Prague — When the opposition activist Ilya Yashin spoke after being freed from a Russian prison as part of the historic prisoner swap between Washington and Moscow, he said he had been warned never to return.

Speaking in Bonn, Germany, Yashin said that a Federal Security Service agent told him that if he came back from exile, his “days will end like Navalny’s” — a reference to opposition figure Alexey Navalny, who died in an Arctic penal colony in February.

But as the experiences of Russian journalists and critics already in exile show, distance from Moscow is no assurance of safety.

Alesya Marokhovskaya fled Moscow for Prague shortly after Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, thinking she would be safe in the Czech capital. Then the threats started.

Several menacing messages directed at her and a colleague came via the feedback form on the website of IStories, the Prague-based Russian outlet where they work.

Sent over the course of several months last year, the messages included detailed information about where they lived, their travel plans, and even that Marokhovskaya’s dog had breathing problems.

 

“I was thinking I was safe here, and it was a big mistake for me because it’s not true,” Marokhovskaya told VOA. “It’s hard not to be paranoid.”

Even when Marokhovskaya moved to a new apartment, the assailants took notice.

“Rest assured, you can’t hide from us anywhere,” an August 2023 message, originally in Russian, said. “We’ll find her wherever she walks her wheezing dog. None of you can hide anywhere now.”

The threats underscore a troubling pattern of transnational repression in which Moscow reaches across borders to target exiled journalists and activists around the world.

Well-documented tactics to silence critics include online harassment, legal threats, surveillance and suspected poisonings, press freedom experts say.

Russia’s Foreign Ministry declined to answer specific questions about threats and harassment facing journalists. A spokesperson instead said “protecting the rights of journalists” is the ministry’s “constant focus of attention.”

The emailed response shared a list of instances in which foreign governments fined, banned or suspended Kremlin-run media. Russia’s Prague embassy, meanwhile, did not reply to VOA’s email requesting comment.

At first, Marokhovskaya thought the threats didn’t impact her. But she later noticed changes in her lifestyle. She didn’t leave her home as often, she said, and she worried about surveillance.

“Physically, I’ve never faced any aggression. It’s just words for now, but it makes my life really messy,” she said. “But only in a psychological way.”

It’s a sentiment shared by her colleagues at IStories and other exiled Russian journalists who spoke with VOA in Prague.

“Any journalist, whether he’s working at IStories, or The Insider, or any other media outlet in exile, is, in a way, risking his or her life. You can’t be 100% safe,” IStories founder Roman Anin told VOA.

Restricted by Russian laws that effectively banned independent coverage of the war in Ukraine, hundreds of journalists — and their newsrooms — fled. Most resettled across Europe in cities like Amsterdam, Berlin, Riga, Vilnius, Tbilisi and Prague.

The legal aid group Setevye Svobody, or Net Freedoms Project, estimates that at least 1,000 journalists have left since the war broke out. Rights group OVD-Info estimates roughly the same number of political prisoners are held in Russian custody. Among that number, say watchdogs, are several journalists.

Had she stayed on Russian soil, Rita Loginova thinks she would have been among them. Originally from the Siberian city Novosibirsk, the journalist faced police harassment before fleeing in March 2023 on the encouragement of her editors.

“I didn’t want to become a prisoner, because a mother near her children is better than a mother in prison. That’s why I’m here,” Loginova told VOA one evening at her favorite pizza place in Prague.

Between puffs on her vape and sips of beer, she spoke about leaving home “because we had a lot of risk for our life and our liberty,” and how she misses her mom, her dog and the view from her old apartment.

Although she likes Prague, Loginova, who works at the independent outlet Verstka, says she is beset by financial hardship, a challenge experienced by many exiled Russians.

More broadly, reporting on Russia from abroad is a challenge, especially for outlets like IStories that have been branded “undesirable” organizations by the Kremlin — a designation that exposes staffers and sources to criminal charges and jail time.

As a result, says IStories founder Anin, finding sources in Russia willing to speak can be hard. And yet the exiled journalists know they are luckier than the political prisoners in Russia, let alone Ukrainians grappling with Russia’s invasion firsthand.

“We have not an easy job, but simultaneously, we shouldn’t complain,” Anin said.

In June, Russia issued an arrest warrant for Anin on charges of spreading “false information” about the military, a charge the Kremlin often uses to retaliate against independent journalists or critics who speak out against the war.

“I was a little bit surprised why it took them so long to take this legal step,” says Anin, who left Russia in 2021 for vacation but never returned after learning of his likely arrest.

Beyond legal threats and harassment, hacking is another problem.

Anna Ryzhkova, a journalist at Verstka, says that in December 2023, she received an email from someone posing as a journalist at another exiled Russian outlet, accusing her of plagiarism and asking her to click a link to the article in question.

Ryzhkova realized it was likely a scam designed to hack her accounts. She then learned several colleagues had received similar emails. Two months later, she discovered there had been a sophisticated attempt to hack her Gmail account.

“I was really frightened,” Ryzhkova said, adding that she believes the Russian government was behind both incidents.

Sitting outside a stylish cafe playing Charli XCX music, Ryzhkova admits these incidents make her consider quitting journalism entirely.

“But then you take half a day off. You breathe,” she said. “And you start again. You choose some dangerous topics again.”

These cases show that nothing is out of bounds for Russia, according to Gulnoza Said of the U.S.-based Committee to Protect Journalists.

“Russia can do anything to silence government critics,” she told VOA. “The challenges they face make it very difficult for them to stay mentally healthy and continue working as journalists.”

There’s a strange irony in being an exiled Russian journalist who fled your home to continue reporting on it. Moscow may be more than 1,000 miles from Prague, but it doesn’t feel that far.

“Physically you’re here, but mentally you’re still in Russia, because you keep writing about Russia,” Ryzhkova said, adding that sacrifice is a unifying factor for all who do it.

“We all miss our home,” she said. “Most of us had to sacrifice something important to be here.”

But for many, the often-personal costs are worth it.

“It’s important to do this work. It’s important,” Alexey Levchenko, a journalist at The Insider, said at Prague’s Cafe Slavia, a venue on the banks of the Vltava that has a history as a hub for writers.

“What can we do to stop the war? We don’t have many possibilities,” he said. “Journalism is one of the most effective possibilities.”

Anin agreed. He views their work as integral to thwarting Moscow’s effort to distort the truth about the war.

“We work 24/7,” he said. “Even if you can’t change the reality with your stories, we’re saving the history for future generations.”

Prague has a long history of literary dissidents, and these exiled Russian journalists are just the latest chapter.

Asked if she is happy, Ryzhkova is briefly caught off-guard. “I am,” she says, before breaking into laughter.

Why the laughter? She tucks her blonde hair behind her ears before answering.

“If you had asked me the same question three years ago, when I lived in Moscow in my house, with my husband, with my dog, and if you had described to me everything that would happen to me over the next three years, I would say there is no way to stay happy in such circumstances,” she says. “But somehow I am.”
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