"To the comfort zone, like to the moon." What is the life of a Belarusian in exile like? 

When I was studying for my MBA (yes, I actually did that), our professors told us: the only constant in this world is change.

At the time, it seemed to me like a nice figure of speech—one of those empty slogans that business gurus love to throw around.

I worked for a stable company and lived in the most stable country in the world. A good wife, a nice home—what more could I need to enjoy my golden years…

Well, time has clearly shown how wrong I was.

The last few years have been exceptionally eventful in terms of change. Perhaps even a little too much so. But, to be honest, it all began not in 2020, but much earlier.

The pace of change that modern people have to deal with is astonishing.

That wasn't always the case, by the way.

If a medieval peasant had fallen asleep in the twelfth century and woken up in the fourteenth, he wouldn’t have had much trouble adjusting. Life back then moved at a steady pace, in tune with the cycles of nature. There were no breakthrough technologies, no geopolitical shifts, and no scientific discoveries.

Ever since the Industrial Revolution, everything has gone downhill. First they invented the steam locomotive, then the loom, then they abolished the gold standard. And then there were revolutions, world wars, the Spanish flu, space exploration, computers, and television—the more time passed, the more things changed.

When I start to think about how much I've seen in my life—which doesn't seem all that long—I feel very old.

There was the Soviet Union, with its dormitories, kindergartens, and lines. There were the ’90s, with empty store shelves, the first businesspeople, gangs, and street fights. There were the first (and last) democratic elections and the gradual consolidation of absolute power. There were pagers, the first cell phones, and personal computers. I even once watched the collapse of the World Trade Center towers in real time!

In other words, if I think about it, things were constantly changing around me.

So why, back in 2015, did it seem to me that the teachers were wrong?

I suppose it's because it's very comforting to think that everything in your life is stable.

The job is five days a week, from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Salary, advance pay, and bonuses—all on time.

A vacation in Turkey…

And so a year goes by, followed by another year that is surprisingly similar to the one before.

Every year, the president stands under the Christmas tree (the same president under the same Christmas tree). “It’s been a tough year; we need to pull together, rally…” And you’re eating a caviar sandwich and washing it down with champagne.

That's just how Homo sapiens are wired. We love routine. We take the same route to work, sit at the same table at the café, and go to bed with the same woman.

And I really did start to feel like my life had turned out well and that I was finally in a place where I felt happy and comfortable…

Nothing breaks you out of your routine—and your comfort zone—quite like emigration!

Your homeland pushes you out, just like a baby bird is pushed out of its nest.

A new country, a new apartment, a new language, a new job. I need to enroll my child in a new school. I need to figure out how everything works here: healthcare, transportation, taxes. Even my friends—most of them are new! Because my old friends either stayed in Belarus or settled in other countries.

No routines. My comfort zone feels as far away as the moon.

No, I'm not complaining. It's a perfectly fine way to live. I know expats who move to a new country every few years. A new contract, a new employer, a new country.

Why am I constantly feeling this pressure?

Well, first of all, because no matter how many conditions are attached to your residence permit, you’re still a guest in a foreign country. And nothing is guaranteed to you—including, in fact, your right to stay.

Second, (and this is what sets us apart from typical expats) we can't go back home.

No, our homeland is certainly waiting for us. It even says so out loud. But there are suspicions that it isn't exactly waiting with open arms.

Your homeland wants you to repent, grovel before the repatriation commission, pay some fines, reimburse the donations a hundredfold, and work for free in prison, assembling stools for IKEA.

And only then—perhaps—if you’ve truly reformed yourself, recognized your mistakes, internalized the correct ideology, and turned in your accomplices and organizers—might you finally be accepted back into the true, authentic Belarusian people. Or, more precisely, into the Belarusian people.

The prospect is certainly tempting. But neither the forests nor the blue-eyed lakes are worth such adventures.

So there's only one thing left to do. To avoid suffering because of what's happening, you need to learn to enjoy it.

It's not easy.

The brain really craves predictability, order, and assurances—assurances that everything will be all right.

But there aren't any.

You could get fired from your job, have your residence permit revoked, or maybe Putin will even show up in your city in a tank.

That means we live in the here and now.

Every day we wake up with a smile because we’re not in a trench or in prison. Every workday is a celebration because we don’t know if there will be work tomorrow. Every conversation, every handshake, every hug is a gift, because we don’t know if these people will still be here tomorrow.

As it happened, we found ourselves living in an era of change.

So let's buckle up tight and ride this roller coaster to God knows where.

But not screaming in horror—just quietly squealing with delight.

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