A lot of Westerners talk about Russians as if they're a puzzle. Too emotional, then too cold. Too proud, then too defeated. As if the country runs on contradictions.

But usually, when a whole society looks illogical, the problem isn't the people. It's the lens.

Here's the idea I want to test with you today: what we call Russian mentality is a set of survival habits-learned under pressure, repeated for generations, and treated as normal. And once you see those habits as survival tools, a lot of confusing things become predictable.

I'm Elvira Bary, a writer born in the USSR. In this article, I'll show you the "operating system" behind these behaviors-how it formed and why it still shapes Russia today.

Here's our roadmap:

• The Social Costume — why looking important can feel like protection
• Scheming as a Life Skill — why detours and loopholes become a form of intelligence
• State as Armor — why many cling to a strong state even when they fear it
• Political Apathy — why collective action feels unrealistic, not just scary
• Loyalty Theater — why public and private truth split apart
• The Self-Worth Split — why pride and humiliation live side by side
• Survival Mode — how all of it locks together into one consistent logic

In Russia, people learn one lesson early. What you really are matters less than what you look like. Appearance over substance. That's how a caste system works.

So Russians invest in prestige like it's oxygen. Brand clothing. Luxurious car. A famous university. A shiny certificate. It can look like vanity from the outside. But inside the system, it's a tool and resource. If you look like somebody important, doors open faster. Officials answer your calls. Doctors take you seriously. Police hesitate. Not because you paid for a service. Because you broadcast that ignoring you could be expensive.

So money becomes more than comfort. It becomes the easiest way to buy status, and status offers protection. Cash won't save you from the worst scenarios, such as the state turning on you. But in normal life, it buys time, options, and better treatment.

And when you don't have money? You still have to wear the costume. You borrow it. You fake it. You cling to titles. You collect papers that say you matter. Otherwise you slide down and get bossed around.

Look at how this works at the very top. In August 2015, Russia's presidential press secretary Dmitry Peskov got married in Sochi. A guest posted a photo online. That got people talking about the expensive-looking watch on the groom's wrist. Media reports said it was a Richard Mille model priced around half a million dollars, far above what a state salary explains.

What do you think happened next? Was he investigated for corruption? Or at least trolled and hated online?

Neither. The talk just died down. And not many people were genuinely surprised. In Russia, a high official is actually expected to look richer than his declared income. Those insanely expensive watches, suits, and other attributes signal power.

Now compare that with a small scene from Norway. In 2013, Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg, who later became the Secretary General of NATO, spent an afternoon driving a taxi in Oslo. Just to hear what voters say when they think nobody important is listening.

In Sweden, the idea is even written into the paperwork. The Riksdag tells members to choose transport with cost and practicality in mind, and taxis are treated as an exception, not a right. Most of the time, it's either their personal vehicle or public transport. It's a different status code, where modesty doesn't erase authority.

In Russia, modesty kills authority. If a powerful person looks "ordinary", many people don't read it as humility. They read it as weakness. And weakness invites a hit.

This obsession with appearances is why outsiders often misread Soviet and Russian strength, seeing it as far greater than it is. The Soviet state poured a lot of effort into the show. Grand military parades. Cutting-edge technology prototypes. Giant numbers. Heroic reports. But those numbers and reports were often faked. Jaw-dropping prototypes never made it into mass production. And the everyday reality behind shiny facades was much scrappier. The old "missile gap" panic in the United States is a clean example: a fear that later turned out to be exaggerated.

What do you do when the government holds an absolute power over you, and the rules feel designed to trap you?

In Russia, many people learn the same answer: you don't go straight. You go around. Russians have a word for it: "schematoz". It means a workaround. A loophole. A clever detour that keeps you safe and keeps you paid. This is a way to adapt and survive.

Kids absorb this early. Schools, clinics, housing offices, traffic police. Every institution imposes too many pointless restrictions. You learn which rules you can ignore, which rules you must perform, and which rules require a "fix".

And if you can't do that, you're not seen as principled. You're seen as helpless. In that culture, the loser is the person who insists on playing fair inside a rigged game.

Now zoom out, and you'll see the same logic at the scale of the state. After Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine, many foreign brands stopped exports and sales to Russia. Russia responded by legalizing "parallel imports", letting businesses import certain goods without the trademark owner's permission. These official lists covered sectors from cars to electronics and included major tech brands like Apple.

