One of the most powerful instincts in human nature is the need to belong – to feel part of a tribe.
It shapes who we are, even down to our names.

In Russian, surnames literally answer the question: “Whose person is this?”
They mark where you come from – your lineage, your clan.
The tsar’s surname, Romanov, means “from the family of Roman.”
Gorbachev comes from gorbach – “hunchback” – meaning “a person from the family of the hunchback.”

My name is Elvira Bary – a shorter, easier-to-remember version of my full surname, Baryakina, which means “from the clan of the lamb.”

It’s not even Russian, it comes from Erzya, the language of a small Finno-Ugric people who’ve lived in central Russia for centuries.

Today, I want to talk about something deeply personal – what it feels like to stand against your own tribe… or, in modern terms, your mother country.

The Madness of the Motherland

I’ve lived in California for more than twenty years. Yet until Russia attacked Ukraine, I still felt connected – as if an invisible thread tied me back to the streets where I grew up, to the people whose language I still dream in.

I always knew Putin was leading the country in the wrong direction, but I never imagined he would drag it straight into the abyss.

Coming home used to feel like visiting your mother — the smell of her cooking, the familiar air, the photographs on the wall. You’ve built a life far away, but the moment you return, you realize how deeply you’ve missed her.

And then one day, you discover your mother has lost her mind. She’s become violent, paranoid, destructive. She lashes out, hurts those who love her, and refuses to listen.

That’s what millions of Russians feel today — as if their homeland has gone mad.

Since Putin’s war began, it hasn’t just been a war against Ukraine. It’s been a war against everything we were taught to love: justice, dignity, compassion.

It feels as if the mother who once taught us kindness and endurance has become a killer — and we, her children, are forced to watch in horror as she destroys everything she once nurtured.

But unlike every other tragedy, where the killer is stopped, the victims mourned, and the families ashamed — in our case, the maniac keeps shooting every single day.

And those of us who oppose it — we must live with that unbearable knowledge.

I can’t stop it. But I can write. I can trace the symptoms, document the disease, and maybe suggest a cure.

That’s why I began writing my new novel, The Snow Queen’s Spring — a story about the war in Ukraine and the people on both sides of it.

The Weight of Denial

One question keeps haunting me — the question at the heart of my new novel: What does it really mean to love your country? Do you stand by it even when it commits a crime? Are you a traitor for refusing to join the madness? Or is true love something harder — the courage to face reality, to admit what has happened, to remove the causes, and to try, however painfully, to repair the damage?

When the war began, it was impossible to believe. The idea that Russia was bombing Ukraine didn’t fit into any rational mind. Ukrainian friends and relatives called their families in Russia, crying, begging them to see what was happening — and were met with denial. To accept that your own country is committing a monstrous crime was, for many, unbearable.

And when the truth could no longer be ignored, people began to invent excuses. “If our army did this,” they said, “there must be a reason.” If a city was occupied — it was “historically ours.”
If a missile hit a residential building — then it must have been Ukrainian soldiers who hid equipment there, or Ukrainian air defense that accidentally shot down a Russian drone aimed at a “legitimate target.” In this logic, no matter what happens, it is always Ukraine’s fault.

And when you ask such people, “Why did Russia start this war?” — they reply, “They forced us.” How exactly? No one can explain. But the pattern is familiar. It wasn’t me — they made me do it.

In Russian, there’s a word for this kind of denial: споить — spoít’. It means “to make someone an alcoholic.” The idea is that someone else offered you vodka, and therefore they are responsible for you drinking it. In this worldview, there is always someone else to blame.

Sometimes, this inner conflict — between shame and the desperate need to avoid responsibility — produces truly bizarre reactions. Ordinary people, broken by propaganda and fear, say things like: “Why doesn’t Putin just finish it? Why not drop an atomic bomb and end it once and for all?” They don’t actually want to see the world turned into radioactive ash. What they want is for the nightmare to stop — and for there to be no witnesses left to their disgrace.

Shame and Anger

What do I personally feel? Shame — raw, burning shame. And pain. A constant tightness inside every time I heard Ukrainian speech in the streets of Southern California, where I live now. There are many refugees here.

Some Ukrainians had already moved to California before the war — mostly tech professionals — and later brought their parents. For the older generation, adaptation is hard, even if they’re safe and financially stable.

One day I saw a post in a local Facebook group: “My mother is an excellent cook and bakes the most delicious pastries. She misses home and wants to feel useful. Would anyone like to order?”

I replied and drove over. The woman who opened the door handed me a mountain of golden, fragrant pastries. We talked a little. She told me she was from Bakhmut — a Ukrainian city now completely destroyed by Russian troops. Not a single building remains standing.

In that moment, there was nothing to say. You can’t say “I understand.” You can’t say “I’m sorry.” Every word feels hollow next to that kind of grief.

Those were the best pastries I’ve ever tasted. But I couldn’t bring myself to go back again. Standing on the porch of a lovely Californian home, all I could feel was unbearable shame — shame for “my people.”

