‘You chose to come here, so behave yourselves’ How anti-war Russians in Japan navigate exile, activism, and cultural differences

Japan has historically refused citizenship or refugee status to Kurds fleeing Turkey, refugees from unstable African countries, and Iranians with legitimate reasons to seek asylum. But when Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Japan suddenly announced, “We’ll take in Ukrainians.” Eventually, a little over 2,000 Ukrainians arrived. They were specifically labeled “Ukrainian refugees,” emphasizing that they weren’t the kind of refugees Japan typically seeks to keep out.

They were settled throughout the country, though most ended up in Tokyo. They were provided with free public housing, healthcare, and phone service, and their children were enrolled in local schools. Naturally, they arrived without knowing Japanese, so there was the challenge of helping them adapt. Some areas handled this well by assigning permanent coordinators to schools. In the prefecture that neighbors mine, children were able to integrate, but in Tokyo, this remains a significant issue. Here, as with all foreign students, Ukrainian children were assigned Japanese language consultants in schools. I was one of them.

Twice a week, I spent two class periods with a student — either sitting beside them to translate during lessons, or working with them one-on-one in a separate room. I had four students in total, all Russian-speaking. It all started when I went to pick up my own child from school, and a teacher said, “Could you help this girl? She speaks Russian.” The school submitted a request to the city administration, and that’s how I began working with this girl from Mariupol.

I started attending public protests in Japan when [Sergey] Furgal, [the former governor of Russia’s Khabarovsk region], was arrested, but I’ve been closely following Russian news since 2011. At the time, I was in my final months before maternity leave, and for some reason, the Bolotnaya [Square] protests struck a deep chord with me. Not far from here is Hong Kong, which China is trying to bring under its control. In my mind, the unrest in Hong Kong and on Bolotnaya Square resonated with each other.

Then came Crimea. When I heard that Russia was [annexing] it, I knew things would turn out very badly, that Russia was headed for disaster. I was terrified for my parents, who were still in Russia, in the Far East. Since 2014, I had lived with a constant sense of dread, a feeling that something terrible was coming. And yet, the full-scale invasion still came as a shock for me and my friends.

I have relatives in Crimea. In 2014, the situation there was a complete mess. Some of them had already grown used to living with an eye towards Europe. But my cousin, who’s half Ukrainian and has family all over the country, suddenly started saying things like, “We’re going to liberate Ukraine!” He was the most tech-savvy one in our family — despite his age, he got the hang of the Internet before any of us. A former sailor, he had always seemed like a free spirit. I’d always admired him for his kindness and openness. So when he started saying things like that, it was devastating. I couldn’t talk to him for a long time.

My friend and I agreed to go to the embassy the next day [after Navalny’s death]. It happened to be a Saturday — the day most of our community could come out to protest. And we were right. As we approached the embassy, the police were already there. You couldn’t just walk up. They checked everyone, lining us up.

And there we were — quite a strange procession. A policeman in front, five Russians heading to the protest, and another policeman bringing up the rear. They didn’t let us get close to the embassy, so we stood across the street holding up our signs, cursing out our “commander-in-chief,” Putin — luckily, the Japanese don’t understand Russian.

The police warned us: “Don’t even think about leaving flowers or signs in front of the embassy.” So about 10–15 of us decided to go to the Russian Orthodox Church’s official representative church in Tokyo instead to set up a small memorial with flowers, posters, and photos. As soon as we did, the church staff removed everything as if it had never been there.

Later, I saw a Facebook post saying Navalny had been a Christian and that a memorial service ought to be arranged for him at a church. I liked the post, and the woman who wrote it invited me to join her. I’m not baptized, but I agreed. While I was on my way, she texted me to say the priest had backed out at the last minute, saying, “Stay away from me!”

We grieved over it together, and I suggested, “If the Russian Orthodox Church won’t do it, there’s still St. Nicholas Cathedral — [also known as] Nikolai-do.” This autonomous church split from the Russian Orthodox Church after the revolution. The cathedral is in central Tokyo, so I went there and approached the first priest I saw.

“Can I request a memorial service?” I asked.

“Of course, no problem.”

“I’d like it to be for Alexey Navalny.”

“That’s fine.”

Before the service, he messaged me asking not to invite journalists or take photos. We respected his request.

There’s no real cohesion. There was some momentum in the early days of the full-scale invasion…

You have to consider the makeup of the Russian community in Japan. A significant percentage consists of so-called “hostesses” — women who came to work in bars and later married. Then there are those who came to trade used cars; in some regions of Japan, they actually make up the majority.

Take Hokuriku, for example — a region on the Sea of Japan where I once lived and graduated from university. The Russian community there is over a thousand people, and most of them are pro-Putin. In fact, on May 9, 2022, they even tried to organize a car rally to Tokyo with Russian flags. Fortunately, they never made it — the Japanese authorities banned the display of Russian flags near the embassy.