I'm currently working on a new novel, The Snow Queen's Spring. The heroine runs a "parallel imports" scheme to bring airplane engines into Russia despite the sanctions. She can't refuse to take part in this, even though she doesn't support the war in Ukraine. But if she speaks up, she'll be destroyed and lose everything. She'll be put in prison and probably even killed. Once you become part of this system, you can't merely walk away — like you couldn't walk away from being part of the mafia.

The state makes life really hard for ordinary Russians. But do they see it as enemy?

Yes and no. The state is brutal and dangerous, but it also stands between them and something even worse. It's much like a small kid might see his abusive father. The father can beat up the kid when he's in a bad mood, but by his side, the kid still feels safer than without him. Alone on the streets, he'll be at the mercy of any stronger kid. And those kids could treat him much worse than his father does.

That's what the government is for an average Russian: a bad-tempered, reluctant caregiver. He often hates it. He loves to outsmart it. But he also clings to it for protection from the enemies that are all around: the foreign peoples that want to invade Russia and rob it. That's what happened for many centuries of Russian history. First, it was Pechenegs and Cumans, then the Mongols. then the Poles, the Swedes, the French, and, finally, the Germans.

Many Russians feel like an invasion might still happen today if the world sees them as an easy target. That's why they want their state to inspire awe and fear. That's why they want to be part of a mighty empire: not to thrive, but to feel safe. The sheer size of their country on the map matters because it's supposed to keep danger away. If you shrink, someone will come. If you lose control, someone will tear you apart. It is the logic of a place where borders moved all the time, armies rolled through, and ordinary people were never asked what they wanted.

Now put that mindset into the late 1990s. The state looked weak. Salaries vanished. Crime felt normal. Then came the apartment bombings in September 1999, where hundreds died. Fear flooded the streets. And a new prime minister, Vladimir Putin, offered a simple deal: "I will defend you, and you will grant me absolute power over the country."

He spoke in a language that Russians understood instantly. Not "rights". Not "due process". He promised revenge, control, security, and restoration of the faded status of a global superpower. His most famous line from that period was crude on purpose: catch terrorists "in the toilet" and "whack them". It was a signal: the state will be brave and ruthless, so you don't have to.

A few months later, Putin's approval ratings surged. That "security leader" brand carried him through his first election.

Then the terror attacks kept coming, and Putin used them as a skilled operator. Nord-Ost in October 2002, then Beslan in 2004, became more than tragedies. They became moral panic: you are surrounded by monsters, and only a strong state can save you.

After Beslan, the Kremlin moved to end direct elections of regional governors and replaced them with a system of Kremlin-approved appointments. It was centralization sold as protection, as the only adult response to danger. Step by step, freedom was framed as a luxury Russia couldn't afford.

Terrorism was the first big enemy that justified this architecture. Later, when that fuel ran low, the system needed new enemies to keep the same logic alive. That's when the external threat narrative became the main engine again. This road led to war with Ukraine.

When the full-scale war started, a lot of people outside Russia assumed the Russian public would finally revolt and sweep away the man dragging them into the abyss. But that didn't happen. And for most Russians, it didn't even feel like a realistic option.

The core political beliefs are "Nothing depends on us" and "We'll never know the whole truth." From the outside, that looks like passivity or cowardice. Within Russia's historical experience, it appears to be basic realism.

For centuries, rulers were a separate caste. They guarded both the levers of power and the flow of information. And political decisions were often made at the population's expense. So politics settled in the popular mind as something out of reach and unclean at the same time. Something you don't touch unless you're dirty enough to want power for its own sake.

That's why "going into politics" is treated as a moral stain. If you want to join that world, many people assume you're either a climber who wants to become one of "them", the hated чиновники (officials) who cause all disasters. Or you're an oddball troublemaker who ruins the harmony for everyone. In this worldview, the correct way to solve problems is not reform. It's workarounds. It's scheming. It's finding a path around the state instead of trying to change the state. So as long as the tsar's power looked even slightly stable, sympathy often stayed with authority, not with rebels.