And then comes the anger. Why my people? Did I choose them? Did I vote for Putin? No. No one did. He seized a nation, turned its resources into a private vault, and pays his enforcers with the country’s stolen wealth.

What do I have in common with the mercenaries attacking Ukrainian towns?

Language? Not really. My language is a mixture of Russian and English — theirs is Russian criminal slang.
Culture? No.
Lifestyle, worldview, values? None.

So why should I defend them? Why should I feel bound to those who destroy and kill simply because of a shared ethnicity?

Your people are not those who speak your language — they are those who share your values.

Manufactured Patriotism

The idea of “homeland” and “nationality” is a human invention. We were taught to see them as sacred, but in truth, for most of human history, people lived without nations or borders. They followed herds, gathered food, and moved wherever survival led them.

What’s truly ancient isn’t patriotism — it’s the instinct of belonging. For thousands of years, humans survived only in groups. To be rejected or alone meant death. That’s why even today, loneliness feels catastrophic, and the idea of being “without a homeland” can feel like losing your tribe.

What Russia calls patriotism today — what’s taught in schools and glorified on television — is really just training for obedience. It’s not about love for one’s country; it’s about raising future soldiers who will die cheaply.

There’s an old Russian saying: “When the government starts talking about patriotism, it means it has stolen everything again.” Nothing captures the current reality better.

Putin believed the nation would rise in a wave of loyalty to fulfill his imperial dreams — but he never understood that the age of empires is gone. Once, such a fantasy might have worked: when most people lived in villages, had eight children, and when poor young men saw war as their only chance to climb the social ladder. Back then, the rifle was a ticket out of poverty.

Today, the average lifespan of a new Russian recruit is about two weeks. He gets his uniform, spends a few days in chaotic training, and dies in the next “meat-grinder” assault — killed or torn apart by a Ukrainian drone. It’s an unimaginably expensive way to wage war. The losses are catastrophic, and every new wave of soldiers means another wave of widows and amputees the state must pay. The government tries to hide or delay these payments, but the costs — human and financial — are enormous.

Officials boast about their patriotism, yet no one dares to ask them the real question: What happened to the hundreds of thousands of Russian men sent to war three years ago? Two years ago? A few months ago?
Where are they — if you constantly need new recruits? You have killed more Russians than any foreign enemy since World War II.

Russia is losing roughly a thousand soldiers every single day. It’s as if the country is reliving September 11 every few days, and calling it victory.

Putin tried to buy loyalty with money, but even the supply of desperate and confused men is running out. So now he turns to the young. He bans alternative opinions, shuts down independent media, and forces schoolchildren to attend “patriotic lessons.”

In big cities and elite schools, this indoctrination hides behind polished slogans and staged ceremonies. But in small towns and rural schools, the message is brutal and direct: dying for the motherland is the highest honor. Except it’s not really for the motherland — it’s for Putin, whose interests are the exact opposite of theirs.

This is, in many ways, a war waged by the poor, the marginalized, and the uneducated.

If you’ve seen videos from Russian draft offices, the contrast is striking. A sleek, well-fed official sits behind a desk while the recruit — tired, unfit, often nursing a hangover — signs the contract. These are the “patriots” of modern Russia: men willing to sell their lives for a few million rubles so that their mothers or wives might finally see them as “real men.” That is what patriotism has become in today’s Russia.

Rethinking Home

The idea of a “nation” tied to a “state” emerged in the 19th century, during the Romantic era, as a defense mechanism against Napoleon’s conquests. Small, divided states needed a new kind of unity — and nationalism was born.

At that time, local dialects across Europe differed so much that “one nation” was mostly a myth. The same was true in Russia. A shared language and national consciousness only came later — with mass literacy, newspapers, and railroads. So, in truth, the modern concept of patriotism is barely 200 years old.

When the war in Ukraine began, I often asked myself: if war came here, in my city, would I stay and defend it — or would I flee?

Driving through the green streets of Irvine, with its soft pines, golden hills, and quiet suburban houses the color of tea with milk, I realized the answer. I would defend this place. Because I chose it.

This is home — a den, a refuge. Coming back from a trip and seeing the familiar skyline along the 405 fills me with joy every time.
That’s the difference between an arranged marriage and a marriage of love.
The first is built on fear and shame; the second, on a burning desire to protect what you truly cherish.

The truth is, the concept of the state itself no longer fits our global reality. Even the most advanced countries struggle to provide real value in exchange for taxes. Citizens are still treated as resources, not as human beings.

Some say the future lies in uniting around corporations that can provide social support and protection. But that’s just another arranged marriage — loyalty traded for dependency.

The right path, I believe, is to unite around values. Imagine being a citizen not of a country, but of an idea — a community bound by shared ethics, not shared borders. And if that community betrays its principles, you can simply leave and join another.

Maybe that’s where we’re heading — not toward flags or empires, but toward communities built on values.
A place you choose, and protect, because it’s worthy of you.

So here’s my question for you:
When your country and your conscience point in different directions, who are “your people”?
The ones who share your passport — or the ones who share your values?
And what is one thing you would refuse to do, even if your country demanded it?

Powered by