Things are better in Tokyo. In recent years, more students and IT professionals have moved here, along with people drawn to anime, manga, or just Japanese culture in general. They’re mostly apolitical. And then there’s us — the old guard, Russians who’ve lived in Japan for years. The breakdown here is the same as in Russia itself: 20 percent are for the war to the bitter end, 20 percent are ready to punch those people in the face, and the rest are a passive gray zone that stays silent.

On February 25, [2022], the day after the full-scale invasion began, my friend and I staged solo anti-war protests with signs. The next day, on February 26, anti-war Russians gathered near Shinjuku Station — the busiest train station in the world. There were about 100 of us, holding signs in Russian, Japanese, and English — whatever we could manage.

There was one woman — beautiful and impossible to miss — who spontaneously started chanting slogans in three languages. We repeated after her. Young people in our group tipped off Japanese journalists, and soon they started asking: “Can you say anything coherent other than slogans?” Nobody wanted to step up, so I did.

I gave a speech in Japanese. I said that Japan is, after all, a democratic country, and that’s a wonderful thing. We’re grateful for the opportunity to speak here — something that’s no longer possible in Russia. I said that we are Russian, but that we’re against this war, and we’re not afraid to say it.

On an official level, Japan sees Ukraine as the victim, Russia as the aggressor, and Crimea as part of Ukraine. There’s no ambiguity about that. The only thing is, Japan has no plans to provide Ukraine with military aid in the foreseeable future — only humanitarian assistance.

As for public sentiment, the war quickly faded from people’s minds. Some Japanese acquaintances have even asked me, “Wait, the war is still going on?”

The position of the Japanese authorities and police is basically, “You chose to come here, so behave yourselves.” When we were picketing the Russian consulate, there were two or three protesters and 10 police officers. And a police van sitting there.

It’s not that they were protecting anybody in particular — more that they didn’t want there to be any incidents. At the protests, we chanted, “No to war!” At first, the police allowed it, but after a few months, they started admonishing us. It turned out that it wasn’t just the Russian embassy and consulate there — there were also people living there, and we were supposedly disturbing them. But the embassy is located right next to a highway where there are few very residential buildings…

The main thing [they wanted] was for there to not be too much commotion and no incidents. It’s not only ordinary officers who go to those events; it’s also plainclothes officers who record everything in their notebooks. In the beginning, they would check our residence permit cards and take down our personal info and phone numbers.

During the first winter of the war, Ukraine’s infrastructure was suffering badly, and heating became a major issue. Meanwhile, in Japan, there’s an entire culture around living in unheated homes — we rely on these little chemical hand warmers to get by. I remember seeing a Japanese man on TV urging people to donate at least a box of them to Ukraine. That really hit me. Here was someone who barely knew anything about Ukraine, yet he was trying to help — so how could I not do the same?

I reached out to a former classmate who lives in Kyiv, and she gave me an address where I could send aid. At first, I sent care packages, but later, I suggested just transferring money instead of spending so much on shipping. I told her, “You know better than I do what’s needed.” But the woman receiving the packages insisted, “No, no — packages are perfect. Just send coffee instead of hand warmers. The coffee there is terrible, but yours is really good.”

So I started sending coffee. She also helps supply the Ukrainian Armed Forces, so there’s a good chance the coffee I send ends up with soldiers on the front lines.

I also donate to various Ukrainian charities, with monthly contributions automatically deducted from my account. I chipped in when there were fundraisers to buy generators for Ukrainians.

When Maxim Katz announced that there was a Patreon channel where people could donate to help those relocating from Belgorod to safer regions in Russia, I subscribed to that, as well.

After the bombing of the Okhmatdyt hospital [in Kyiv], a local group of socially active elderly Japanese people became interested in learning more about Ukraine. Russian-speaking Ukrainians gave a presentation, and I translated for them. I donated my interpreter’s fee to Okhmatdyt.

In the first six months [of the full-scale war], Japan had a lot of news segments about Ukraine. I helped with a piece on Sumy and Kharkiv. Naturally, I was in direct contact with locals, and I asked one Kharkiv teacher, “It must be freezing over there. Can I help?” He replied, “Yes, if you’d like, you can send something.” He gave me his address.

Feeling encouraged, I shared it in our anti-war chat: “Look, I have an address in Kharkiv!” Back then, whether you donated to the Armed Forces of Ukraine or not was still a big deal. There was intense fighting on the outskirts of Kharkiv, and it was clear that our shipment could end up reaching soldiers as well. That didn’t bother me, but the chat group shot my idea down.

I became a Japanese citizen, and under the latest Russian laws, my Russian passport is now invalid. If I cross the Russian border, both my Japanese and Russian passports will be confiscated.

I realized I had no future with Putin’s Russia during the Bolotnaya protests. Even back then, I thought, “How lucky my children are to be growing up outside of Russia.” But when I first went in for an interview about obtaining Japanese citizenship in March 2022, I cried… it felt like a personal defeat. Until then, I had believed it was more honest to remain Russian in both culture and citizenship. But how long could I keep living in this constant inner conflict? I decided to become a Japanese citizen. This country gave me the chance to build a life.