It hits me again and again.
It hits me when I see international students from my school debating in the group chat what to wipe from their phones before re-entering the U.S. It hits me when I see, in the videos from Minneapolis, how law enforcement films the faces of activists. It hits me when I hear all the blatant lies spat by Trump officials—and the language they deploy.
That’s déjà vu.
The reason I know this feeling? I have run from it before.
I'm from Chelyabinsk, Russia, a city at the foot of the Urals, bridging Europe and Asia. Now I study at the Craig Newmark Graduate School of Journalism at CUNY.
LIFE BEFORE AND AFTER
By some measures, I had a successful career in Russia, covering international sports for RIA Novosti, the country’s top news agency. I proudly reported from five Olympic Games and numerous other major sporting events around the world.
Then, in 2022, Vladimir Putin invaded Ukraine, shattering the life I had known.
To keep writing about sports, I reasoned, would make me complicit—as would continuing to pay taxes. With no legal avenues to protest the war and no vision for a future in Russia, I decided to leave.
For the next three years, Lithuania became my safe haven, helping me rebuild a sense of stability—even if only relative—during the most turbulent period of my life. I’m forever grateful.
In 2024, as I was still trying to find my place in this “next life,” a few friends introduced me to the idea of studying in the U.S.
I dreamed of starting fresh and giving myself a chance—by moving to a country fundamentally aligned with my values. So I worked my way through the challenging application process—and got admitted.
There was just one tiny catch.
Since September 2024, when I applied, America has changed drastically. I had considered the possibility of Trump’s re-election, but I simply couldn’t—didn’t want to—believe it. Well, I was wrong.
STANDING TOGETHER
Which forces a question I now face every day: how does it feel to jump from Putin’s Russia to Trump’s America?
Appalling, honestly. All too familiar.
Yet the speed and the scale of the crackdown are staggering. Even by Russia’s grim standards, it is unfathomable to see people killed so brazenly in broad daylight by masked federal agents.
Where I’m from, I’ve never seen children abducted by the government and sent across the country to immigration lockups. It’s surreal.
Sycophantic loyalists have seized control—this, I concede, I’ve seen before—of every government agency.
It’s a pedal-to-the-metal pace.
I hate catching myself thinking: “Should I not write this or that? Could it cause trouble? Endanger my legal status?” But if you can’t exercise freedom of speech in the United States… what’s left but to turn off the lights?
Another source of personal anxiety is the shrinking opportunities for international students—jobs, internships, and now even positions at my school. I can’t help but wonder: what doors will still be open by the time I graduate? Will I be welcomed in the States, or even safe?
The dark reality of 2026 is not the America I know. We are witnessing firsthand—hearing it crackle at the joints—the dismantling of American democracy. But I can still see the country I’ve admired for so long. It’s not hard to see.
I’m inspired by the thousands who have protested ICE in the cold, despite the risks, ultimately pushing Greg Bovino out of Minneapolis. Emboldened by citizens joining ICE Watch and other grassroots efforts to protect immigrant communities, and by those gathering on MLK Day to reclaim the legacy of justice and unity. Encouraged by Americans who are hurting, but determined to fight back.
I feel a sense of solidarity in these times of division.
We are in this together.
