Regular readers have likely noticed that many of our stories simply say “Meduza” in the byline. For safety reasons — since any cooperation with our newsroom is against the law in Russia — only a few of our journalists have continued to publish openly under their names. Nevertheless, we want our readers to learn more about everyone who works here. That’s why we decided to share the stories behind the keepsakes and mementos that help us remember who we are and why we keep working. Meduza needs your help. If you offer us your support, we promise we won’t give up.

Analyst: a ‘fish with feet’ pendant

My keepsake is a “fish with feet” pendant that my daughter gave me for my birthday. It was less than a year before we would leave [Russia], but we didn’t know it at the time.

This [pendant] is a masterpiece of primitivism. My daughter made it from a piece of a wooden ruler and copper wire, and the image on it is one I drew back in school. I’ve never worn jewelry, but I always wear my fish. The pendant travels with me everywhere. It gives me strength and helps me believe that even when you’re drowning, you can always evolve a little bit and get to shore.

Executive secretary: a tape recorder

This tape recorder is almost 20 years old, and it still works. It’s dear to me, not only as a symbol, but also because I used it to record my interviews with my very first subjects during an internship at a small Siberian newspaper. As I recall, I had been sent to get comments from Chernobyl survivors on the anniversary of the tragedy.

If someone had told me then that many years later I would be forced to leave Russia or be unable to work where I wanted, or with the people I liked, I would’ve thought they were crazy and twirled my finger at my head. But here we are. And the tape recorder is here too, because it turned out that the cassette also had [a recording of] my father’s voice.

My father died several years ago. I still feel very sad about it, but at least I don’t have to explain why I moved so far away from him. Listening to the recording is hard for me. But the fact that this prehistoric journalistic device contains my father’s voice — and that I can take it out of my desk drawer at any time — brings me a lot of comfort.

News editor: a stuffed tiger

This is Tigrik. Our neighbor knitted him and gave him to my son for New Year’s in 2022 (the year of the tiger). Three months later, we left Russia in a hurry. We had to leave almost all of my son’s toys behind, but I instinctively shoved Tigrik in a backpack at the last minute. As a result, he’s been roaming around with us for more than three years now. My son has gotten new toys, but Tigrik still watches over him when he’s asleep.

Graphic designer: a sofa cover

This is my grandmother’s sofa cover, usually draped over an armchair or couch in her home. When I was a teenager, I thought it was awfully tacky. Back then, I didn’t know — and I didn’t really care — that for my grandmother, it was valuable to her: she and my grandfather bought it with a [Soviet-era] purchase voucher, which they waited two years to get, in the early 1970s, while living near Berlin as my grandfather served in the army.

Later, when I visited my grandmother, the sofa cover had been moved to their dacha [summer house]. Everything was colorful there — the bedspread, the carpet, the brightly patterned linoleum — and I ended up loving this mixture of patterns and fabrics precisely because it reminded me of my home and my family. I loved it so much that I decided to bring the sofa cover with me to Riga.

I moved to Riga from Russia in 2015. Back then, you didn’t need to pack your whole life in a suitcase in an hour. I thought I’d be back in a year, but everything turned out differently. I got the sofa cover six years after I emigrated, and I never went back to Russia. Now I live in Berlin — and, half a century later, the sofa cover has returned to where my family first got it.

Communications director: tattoos

I got the first tattoo, jūra, to mark my first year in Riga. The first year of emigration wasn’t easy. And the sea — jūra, in Latvian — was the only thing that helped. I went to the shore to walk my dog, no matter the weather. After the invasion began, we realized that, for our safety and stability, we should open an office in Berlin and spread out. I immersed myself in the process and went to Berlin too, even though I hadn’t planned to move again.

To mark my first year in Berlin, I decided to get another tattoo, continuing the tradition. I really like the Berlin TV Tower — it’s visible from all my usual routes — so I immediately decided it would be [my next tattoo]. The sketch and the tattoo itself were done by my Meduza colleagues.

Host of the YouTube show ‘We Don’t Know’: a capybara piggy bank

A friend from Berlin sent me this capybara piggy bank. I only learned about capybaras — the largest and cutest rodents on the planet — thanks to my work at Meduza. I wrote about them a lot, and Meduza’s readers even had a hand in naming a newborn capybara at the Kaliningrad Zoo. (It’s embarrassing to remember now, but they named him Elon.) For a while, Meduza even supported this capybara, but then he was sent to another zoo. Along the way, we lost track of him — and I never found out where he went. Elon, send me a message!

Features editor: a tattoo

This was my first tattoo (but far from my last). I got it in 2020, when I was writing for Meduza as a freelancer. When I was describing the idea to the tattoo artist, she asked: “The ruble symbol?” [And I said,] “No, just write it out: rubl’ znak [ruble symbol]. I’m a journalist, and that’s the average rate for stories.”

