Friday afternoons at the Chop-Chop barbershop in central Moscow used to be busy. But on a recent weekend, only one of the four chairs was occupied. “Normally the house would be full, but half of our customers are gone,” says manager Olia.
Many of the customers and half of the barbers — all of them left to escape the mobilization of hundreds of thousands of men ordered by President Vladimir Putin to bolster the Russian military campaign in Ukraine.
Many men have avoided going out into the street, for fear of receiving the mandatory military enlistment notice. Olia says that that day, on his way to work, he saw authorities at each of the four exits of the subway station checking the men’s documents. Her boyfriend, a barber, also ran away.
“Every day that passes is difficult”, says the manager, who, like other interviewees, declined to give her last name, fearing reprisals. “We always planned everything together as a couple.”
Olia is far from the only one in this situation. While there are still plenty of men left in the city of 12 million, their presence across the capital has declined noticeably — in restaurants, in the hipster community and at dinners and parties. This is especially the case among the Moscow intelligentsia, many of which have income and passports that allow them to travel abroad.
Some men who rejected the invasion of Ukraine left Russia when the war started. Others who oppose the Kremlin have fled for fear of arrest or oppression. But the majority who left in recent weeks were either drafted into the military or wanted to avoid conscription or feared the possibility that Putin would declare martial law and the country close its borders.
No one knows exactly how many men have left since Putin announced what he described as “partial mobilization”. But hundreds of thousands of men are gone. The president said at least 220,000 men had been recruited.
At least another 200,000 went to neighboring Kazakhstan — which does not require a passport for Russians to enter — according to the local government. Tens of thousands fled to Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Israel, Argentina and Western Europe.
“It feels like we’ve become a country for women,” says photographer Stanislava, 33, at a recent party. “I was looking for male friends to help me carry some furniture and I realized that most of them have left.”
Many married women remained in Moscow when their husbands fled after receiving a “povetska” – draft call – or before the document arrived.
“My friends and I meet for wine, chat and support each other,” says Liza. Her husband, a lawyer for a multinational, received a warning about the mobilization days before Putin announced the measure. He quit his job and fled to a Western European country. But Liza, 43, stayed because her daughter is at school.
Women whose husbands have been recruited suffer from loneliness, but what weighs more is the fear that they may not come back alive. At a “voenkomat” (military commissariat) in northwest Moscow, wives, mothers and children gathered last week to say goodbye to their loved ones who were being dispatched to war.
“They are like toys in the hands of children,” says Ekaterina, 27. Her husband, Vladimir, 25, was in the building, and he was just moments away from boarding a training camp on the outskirts of Moscow. “They’re nothing but cannon fodder.” She wished Vladimir had escaped the draft, considering he’d be better off spending a few years in prison than coming home dead.
If Muscovites were able to enjoy a hedonistic summer, in which it seemed that nothing had drastically changed since the invasion of Ukraine, the situation is now different, with winter approaching and the consequences of the war becoming evident.
On Monday (17) the mayor of Moscow announced that the mobilization has officially ended in the capital. But many locations see reduced movement. In the two weeks following the announcement of the mobilization, the number of orders in restaurants whose average bill exceeds 1,500 rubles (R$130) fell by 29%. According to the newspaper Kommersant, Sberbank, Russia’s largest credit institution, closed 529 of its branches in September alone.
Many shops in central Moscow are empty, with “for rent” signs. The country’s largest airline, Aeroflot, has closed its shop on elegant Petrovka Street. Windows in which Western designers had displayed creations throughout the summer were finally covered.
“It’s reminding me of Athens in 2008,” says Alexei Ermilov, founder of Chop-Chop, citing the Greek capital during the global financial crisis. According to him, of the 70 barbershops that make up his franchise, those in Moscow and St. Petersburg are the ones that are feeling the absence of men the most.
Local media reported that one of Moscow’s biggest strip clubs has seen traffic drop by 60% and that there are fewer security guards available.
Meanwhile, downloads of dating apps have surged in the countries Russians have fled to. In Armenia, the number of registrations on the Mamba app rose by 135%, the company told Russian website RBK. In Georgia and Turkey, downloads increased by 110%; in Kazakhstan, 32%.
“All the more moderately minded men are gone,” says Tatiana, 36, who works in tech sales, playing pool with friends at a club on fashionable Stoleshnikov Street. “The dating pool has shrunk by at least 50%.”
During the summer, the street was full of young people having fun. But on a recent Saturday it was relatively empty.
Tatiana says that many of her clients have left the country, but that she herself will stay. Other Muscovites, however, still intend to leave. Alisa, 21, says she has just graduated and wants to save enough to leave the country after her friends finish their studies so they can rent a property together abroad. “I see no future here in Russia — not as long as Putin remains in power.”
For the men who remain, walking around the city has become a stressful experience. “I try to drive everywhere, because they can deliver a summons if you’re walking down the street or next to the subway,” says Alexander Perepelkin, director of marketing and editor of Blueprint magazine.
He stayed because he feels he owes it to his 100+ employees. But today the firm reminds him of the early months of the Covid pandemic, and he and his partners aren’t sure what to do. “Marketing is the kind of activity that is done in normal life, not in times of war,” he says.
At the Chop-Chop barbershop, Ermilov tells something similar. At the end of September he left for Israel and now has plans to open a business that does not have a physical presence in his country, “less exposed to geographic risks”.
In Russia, barbershop manager Olia discusses the possibility of expanding services to also cater to women. “But it’s impossible to make plans now; the planning horizon has shrunk to a week or so.”
With a wealth of experience honed over 4+ years in journalism, I bring a seasoned voice to the world of news. Currently, I work as a freelance writer and editor, always seeking new opportunities to tell compelling stories in the field of world news.
