What do Russians really think about you? About your country, your values, your entire way of life? Of course, not everyone thinks the same—but there are clear patterns in how Russians see the West.

Today, we’re peeling back the layers—propaganda, stereotypes, and centuries-old fears. Because if you want to understand Russia and why it acts the way it does, you have to understand what’s going on inside the Russian mind.

What Is “the West,” Anyway?

Strangely enough, for many Russians, “the West” is seen as a single, unified force.
 You may think the UK is nothing like France, and that Germany has little in common with the U.S. or Canada.
 But in Russian media—and in everyday conversations—you’ll constantly hear phrases like: “The West decided…” or “The West acknowledged…”

Why is that?

There are three main reasons: First, the vast majority of Russians have never traveled outside their country. Second, most don’t speak foreign languages well enough to read independently. And third, their understanding of world history is often shallow—or just plain wrong. So, fragmented bits of knowledge about Western Europe and North America are often lumped together into one vague, generalized idea.

And it’s not just regular people—many Russian officials were educated at KGB academies or technical institutes, not in modern philosophy or social sciences.

Even those who have traveled abroad usually haven’t really immersed themselves in the history or culture of the places they visit. It’s mostly about shopping and sightseeing. In Paris, they climb the Eiffel Tower. In London, they take a photo in front of Westminster Abbey. In Germany, they drink some beer. In Italy, they pose next to the Colosseum.

So, opinions about the West aren’t based on real knowledge. They’re shaped by tradition, folklore, TV news, and random encounters.

I’ll give you an example. A woman I know—an executive at a major Russian bank—once told me: “People in Europe hate Russians.”

This was before the war, so I was surprised.

“Why do you think that?” I asked.

“You should’ve seen the way a border control officer in Berlin looked at me!” she said. “And in Spain, we were the only ones whose luggage got lost. We had Russian flag stickers on our suitcases—so there.”

And then there are the jokes. In Russia, jokes comparing Westerners and Russians are hugely popular. Here’s one that says a lot about how people think:

Donald Trump wants to reduce immigration, but he doesn’t know how. A man approaches him and says, “I think I can help.”

Trump is intrigued and decides to give it a try. “Go ahead,” he said.

So the man goes to the Brooklyn Bridge and starts talking to passersby.

He asks the first guy, “Where are you from?”

“England,” the man says.


“Did you hear? America just banned soccer.”


The Englishman gasps, cries out, “I can’t take this!”—and jumps off the bridge.

Next comes a Frenchman.


“Did you hear?” the man said. “America just shut down all the French restaurants.”


“Mon Dieu!” cries the Frenchman, and off he goes.

Then a Russian walks by. 
The man says, “Just so you know—it’s strictly forbidden to jump off this bridge.”


The Russian frowns. “I don’t give a ***,” he says angrily—and starts climbing the railing.

The Inferiority Complex

Why do Russians simultaneously envy and resent Westerners? To understand that, let’s rewind back to Peter the Great’s Russia.

In traditional societies, foreigners—unless they’re conquerors—are usually seen as second-class people. They’re outsiders. They don’t understand us. Their faith is wrong. They even look strange.

That’s how it was in Russia, too—until the early 18th century. But everything changed under Peter the Great.

Peter the Great and his successors hired European specialists—military officers, engineers, doctors, and luxury artisans—at huge salaries. No one wanted to move to remote, underdeveloped Russia for less. But their high pay and royal favor quickly gave foreigners elite status.

This divide only grew stronger in the 18th and 19th centuries. Many Russian rulers after Catherine the First either weren’t ethnically Russian or had spent a significant part of their lives abroad. Naturally, they surrounded themselves with foreigners.

And so, Russia developed a strange double attitude toward Europeans. On one hand, Russians were the ones paying them—technically, the “bosses.” But on the other hand, everything seen as refined, aristocratic, or enlightened came from abroad.

This inferiority complex toward Europe never really went away. Russian nobles and merchants traveled to Europe and saw firsthand how much more advanced life was—how much cleaner, wealthier, and more modern it all looked.

Back then, many assumed, “Our people must just be backward. That’s why we can’t live like this.”