By that point, I’d already been defining myself through my profession for many years, and I continue to do so to this day. But now, living in exile in Germany, all of my tattoos in Cyrillic script tell those around me that I’m an Ausländer, that is, a foreigner, an immigrant. Basically, I ended up here mainly because of what I wrote in my articles and where I published them. I have no regrets.

‘Explainers’ editor: Saulkrasti

When Meduza was declared a “foreign agent,” friendly companies began donating a percentage of their product sales to us. Back then, I was living in Moscow, and I bought a Saulkrasti candle from one of our collaborations. I lit it in the evenings to help separate my free time from work.

The candle was named after a town on the Gulf of Riga. In 2022, I was forced to emigrate, and about a month later, my boyfriend and I took a trip to Saulkrasti for my birthday. It was cold and windy, but truly beautiful. I even printed out a photo from there, and I look at it when I realize I’m getting sucked into anxiety and work stress.

I bought another candle from the same store, created in support of the charity organization Nochlezhka. It also helps me switch off and relax a bit.

Photo editor: a pigeon stress toy

For Secret Santa in 2022, I got an anti-stress pigeon: a soft toy that’s almost the size of a real pigeon, which you can squeeze when you get anxious. At the time, we had just finished renovating the apartment where we planned to live happily for a long time. We had even thrown a combined housewarming and New Year’s party.

Two months later, the war began, and I emigrated a week after that, after a call from the police threatening me for my journalistic work. The pigeon also left Russia with me, and now I can’t remember why I put it in my suitcase. It now lives permanently on my desk, reminding me of the panic I felt when I left, the chaos of the past three years, and how easily I was driven out of my country — though I still haven’t abandoned my profession. As a kind of revenge, I furiously squeeze the pigeon whenever I get anxious about work and what’s happening in the world. And I have to admit, I get anxious a lot.

Publishing house employee: a set of keys

Sometimes I find myself walking down the street holding my set of keys in my hand. I’ve absentmindedly taken them out of my pocket again, and their familiar weight fills me with confidence. I have many keys — which means there are many doors I can open, many places where I’m expected. It’s comforting.

Editor-in-chief: a ‘Sad Face’ matryoshka doll

I have a few things from Perm that I brought with me when I emigrated: mainly books, photographs, and some small trinkets from my childhood. I was born in Perm and lived there — I’m almost ashamed to say — for 28 years. My mind is always there; in some sense, even more so than Moscow, for example, where events that interest me happen more often.

I was reunited with this “Sad Face” matryoshka doll just recently — it’s the work of Aleksey Ilkayev, the street artist. In the years after I left Perm for Moscow, he covered the entire city — and then other cities — with his graffiti of the same sad face. It was always nice to stumble upon these drawings somewhere far from Perm. This Sad Face looks something like me. I’ve had it as my Slack profile photo for years; it feels as though we’ve grown together.

I bought this matryoshka doll a long time ago. Back then, I kept it at my relatives’ house in Perm. I was overjoyed when it made its way back to me — as if I were reunited with one of my loved ones. And the best part is that it’s a real matryoshka doll: you can unpack it down to the smallest one. It’s a sad matryoshka that brings me a lot of joy.

News editor: keys from Moscow

These are the keys to my apartment in Moscow. I left Russia in 2019. Back then, it was an interesting opportunity to live in another country for a while. I thought if nothing worked out, I’d come back home (ha-ha-ha). At the time, you could still go to Moscow often. The flight from Riga to Moscow was practically like taking a bus home. So for a while, I lived in two countries — but I was essentially neither here nor there.

The last time I was home was a few months before the war. Then I started working at Meduza, and I haven’t been back to Russia since.

I don’t keep these keys in a special place; they’re just lying around among my trinkets. Sometimes I stumble upon them and wonder if it was all worth it. Sometimes the answer is a resounding “yes.” Sometimes it’s: “Who the hell knows, but what can I do now?” But most of the time, I just try to toss these damn keys aside — so I don’t have to think about it all, or ask myself when I’ll get to be home again, or where home even is now.

Publishing house employee: Woodrow Wilson the boar

This is Woodrow Wilson, a tiny boar who’s very dear to me. He was sent to me in Serbia by the person I love most, whom I had to leave in another country because of my job at Meduza. He’s named after Woodrow Wilson Boulevard in Belgrade. During my first few months at Meduza, he sat on my lap during every editorial meeting. Since then, he’s moved with me across several countries and more than 10 apartments. He has even met his wild relatives (not the plush ones!) and, most importantly, was reunited with the person who sent him to me.

Features editor: a vase

It so happened that I left Russia in quite a hurry, with just an hour to pack. I remember rushing around the apartment and throwing everything in my suitcase — in case I wouldn’t be back. That’s how I ended up flying to Yerevan with this vase, and I was very worried that it would break. I call it “grandma’s vase” even though I don’t really know how it ended up in our family. I only know it was part of the family before I was born, and that this vase has been with me my entire life.

The glass turned out to be strong; it has survived more than one move. I haven’t been home in the last three years, so I’m glad this friend is with me. It connects me to my past life and, in difficult times, reminds me who I am and where I’m from.

