Written in a Volgograd café in the aftermath of being questioned by the migration authorities and the FSB

I’ve been involved with Russia for a long time. I’ve lived here for several years in total, but even when this country wasn’t my home, I would come for extended visits every year. I’m not naïve. I know how hard the systems are in this country, how too often they are dysfunctional and demeaning, but I also know how beautiful things can be. In Russia, I have found beauty and dignity, endurance and ingenuity and respect. I have been lucky enough to find genuine friends, and to share in things that are usually kept from foreigners. I have a strange hybrid belonging in multiple worlds and I treat it like a gift. And I feel the best thing I can do is work to bridge the vast cultural and political distances I notice between Russia and the United States and, more broadly, the West.

Of course that’s a tall order – surely impossible for one person – but all the same that’s the foundation of much of my behavior since I first came to St Petersburg in 1998.

In this time, I’ve come to be regarded by my non-Russian social circle as something like an expert in Russian affairs. This is not a role I’ve sought out, but I’ve often found myself answering questions about Russian foreign policy or domestic politics. Partly this is why I went to graduate school – so I could get some real training in these matters, as well getting officially recognized status through masters degrees and a PhD.

The reason that I’m explaining this so painstakingly is because I’m here in Russia on a tourist visa, not an academic research visa, and it turns out that this is a controversial area of late. Many western researchers work in Russia on tourist or business visas, because it’s much simpler than working through the bureaucracy and finding an institution to sponsor you. And until recently, this wasn’t an issue for the authorities. In the recent climate of increasing political tension, however, that’s begun to change.

This is important because I did something to attract a lot of attention to myself, and in retrospect this was not a good idea. Other researchers have more experience in these matters than me, so I guess I’ve been lucky.

I wanted to talk to some volunteers for the upcoming World Cup, and through connections I made friends with the volunteer coordinator for Volgograd. He kindly invited me to visit Volgograd State University so I could talk with some of the student volunteers. I love universities, of course, so I accepted gladly. I try to visit universities in every city, even if I don’t know anyone there. At VolGU, they greeted me warmly, showed me their university museums, and had me sign a guest book. Afterwards, we walked to a room where the students were gathered. It all looked a lot more official than I expected, with a good thirty students sitting at tables in a conference room. I was thinking it would be a more informal conversation, but I didn’t mind; I like talking to kids and I like teaching, so I was fine improvising. I introduced myself and talked a little about what I do, and then spent the rest of the time asking questions about their city and what motivated them to volunteer. A photographer took pictures and they gave me a lovely gift bag at the end. It felt great.

Now please imagine next morning in my room on the top floor of the Old Stalingrad hotel. I’m woken by knocking on the door. I fumbled for my clothes and opened up to find not the cleaning staff, but two men in suits with identity cards. Federal Migration Service. Also, FSB.

They took me for a ride to their office, an outstandingly grim Soviet-era building in a complex of dreary and terrifying government buildings. It’s the kind of place you want to avoid, is what I’m saying. We ascend to a small, cluttered office and I take a seat. There are four people plus me: the chief inspector, a mysterious man in a suit with a mild smile (these are the two who picked me up), a friendly looking man in tan and gray with a round face and kind eyes, and a woman in professional dress carrying a red diploma. The woman, I learned, was a professional translator on hand in case I needed one. I don’t, but I asked her to stay anyway because her presence seemed to warm the room a little. I never learned what the man with the kind eyes did, but in retrospect I think he was the good cop in the standard good cop vs. bad cop routine. They did it quite well.

I was there three hours. Why did they target me? They had a printout from an article about my meeting at the university that says “Researcher from University of Zurich Lectures at Volgograd State University.” Apparently this is a clear violation of my tourist visa. They also had a printout of every entry and exit from Russia (I’ve had a lot). I was questioned intensely about my activities in their country. Where did I stay in July 2015? What was I doing in Sochi? Why do I speak Russian so well? Who introduced me to the volunteer coordinator? On and on.

I was friendly and funny, when I could be. Truly, I have nothing to hide. But as time wore on, and as they alternated between friendly and rigorous questioning, it became increasingly hard to maintain composure. I understand the general thrust, of course: “are you a spy? Yes, we pretty much know you’re not a spy, but we’re going to screw with you anyway. Why? We don’t want you asking questions.” That’s the subtext I got, at least. A tourist visa is for tourist activities. Tourism means going and seeing the monument to the Battle of Stalingrad. It doesn’t mean going to the university. Understood, sir. I didn’t know that, though. But ignorance of the law is no excuse. Of course, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I do love your country, sir, and all I’m trying to do is show my foreign friends that Russia is a lovely place. All I want is for more people to come and visit so we can break down the walls between our countries. Yes, I did actually say this to the FSB.

In the end, they fined me 2000 rubles and warned me that if I didn’t pay I would be banned from Russia for 85 years (I paid that very day, of course). I was warned to be more careful, but I was also told that this isn’t a big deal. It’s like a moving violation or other minor fine. I got a ticket. I’m not arrested, I’m not really in trouble. I just stepped out of line. Be more careful. But don’t worry. Then they fingerprinted me – first time for everything – and said goodbye. I walked out of there, trembling slightly at the ordeal, and realized I had no idea where I was or how to get back to a familiar area. It was thoroughly disorienting.

That evening, in the bar, my closest friend here said: “Listen, Daniel, I’m telling you honestly. Everyone who’s met you, every single one, has asked me if you’re a spy. Look, it’s not like I’m asking you to tell me if you are or are not. It’s just that it’s on everyone’s mind. And to be honest, I can see where they’re coming from. Walking around, taking pictures, asking questions about the city… Everything about you is suspicious.”

Now, I love this friend. He’s an honest soul, a sociologist, anthropologist, philosopher, and musician. I call him Monakh – the monk – and he calls me California. I’m honest with him – truly, I’m honest with everyone, even with the FSB. So I say “Hey, I’ve gotta know: why are people so suspicious of me? Is it because I speak Russian more or less OK? You know I’m not a spy.”

And my closest friend says: “No foreigner speaks like you, man. You’ve definitely been trained somewhere, that’s what it looks like. And, you know, what if you really were an agent? What if this whole thing is just an elaborate ruse? If you are, though, here’s some advice: you really should pick a better cover story than this research project.” He smiles and busies himself with his beer. His eyes twinkle and I can’t honestly tell how much he’s kidding, or actually if he’s kidding at all.