But the real reasons for Russia’s lag had nothing to do with character or talent. They were economic and geographic.
 Russia had been trapped in chronic poverty and harsh natural conditions. I explain this in detail in another video.

Still, Russians are a proud people. And they’ve always wanted to show the world they can do things just as well—or even better. Palaces had to rival Versailles, armies had to be the largest, art collections the most impressive.
When beating the West economically isn’t possible, other trophies are brought forward:

“We have the most beautiful women.”
“We’ve won more Olympic medals.”
“We were the first in space.”
“We defeated the Nazis.”
“We suffered the most in World War II.”All these claims serve one purpose: To make the West look on with awe—and just a little fear.

If Russia spent centuries chasing Western approval—then why does it still see the West as its greatest threat?

The Iron Curtain

By the late 20th century, improved travel and trade reduced tensions in the West, and English emerged as a common language.

None of this happened in the Soviet Union.

The Soviet government didn’t allow its citizens to travel abroad freely. Leaving the country was a rare privilege reserved for top artists, athletes, and government officials who had earned the Party’s special trust.

The Iron Curtain left a deep mark on how the average Russian saw the outside world. For one, they had almost no personal contact with foreigners. During Stalin’s time, even speaking with a foreigner could be dangerous.In my novel, The Prince of the Soviets, I describe how foreign journalists lived in Stalin-era Moscow during the late 1920s. 
They had effectively replaced the aristocracy that the Bolsheviks had wiped out. But they lived in their own isolated community, and only specially approved people were allowed to interact with them. For everyone else, even a brief conversation with a foreigner could land you in prison for espionage. The foreigner would go home. You wouldn’t.

Soviet schools taught English, German, or French—but most teachers had never even spoken to native speakers. Slang, idioms, real conversation? Forget it. I studied English for eight years in school. But when I arrived in the U.S., I realized I couldn’t understand a thing.

Things are better now—but only for those who have the time, money, and motivation to learn. And even then, knowing a foreign language doesn’t guarantee you’ll feel comfortable using it. Reading manuals or watching movies is one thing.
 Having a real heart-to-heart conversation with a foreigner? That’s something else entirely. It’s a skill—and like any skill, it has to be practiced.

But how and where? Most Russians struggle to connect online with foreigners because social media norms differ. Russians tend to share openly, while Westerners often value privacy.

We don’t really have that same sense of privacy. We share everything—and expect others to do the same. So when Russians reach out, they often come across as too direct—or even suspicious. And that gets misread as coldness or hostility. “They don’t like us. They don’t want to talk to us.”In reality, most Russians still live in a kind of information bubble. Their ideas about foreigners come mostly from school textbooks and government-controlled media. And both of those reflect not objective facts, but whatever narrative the authorities find useful at the moment.

But what exactly do Russians think about individual Western countries today? Some answers may surprise you.

Stereotypes About Europe

As I mentioned before, Russians often view “the West” as a single hostile entity—but when you break it down by country, the stereotypes become more specific.

First, there’s a group of prestigious and safe countries: France, Italy, and Switzerland.
 These countries aren’t seen as enemies because Russia hasn’t fought major wars with them in living memory.
 Instead, they’re symbols of luxury, refinement, and beauty. Visiting France, Italy, or Switzerland is a status symbol—proof that you have good taste and a lot of money.
 France and Italy are closely associated with romance, high fashion, and the good life.
 Switzerland means banks and extremely expensive ski resorts—where Russia’s elite like to vacation.

The next group is what I’d call prestigious but potentially dangerous. This includes the UK and Germany—Russia’s main trading partners for centuries, but also its historical rivals. Russia has gone to war with both more than once, divided territory with them, and clashed diplomatically. That’s why they’re still viewed as competitors.

At the same time, Russians deeply respect German engineering and tool-making. A top hairdresser in Moscow will only use high-end German scissors. A wealthy businessman will prefer a luxury German car.
 And if you’re sending your child to study abroad, the UK is often the top choice.
 It’s closer than the U.S., and the education is in English—still the ultimate goal for Russian elites who want their kids to sound like natives.

Interestingly, one old narrative has recently been revived by some popular Russian YouTubers. Back in the 19th century, Russia and Britain were bitter rivals—especially over Persia and Central Asia. That’s when the saying appeared: “The Englishwoman is always scheming against Russia,” meaning Queen Victoria, of course. This old belief—that the British are always trying to sabotage Russia—has stuck around.