News editor: a Siouxsie and the Banshees record

I left Moscow on March 6, 2022, with one suitcase. I deliberately didn’t take anything important, special, or dear to my heart with me — I naively assumed that I was leaving for a few months, until the situation settled down.

Belgrade was the first stop on what I hadn’t yet realized was the start of my emigration. My best friend met me there, which significantly brightened up those first days of exile and uncertainty. We explored Serbian bars and coffee shops and met local expats, who were just as confused as we were. One day, we came across a vinyl market. I was an avid record collector back home, and my friend convinced me to buy one as a souvenir.

And there it was: a 7-inch single by, in my opinion, the best post-punk group of all time: Siouxsie and the Banshees. It’s a cover of “Dear Prudence,” recorded in Stockholm in 1983, with Robert Smith of The Cure on the guitar. I bought it for 500 Serbian dinars [about $5 today] in the spring of 2022.

I finally realized that I had emigrated a year later. And then I decided that in each new place, I would buy a record as a keepsake — a musical memento from yet another beautiful city that’s still not my home.

Communications team member: a toy crocodile

I left St. Petersburg on March 2, 2022. It was my moral protest against Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. I never doubted my decision, and even then, I felt that I was leaving forever (or for a very long time). But of course, at the time, nothing was clear. And I was completely dazed, numb, and unable to think straight. I quickly said goodbye to my parents on the evening of March 1 and hurriedly packed a small bag with what seemed like the most important things at the time.

This toy crocodile was a gift from a person I love. I remember how in the first few months of emigration, I’d often look at it and ask myself how I could have forgotten to bring important documents, hard drives with photos, and actual necessities. But then I’d stop myself and think: “How could I not take it? It’s very special to me.” Since then, it has lived on my desk. I look at it every day, and it still gives me strength.

Publisher: a sewing machine

When I left Russia in 2014, I knew that I most likely wouldn’t return. I stood in the middle of my apartment and thought: “How do you pack your whole life into the trunk of one small car?” I was having an especially hard time deciding what to do with my large library of books until Ivan Kolpakov gave me an invaluable piece of advice. He said, “Take the books that feel like home to you.” And then I realized: I would take with me only what couldn’t be replaced.

We’ve always had this tiny sewing machine. It belonged to my grandmother, and as a child, I used to stand in front of it, looking at the pattern of strawberry bushes. Since my grandmother passed away, I’ve kept the sewing machine in her memory. My grandmother loved it, and I think it still works.

Back office employee: a tattoo and a bracelet

To keep from losing our minds in the summer of 2022, my friend and colleague Nastya and I would respond to every little problem with, “A, pohuy” [“Ah, fuck it!”]. That fall, a wonderful tattoo artist in Riga turned the phrase into a visual puzzle and inked it on me. My grandmother thinks it’s a needle and thread.

That same summer, I went to Spain to meet a friend, and I bought this PEACE bracelet at some shop in Valencia. It broke pretty quickly, and I thought it was a bad sign. But a few months later, Nastya made me a new bracelet using the letters from the old one. Let this be a good sign!

IT department employee: a bass guitar

I bought this bass guitar back in 2008, when I was working my first job. My salary was very small. Though it wasn’t a very expensive instrument, I still couldn’t afford it. I had to borrow money from my friend’s mom and pay it back within three months.

It’s a Japanese ’85 Fender Jazz Bass Special. I fell in love with this guitar immediately, and it served me faithfully in rehearsals, concerts, and recording sessions for many years. When I left Russia, I couldn’t take it with me right away. Early last year, my friend drove to Moscow and was able to pick it up from my relatives and bring it to me. I’m incredibly grateful to her. This instrument is still magnificent. But more importantly, it means a lot to me as a memory of my carefree youth, cool concerts, and good friends I haven’t seen in a long time.

Features editor: a missing bracelet

I left Russia in the summer of 2021, after the publication I worked for at the time was declared an “undesirable organization,” and I myself was labeled a “foreign agent.”

In the days before I left, no one knew what would happen next. The war hadn’t started yet, but journalists were already being persecuted. I spent several days trying to decide what to do — leave the profession, or leave the country, or stay?

The first tweet I posted after being declared a “foreign agent” said, “Everything’s fucked, but we’ll get through it.” I really wanted to believe it. At my goodbye party, my girlfriends gave me a bracelet engraved [with those words]. Then I moved many times. I rarely lose things, but that bracelet disappeared somewhere along the way.

Six months later, the friends who gave it to me also ended up in exile: they’re all journalists, and they cover the war and repressions every day. I’m not upset that I lost the bracelet. I think that like us, it will return home soon.

Publishing house employee: a ring that says ‘Oh for God’s sake, what now?’

For the past few years, every morning, I pick up my smartphone and think to myself, [“Oh, for God’s sake, what now?”]. But no matter what happens, I know one thing for sure — we need to stay human and remember [the importance of] solidarity. We will survive.

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