The Soviet system cemented this. Politics became a ritual where you voted the way you were told. In many elections, there was effectively one approved candidate per seat. The message was: truth has already been found. The course has already been chosen. Anyone proposing a different course is not a reformer but an enemy. Under Stalin, that wasn't a metaphor. Being labeled a "counterrevolutionary" could get you shot. And even perfect loyalty didn't guarantee safety, because a paranoid ruler survives by constantly destroying anyone who might believe they have influence. Old elites were removed. Newcomers celebrated for a moment, until their turn came.

Over time, the state also trained people out of horizontal cooperation. Joint action was safe only inside structures controlled from above, such as the official church, and later the ruling party. Other collective movements quickly got crushed, or hijacked, or sold out. So ordinary citizens ended up with almost no lived experience of defending rights through political means. They don't just fear it. They often don't even know what it would look like in practice. Without a clan or a powerful network behind you, you're not a player. You're a martyr. Russian history has plenty of examples, from early revolutionaries to modern opposition figures, such as Alexey Navalny.

The impossibility of reform in Russia has received a stark and very telling confirmation. In the 1990s, the USSR went bankrupt and collapsed. The economy was rebuilt through hyperinflation and a brutal surge in prices across the board. All personal savings were wiped out. The economy survived and eventually began to grow, but the social cost was immense. Society emerged with a powerful craving for a "strong hand" and a deep, instinctive distrust of democracy.

What is striking is that Russian liberals, people who genuinely wanted democracy to take root, somehow failed to notice that fascism came to power in Germany through almost the exact same mechanism. After WWI, the economy was salvaged through hyperinflation, faith in democratic institutions was destroyed, and Hitler was, in effect, ushered into power.

Then again, perhaps it isn't surprising at all.

As I've said many times in my videos, the central tragedy of modern Russia is the absence of basic humanities education. People simply do not know history, let alone sociology, political science, or political philosophy.

When someone says "patriotism", Westerners often hear love of country. In Russia, patriotism is different. It's a public signal: "I'm loyal. I won't cause trouble. Don't hurt me." It's less about building a better home and more about proving you belong in the house.

In a system where the state can ruin you, the safest habit is to perform agreement. Not because you truly believe every word, but because neutrality is suspicious. Silence can be read as betrayal. And open criticism can land you behind the bars.

So loyalty becomes a kind of everyday theater. You repeat the right slogan. You attend the right event at work. You post the proper holiday message. The important part is not what you do. It's that people above you can see you doing it.

And once loyalty is a signal, it creates hypocrisy at scale. Here is a fresh, almost cartoonish example. A municipal deputy from the ruling party, United Russia, in Togliatti resigned after his wife posted that she traveled to Chile to give birth, explicitly to get the child a "strong passport" and visa-free travel. Reports said the family considered the US and Canada too. The story went viral, and the party responded with discipline. But this logic is shared by many: say "Russia is our home" in public, then shop for an exit route in private. The deputy's wife published her story on Instagram, which is banned in Russia but still used by millions. It is the usual skhematoz, very common in her circle.

As a result, the authorities face an ugly dilemma. They have to demand a patriotic mindset from ordinary people, the lower caste, so those people keep paying taxes, keep tightening their belts, and fight in a war. But those at the top understand perfectly well what serves their personal interests. And it has nothing to do with building a "beautiful Russia of the future".

The elites vote with their money and their feet. They move capital and families out of Russia, mostly to places like Cyprus and Israel, and most of all to Dubai. This city already has whole neighborhoods where you hear Russian everywhere. And these aren't shabby outskirts. These are the islands with the villas and the mansions.

One friend of mine who lives there told me it feels like the entire Rublyovka has relocated to Dubai. Rublyovka is Russia's Beverly Hills. There are familiar faces everywhere, from famous businessmen to former ministers.

But you can't say this out loud inside Russia, because it enrages the lower caste. The economy is sinking. Buying loyalty the way the state did through the war years is getting too expensive. So the new bet is on raising a "patriotic" generation. Meaning, brainwashing.

In schools, propaganda is pushed through programs like "Conversations About Important Things", where children are guided through approved themes and symbols. That is not a natural love of homeland. It is an administered loyalty habit, installed early so it feels normal later.

At the same time, the state teaches people to fear the consequences of disloyalty. That's where the emotional trap appears, the thing people call Stockholm syndrome. If your life depends on an abuser's mood, you start managing that mood. You start saying "our side must win, otherwise it will be worse", even when you know the war is wrong. The brain chooses the story that reduces immediate risk.