Since then, things have shifted dramatically. At different times, the UK has been seen as the USSR’s top enemy—like in the 1920s—and as its top ally, like during World War II. But in today’s patriotic circles, Britain is again cast as the puppet master behind every anti-Russian plot. Although…not long ago, that same role belonged to the United States.

Germany is a special case. World War II left a deep scar on every Soviet family. In the late 1990s, my mom and I took her elderly aunt Klava to the cemetery. She was nearly blind by then, in her 80s. She just wanted to visit the graves of long-dead relatives.

Russian Orthodox cemeteries don’t have benches inside churches—but they do have benches at the graves. So, you can “sit with your loved ones.” 

We sat by the grave, and suddenly, Aunt Klava began to speak, her unfocused eyes staring into the past. Her village had been under Nazi occupation. She started listing her childhood friends and relatives, one by one—every person she had lost to the German invasion.

My mom and I just sat there crying. We’d never known those people—they were gone before we were born. But Aunt Klava remembered them in heartbreaking detail.

Anya had long braids. The Nazis shot her and burned down her house. Her mother later recognized her daughter by those braids, which somehow didn’t burn.
 Misha had joined the partisans and was shot.
 Sasha—Klava’s younger brother—was drafted in 1944 and killed in his very first battle. He was just 18.

You’d think all of that would create a lasting hatred for Germany. But for our generation—grandchildren of WWII veterans—there was always a difference between “the Germans” and “the Nazis.” The Nazis were movie villains. Abstract enemies. That attitude still exists today, even though Putin’s regime tries to weaponize World War II memory to keep the population fearful and dependent on state power.

Then there’s a special category: the former Warsaw Pact countries. These were once considered “ours”—part of the Soviet sphere of influence. But there was a strange contradiction: it was obvious that people in Eastern Germany, Poland, and any other sattelite states lived better than we did—yet they were still viewed as our “little brothers.”

We had no idea that the USSR had effectively conquered Eastern Europe and imposed socialism by force. We never learned about the Prague Spring or the Hungarian uprising. We knew almost nothing about Polish history. So when the Poles started talking about the thousands of officers murdered by the Soviets, many Russians didn’t believe it.

The expectation was always loyalty. And if any of these countries dared to break away from Moscow’s influence, it sparked outrage. “We saved them from fascism! We helped them rebuild! And this is how they repay us?”

The idea that the Soviets had severely damaged the economic prospects—and the lives—of entire generations of our so-called “little brothers” never even crossed our minds.

Another pattern: Russians tend to deny small countries their own agency. If a smaller nation acts against Russia’s interests, people assume it’s because someone else—usually the U.S. or Britain—manipulated them. “They would never do that on their own.”

Next are nations that don’t provoke strong emotions. Think Austria, Spain, or the Scandinavian countries. All of them have large Russian immigrant populations. Austria and Spain, in particular, have lots of real estate owned by Russian officials and businessmen. However, most Russians are unfamiliar with the histories or political systems of these countries.

Same goes for Portugal, Ireland, and Belgium. Yes, plenty of Russians have been there. But if you stopped someone on the street and asked what those countries are known for, you’d get a handful of surface-level answers. The Netherlands? “That’s where you can find weed and the red-light district.” Belgium? “The chocolate there is really good.”

Russia’s Relationship with America

The story of Russia and America is one of love and hate, constantly shifting from one to the other.

For most Russians, the U.S. has always felt as distant as Mars. In pre-revolutionary Russia, the only people who cared about America were engineers hoping to sell their inventions there, or teenagers devouring novels about the Wild West.
 Hardly anyone actually traveled to America—it was far too expensive.

Interest in the U.S. began to rise in the 1920s. The Soviet government was obsessed with scientific labor management and rapid industrialization, and America, at the time, was making huge strides in both. In Soviet newspapers, the U.S. was celebrated as a symbol of progress and innovation.

They even coined the word “Fordization” to describe assembly-line production—just like at Ford’s factories.
To “be like an American” meant to be inventive, efficient, and business-minded.
 Soviets admired it, wanted to emulate it, but in a country where nearly everything was state-controlled, living like an American was virtually impossible.

