The Red Passport Dilemma: Russians Trapped in Wartime Ukraine

150,000 people. That's how many Russian nationals currently live in Ukraine while their homeland wages war against their adopted country. Each day, they navigate life carrying the "enemy's" passport in a nation under siege.

Taras, a 45-year-old graphic designer, always resented his dark-red Russian passport. Getting a blue Ukrainian one became his obsession—a process that took 11 years and two court battles to complete.

His story illuminates a complex reality: What happens when citizenship becomes a liability, and bureaucracy becomes a battlefield?

Living Behind Enemy Lines—Literally

Most of the 150,000 Russian nationals in Ukraine are family members or spouses of Ukrainians, or were born in Ukraine themselves. Some are political dissidents seeking refuge; others are volunteers serving in the Ukrainian army. Yet all share the burden of carrying documentation that marks them as potential threats.

"If you have a red passport here, you're not human, even if you have Ukrainian blood, speak Ukrainian and donate to the armed forces of Ukraine," Taras told reporters. He withheld his last name to protect siblings living in Russia who already face scrutiny due to their Ukrainian background.

Born in Poltava, Soviet Ukraine, in 1980, Taras grew up 500 kilometers east in what is now the western Russian city of Bryansk, where his father commanded a tank regiment. But summers spent with grandparents in a village outside Poltava shaped his true identity. They taught him Ukrainian and "to be a regular Cossack," he recalls with a smile.

The Bureaucratic Gauntlet

After Russia's 2014 annexation of Crimea, Taras left his freelance design work in St. Petersburg—Putin's hometown—and moved to Poltava. Obtaining residence papers and migration permits was straightforward, but he "procrastinated too long" about getting the blue passport.

"That was a stupid mistake that cost me a lot of time, money and nerves," he sighs. His wife Tetiana, whom he married in 2019, confirms: "I nagged him every day for years, but he waited until the full-scale invasion began in 2022."

The war complicated everything. Ukraine severed diplomatic ties with Moscow, making a key requirement for citizenship nearly impossible to fulfill. Until June 2025, Ukraine banned dual citizenship, giving aspiring nationals two years to prove they'd withdrawn from their previous citizenship.

For Russians, this means proving they face no criminal or administrative charges, have no debt, and aren't registered at any address. The catch? They must submit these documents through Russian diplomatic missions—in third countries.

Embassy Humiliation and Legal Warfare

Taras took overnight trains to neighboring Moldova, where Russian embassy officials "lost" his papers, ignored his requests, and whispered "traitor" and "fascist" under their breath. Even so, he was luckier than many.

Kyiv-based migration lawyer Daria Tarasenko has seen cases where Ukraine's migration services refused to renew expired residence permits. When Russian passports expire, the nightmare deepens—requiring up to three trips to third countries to renew, submit, and receive documents.

Miss the two-year deadline? The migration service can strip away Ukrainian citizenship entirely. Tarasenko has won two court cases deeming such decisions illegal, with several more pending.

In late 2024, Ukraine's parliament voted to extend the deadline, allowing Russian nationals to wait until the war's end plus one month to begin terminating their red passports.

But Taras was tired of trains to Moldova and embassy humiliation. When officials rejected his "declarative rejection" of Russian citizenship, he sued. The court ruled in his favor. The Poltava migration service disagreed, so he sued again. This time, the court ordered fines for the officials.

"As soon as it became money out of their pocket, they were like, 'Good, come get the passport,'" Taras said. He received his blue passport last August.

Desperate Measures

Some resort to symbolic protest. In early January, Andriy Kramar, a Kyiv advertising executive, burned his wife Valery's Russian passport on their gas stove. They live in Hostomel—a suburb briefly seized by Russia in 2022—with their newborn daughter Oleksandra, enduring days-long blackouts and no running water.

Kramar posted the burning passport video on Facebook, tagging President Zelensky's administration: "Give my wife a normal passport!"

The desperation is understandable. Many Russian men prefer keeping residence permits rather than risk military conscription that comes with Ukrainian citizenship. Others face the impossible choice between legal limbo and potential battlefield service.

The Broader Questions

This isn't just about paperwork—it's about identity, loyalty, and belonging in wartime. These 150,000 people represent families torn apart by geopolitics, individuals whose personal histories don't align with national boundaries.

Their plight also raises uncomfortable questions about collective punishment and the nature of citizenship itself. Should bureaucratic processes account for the human cost of political decisions? How do societies balance security concerns with individual rights during existential conflicts?