marker. A “silovik”—a man of power from the security services—outranks everyone. Having one on speed dial makes you untouchable. That’s why many oligarchs keep FSB agents on payroll.
These signals aren’t for the public. The general population decides nothing. The audience is tiny: ministers, governors, and fixers who can make lawsuits vanish with a phone call.
In that world, a villa on Lake Como or useful connections with an important silovik beats a plaque on a library. Every time.
And anyway—will the oligarch or his kids ever walk into that library? Shake hands with those people? Sit on that bench?
No. And that’s the point.
Why Russian Philanthropy Doesn’t Work
When you give something valuable away, you expect three things:
It should raise your status.
It should be safe to do.
And it should have lasting impact.
Russia fails on all three.
In today’s Russia, status doesn’t come from giving—it comes from flaunting. Why fund a park if your rival will just outshine you with fireworks and pop stars?
In America, philanthropy is a competition. Rockefeller built the University of Chicago. Carnegie responded with 2,509 public libraries. Newspapers kept score.
But in Russia, public giving is dangerous. It doesn’t buy you armor—it paints a target on your back.
Take actress Chulpan Khamatova. Her children’s cancer fund was once a national symbol of compassion. Then came 2012. She appeared in a televised endorsement for Putin—after officials hinted that her foundation’s funding would vanish if she didn’t. The message was clear: build something valuable, and the state will use it against you.
Visibility means vulnerability in a system where police, tax agents, and regulators can be weaponized. If you show surplus, the siloviki assume you have more to “donate.”
In the U.S., a building named after you adds to your legacy. In Russia, too much social capital is a liability. Influence makes you a threat.
Even if you do build something meaningful, it can vanish overnight. One signature, and a hospital wing is nationalized. A museum becomes “extremist.” A university shuts down over invented violations.
Ask any Russian billionaire. They know the story of Dmitry Zimin.
Zimin, the founder of telecom giant VympelCom, poured millions into science education through his Dynasty Foundation. In 2015, the Justice Ministry labeled it a “foreign agent.” Weeks later, the foundation liquidated, scholarships disappeared, and Zimin left the country.
Or take the European University at St. Petersburg. It lost its license over “fire safety violations.”
Russia’s foreign-agent laws allow authorities to blacklist nearly any civil group. Sponsors vanish to avoid guilt by association. Organizations close quietly, one after another.
Dynasty. European University. Memorial. Open Russia.
These weren’t isolated cases. They were signals—loud ones. In Russia, nothing outlasts the state’s mood.
So what do the rich do? They hedge.
They buy Maltese passports, Cypriot condos, and Picassos small enough to hang in Zurich vaults. They avoid fixed infrastructure like parks and clinics—assets that can be seized.
And they don’t trust charities. Many Russians suspect NGOs are corrupt. Oligarchs, short on time and paranoid about optics, avoid them entirely.
Only 6% of Russians donated to registered charities last year. But nearly half gave cash directly to individuals. The middleman—whether a nonprofit or a government fund—smells of fraud or politics.
There’s only one exception: the Russian Orthodox Church. A cathedral is patriotic. It’s spiritual. It’s close to power.
Tycoon Dmitry Rybolovlev once donated €17.5 million to rebuild the Cathedral of the Nativity of the Theotokos. In return, he received the Church’s highest lay honor—and no tax inspectors came knocking.
Live for the Moment
If the 20th century taught Russians anything, it’s that everything in life is temporary except danger.
One day, you have plans. The next, you’re arrested or drafted to build something “important.” A war, a reform, a collapse—these aren’t historical hypotheticals. They’re generational traumas, repeated.
Strategic planning doesn’t exist. Not for individuals—and certainly not for future generations.
The instinct is simple: spend before it’s taken.
Descended from survivors of purges, collectivization, and Gulag, Russians learned a brutal rule—everything you have can vanish with the next knock at the door.
This mindset is measurable. Half of Russians told Ipsos they “prefer to live for the moment”—far higher than in France or Germany. The war only confirmed this attitude.
I saw something similar in the Caribbean. I used to wonder: why doesn’t anyone invest in infrastructure? Why does paradise outside the resort look terrible?
The locals explained: why fix anything when the next hurricane might wipe it all out?
In Russia, the hurricane is always coming. It just changes direction and shape.
A 2025 survey found that 38% of Russians—many middle-class—had no savings at all. Easy come, easy go. Success isn’t measured by how much you save—it’s how fast and loudly you burn it.
Retail data proves it. Despite sanctions, luxury spending in Russia surged in 2024. Wartime salaries and spiteful optimism fueled a boom. Fashion brands posted double-digit growth. Academics confirmed that conspicuous consumption stayed steady because it signals social rank—and it’s portable. And you may need to flee—fast.
Property rights in Russia have always been fragile. The war economy made them perishable.
Reuters estimates that since 2022, $50 billion in assets have been seized by the state—from Western companies like Carlsberg to domestic barons like Konstantin Strukov.
Think of it as rolling thunder. One day it strikes foreign brands. The next, a Russian tycoon who parked his wealth too close to a powerful rival.
Sometimes the excuse is “national security.” Sometimes it’s retroactive punishment for 1990s privatizations. Sometimes there’s no excuse at all—just a court hearing at dusk, concluded by dawn.
In that climate, endowing a public park feels like planting roses on a cliff already eroding into the sea.
Meanwhile, the government is looting against a deadline. Regional elites suspect deeper sanctions or regime collapse ahead. They’re stripping assets while they still can.
The result is a frenzy. Trains of officials and masked commandos descend on factories like hunters on a reserve.
Call it Gulag math: a mental spreadsheet that values the future at nearly zero.
So you convert goodwill into spectacle. Spend before it’s taken. Live before the warrant.
And if the West won’t let your wealth escape, then burn it now—on luxury, not legacy.
Can Russia Break the Cycle?
I often hear: “Russia needs to take care of its own problems.”
And honestly? It tried.
After the Soviet collapse, there was a brief, shining moment when grassroots projects bloomed. People launched animal shelters, supported cancer patients, opened cultural hubs, defended political prisoners, investigated corruption.
For a moment, civil society stirred awake.
But when the war began, the state crushed these efforts—brutally, systematically.
So let’s be clear: it’s not that Russians can’t invest in their future. It’s that the system punishes those who try.
Everyone who thinks otherwise is welcome to show the example—and lead the way.
Because until the government stops treating its own people like a colony, nothing will change. As long as fear outweighs hope, as long as today feels more urgent than tomorrow, the rich will keep spending instead of investing. Flaunting instead of building. Chasing the next party instead of the next generation’s future.
If you want real change, don’t look at the oligarchs. Look at the structures.
Look at what’s rewarded. What’s safe. What’s destroyed.
Until those rules change, Russia’s wealth will keep fleeing—and the future will stay just out of reach.
I believe that a brighter future is possible—but only with regime change. And that won’t happen in isolation.
Last time, the world turned away. Hoping Lenin—and then Stalin—would burn the remnants of Russia into ash and bury the “menace from the East.” Western politicians treated Russia like a jar of spiders: let them kill each other, so long as they don’t bite us.
The result? The Cold War. Trillions spent. And now, Putin’s state.
If we don’t want that cycle again, we have to understand Russia—not just fear it. We must see the people trying to build, not just the ones tearing down.
And that begins with asking hard questions.