Then came the Great Depression—and with it, a major blow to America’s prestige. For Soviet communists, it proved their worldview: capitalism was doomed. Socialism was the future.
Stalin hired American engineers during the Depression—some went home safely; others ended up in the Gulag, accused as spies.

Another wave of love for America came during World War II. The U.S. supplied the USSR with everything from condensed milk to aircraft engines. My grandmother, who served as a frontline nurse, said almost all the hospital’s medical tools and medicines were American.

But there was one thing Russian people couldn’t understand: Why did the U.S. wait until 1944 to open the second front?

Many believed it was a deliberate move—an American plot to let the USSR and Nazi Germany destroy each other, so the U.S. could then swoop in and take over Europe. Very few Soviets understood how complex the Normandy invasion really was, or how much planning it required. Most had no idea what was happening in the African or Pacific theaters of war.

After World War II, America quickly transformed from trusted ally to bitter enemy. The problem was simple: it stood in the way of Stalin’s ultimate goal—dominating all of Europe. And so, the Cold War began.

For ordinary citizens, this wasn’t something they thought about much. Take the Cuban Missile Crisis—I didn’t even know it was a big deal until I moved to America. 

None of us had ever met an American.
 We’d have been shocked to learn that Americans were terrified of us—believing we were radicals ready to blow up the world. In our minds, they were the crazy fanatics. 

Meanwhile, Soviet propaganda worked hard to convince us that life in America was terrible. Journalists would find a homeless man or a sad-looking graffiti-covered building, film it, and sigh, “This is the real face of the United States.”

But despite all that, America fascinated us.

Dressing like an American was both the ultimate fashion statement and an act of rebellion. In the 1960s and 1970s, Soviet militia patrolled the streets to crack down on long hair and flared pants. So if you managed to pull it off, it meant one of two things—you were either incredibly brave… or had powerful connections.

But by the 1980s, nobody cared anymore. That’s when VCRs appeared in the USSR—and with them, smuggled tapes. First came German porn, of course, but soon after American films, and suddenly, it became painfully clear just how far behind we were.

Then came Perestroika. Information bans were lifted, teen magazines showed photos of Madonna, Michael Jackson, and other pop stars, but we wanted more—we wanted to see real Americans.

I actually have a whole video about the first time I met a real, live American. You should watch it—it’s a pretty funny story.

Up until Putin came to power, America was seen as Russia’s friend. Our stores were full of American secondhand clothes.
 We listened to American music, watched pirated American films, and saved our money in U.S. dollars.

No one really thought about the fact that we had lost the Cold War. In the 1990s, the older generation was too busy surviving, and the younger generation was drunk on freedom and dreaming of getting rich and cool—fast.

Oil and gas prices skyrocketed, the Russian government had money again, and that’s when Soviet-style ambitions came back.

The Kremlin wanted to sit at the same table as America—dividing up the world again. A hunger for revenge grew, a desire to show America up—if not in economics, then at least in sports. Or through spies. Or hackers. Or whatever shady tricks worked.

Despite increasing Russian immigration to the U.S., Kremlin propaganda again demonized America.

Their biggest complaint? That the U.S. refused to take Russia seriously as a global power and was expanding its sphere of influence at Russia’s expense. Any attempt by former Soviet republics to sign deals with Western countries was seen as a betrayal. And, of course, the Kremlin believed those countries didn’t make those choices on their own—they were “nudged” by the Americans.

The war in Ukraine was framed as a U.S.-led operation to “steal” Ukraine away from Russia. America was once again cast as the villain.

Russian social media exploded with anti-American cartoons, lists of every war the U.S. had fought in the past 200 years, 
all to prove one thing: Every problem in the world… is America’s fault.

But today, things have shifted again. Trump showed Putin that he “understood” and “respected” his ambitions.
 So now the spotlight of Russian propaganda has moved—the new villain is Europe. Especially Britain.

How can Russia simultaneously admire, fear, and resent America—and what does that mean for the future?

That contradiction lies at the heart of today’s geopolitical tensions—and the answer reveals more about Russia’s internal identity crisis than any press release or pundit ever could.

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