Ludmila Kavaylova

It always starts the same way—I check the hallway before I open the door. Not because I’m afraid of my neighbors, but because I don’t know who might be watching them. Or me.

I’ve been writing and posting for two years now. At first, it felt like shouting into the void—facts, thoughts, questions. Then, slowly, comments came, and DMs, and stories from strangers who felt the same way but didn’t know how to say it out loud. I was 20 then. I’m 22 now, and everything feels sharper. The fear, the urgency, the quiet defiance.

Every few weeks, I hear about another person being arrested. For reposting something. For attending a protest. For having a conversation someone recorded. And so I’ve learned to be careful. VPNs. Encrypted chats. Two phones. Nothing about my face online.

My friend Katya lives in Lviv. We met in Georgia on a hiking trip—both of us lost, both of us laughing too hard to care. That was three years ago. Now, we talk every week, voices low, checking the time. Her city still has power most days, but sometimes the air raid sirens cut through the call. And still, she asks me if I’m safe.

It’s strange. I sit in Moscow, where the streets look clean and busy and normal, and I talk to someone dodging drones. And the people around me? Most scroll through state videos and talk about “security” and “the West.” I try to tell them what I’ve learned, what I’ve read, what I’ve heard with my own ears. A few listen. Most nod politely and look away.

But I keep trying. I believe that if enough of us—especially the young ones—knew the truth, really understood it, we wouldn’t be so passive. We’d stop pretending this isn’t our problem.

It’s 2025. How is war still real? How are we still building tanks and walls while the planet burns and millions go hungry? I don’t understand it. And maybe that’s why I write. Not because I believe I can stop it alone. But because I have to try.

This is my small resistance. Words. Truth. Connection. It’s not much. But it’s something.