This also explains why criticism from foreigners lands differently. In the West, you can say "your government is doing something wrong" and many people won't feel personally attacked. In Russia, this boundary is blurred. If loyalty is your shield, then foreign criticism threatens the shield. It feels like an assault, not analysis.

There's one more twist that confuses Westerners. Russians can privately hate the system and still defend it in public. That looks weird until you remember the rules. People don't say what they think. They say what keeps them out of trouble.

So when you watch Russian displays of "patriotism" during war, don't treat it like a poll of beliefs. Treat it like a survival tactic. The question is not "do they love Putin". The question is "what happens to them if they don't clap?"

The Self-Worth Split

Here's another part Westerners often overlook. In Russia, self-worth is rarely stable. It swings.

One day, it's "we're the greatest civilization on Earth." The next day, it's "we're trash and everyone hates us." But what makes people feel this way?

This is where I want to connect to the personality archetype we discussed in the video about the love-hate story of America and Russia. Russia, in that model, is the Giver-Lover. That's the type that craves admiration and recognition. It will throw gifts at the chosen object of love. It will sacrifice everything it has. It will beg to be seen. But when love isn't returned, the flip is brutal. The same energy turns into spite and revenge.

And you can see that flip in how Russia performs itself to the outside world.

Take the Sochi Olympics in 2014. Russia poured an estimated $50 billion into a two-week event to say, "Look at me. Admire me. Love me."

When international sports bodies punished Russia for doping violations, the emotional reaction inside Russia was rarely, "We broke rules, we got caught." It was more often, "They're trying to humiliate us." Even clean athletes competing under neutral flags felt like a national insult. And in that worldview, an insult demands retaliation. Not reflection.

So what do you do, as a Russian? You attack back. You call it "Russophobia": a sort of hate and bigotry specifically targeting your people. You insist the entire world is obsessed with hurting you. You reframe any condemnation as proof of your importance. Because the Giver-Lover can't tolerate being ignored. If love isn't available, fear will do.

And this is how the war in Ukraine fits the pattern. It's also about forcing attention. About smashing the room so everyone finally looks your way.

That also explains the self-worth split. The Giver-Lover feels above the world when they're loved — and below everyone when they're not.

If you'd like to learn more about the Giver-Lover and other archetypes, check out the Sphinx Method.

Now, let's talk about an ordinary person's life strategy.

In the West, a normal person can plan. Not perfectly, not forever, but at least a few steps ahead. A job contract matters. A retirement plan exists. A mortgage will end in owning your home. The floor is there.

In Russia, for the last century, the floor has been pulled away from under us too many times. So people learned a different skill: live as if tomorrow's rules may not match today's.

There's research showing that areas exposed to Soviet repression, including the Gulag system, carry long shadows in social trust even decades later. That matters. Not because Russians are "genetically" anything. But because habits are inherited. Kids learn fear the way they learn language.

So when Westerners say, "Why don't Russians unite and fix things?" they're describing a society with a floor and calling it universal.

This is also why Russians can look cynical to outsiders. It's simply risk management. When you don't control the rules, you control your visibility. You keep your head down. You keep your circle tight. You keep your plans small enough to survive a sudden storm.

That doesn't make people "worse." It makes them adapted to a harsher environment. Like a body that learned to flinch before the punch lands.

So if Russians sometimes look "strange" to Western eyes, it's usually not because they're irrational. It's because they're running a different internal operating system.

So if there's one thing I want you to take from this video, it's simple: A lot of what looks like "Russian mentality" from the outside is not mystery. It's adaptation.

When the floor gets pulled out from under people again and again-wars, purges, economic collapses, corruption, arbitrary power-humans don't become "different species." They develop habits that reduce risk. They learn what to show, what to hide, whom to trust, and when to stay invisible.

And once you understand that, Russia stops looking random. It starts looking consistent-sometimes painfully so.

Now I want to hear from you. When you hear "Russia" or "Russian character," what is the very first image or assumption that appears in your mind? And after this video, did any part of that change-even slightly?

Tell me in the comments. I read them, and the comments often shape what I cover next.

Thank you for reading, and I'll see you in the next one.

Originally published at http://elvirabary.com on January 25, 2026.