‘My village has become deserted’: how Russia’s war is emptying its rural communities
Residents of a remote village in Komi Republic say dozens have left to fight in Ukraine, leaving behind grieving families and labour shortages
Every few months, Alina makes the long journey from the regional capital, Syktyvkar, back to her home village of Kerchomya to visit her family. Each time, she says, the streets feel a little emptier.
Kerchomya, a remote settlement of just more than 700 people in Russia’s Komi Republic in the country’s north-west, was never a bustling place. Wooden houses line its unpaved roads and in winter the single route in and out can become nearly impassable.
But after Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022, residents say the village began to feel different.
“When I go out for a walk now, I barely run into anyone,” Alina said.
“Over the past four years, my village has become deserted. The men are all fighting in Ukraine,” she added.
From the start of the war, the Kremlin has sought to insulate Moscow and St Petersburg from its visible costs, keeping life in major urban centres relatively undisturbed.
In rural places like Kerchomya, however, the consequences are harder to conceal.
Interviews conducted by phone and text with more than a dozen current and former residents of Kerchomya describe a place steadily reshaped by the war. Several spoke on condition of anonymity for security reasons, and in some cases only first names have been used or changed.
Fifty-six men from Kerchomya have gone to fight in Ukraine, nearly 1,500 miles from home, according to the village head, Olga Bulysheva. That is about a third of all working-age men.
Twelve have been killed, Bulysheva added. Several more are believed to be missing.
Like many villages in the Komi region, Kerchomya has long depended on small-scale farming and a handful of public-sector jobs. Even before the invasion of Ukraine, younger people were leaving for larger cities, while others struggled with unemployment and alcoholism.
Now, local people say, positions on farms, at the post office or at the recently opened small bread factory are difficult to fill.
“Everyone knows everyone here, and every pair of hands is needed,” said Vladimir, whose nephew signed a contract and left for the front. “If you lose one or two men, you feel it straight away. The village starts to thin out.”
Some also complained of rising food prices as Russians across the country begin to feel the economic strain of the Kremlin’s war on Ukraine.
When the war began, it was not long before the first coffins came back.
Tatyana Popova lost one son at the front in 2023. A year later, she lost another.
“It’s hard to think back on how I had to bury my own children,” she said.
Nina Ladigina, whose son Anton has been declared missing in Ukraine, recently told a Russian television programme that she still clings to the hope he will return.
During previous breaks from the front, she recounted, Anton would sometimes withdraw and cry quietly when he believed himself to be alone.
“I just want him back … in whatever state he is,” she said.
Despite the losses and the grief, none of those interviewed openly challenged Moscow’s rationale for the invasion or voiced resentment towards the capital. Nor did they dwell on the suffering in Ukraine – at least not to the Guardian.
Many instead spoke of duty and sacrifice, repeating the Kremlin’s false claim that Russia is defending itself from “neo-Nazis” and the west.
For those who remain in Kerchomya, the war seeps into daily life anyway, lingering in the village’s few communal spaces.
The only school displays plaques bearing the names of former pupils killed in Ukraine, and teachers now follow the “patriotic” curriculum introduced after the invasion, which compares the current fighting with Russia’s sacrifices in the second world war.
This Valentine’s Day, children gathered in the local library to write cards to soldiers at the front. The cultural centre, once used for plays and choir performances, now regularly holds memorial gatherings before funerals. And at the village pensioners’ collective, women gather to assemble humanitarian aid for troops.
The shift is visible online, too.
On VKontakte, Russia’s largest social media platform, the village’s official page, usually used to announce ski competitions or road repairs, is now dominated by obituaries from Kerchomya and neighbouring settlements. Posts advertising odd jobs or secondhand goods increasingly sit alongside recruitment ads. Local people have replaced family pictures on social media with black ribbons or candle avatars.
“We are proud that our boys are defending Russia,” said Bulysheva, the village head.
“Our guys are really brave. Maybe they’re a bit crazy here, but in a good way.”
Yet Kerchomya is not exceptional in the number of men prepared to sign up.
Analysis by the BBC Russian Service and the independent outlet Mediazona, which have tracked confirmed Russian military deaths since the start of the invasion, shows that a disproportionate share of the more than 200,000 identified fatalities come from rural areas and small towns.
Two-thirds of Russia’s confirmed losses are from settlements with fewer than 100,000 residents, according to Mediazona’s data. The outlet described the areas as “poor regions with a high number of volunteers”.
In Komi’s isolated villages, where monthly wages often range between 30,000 and 40,000 roubles (£285 to £380), a military contract offers a rare chance of upward mobility.
Recruits are promised a lump sum of up to 1m roubles – several years’ income by local standards – followed by salaries that dwarf ordinary civilian pay.
That disparity helps explain why recruitment has worked best in poorer, peripheral regions, analysts say.
Mediazona recently made it easier to trace the war’s human cost – and its uneven geography – by publishing a map of Russia dotted with confirmed military deaths across the vast country.
The interactive graphic resembles a night-time satellite image of the country. But instead of city light pollution, it is marked by the names of dead soldiers, densely clustered in provincial cities and towns while noticeably sparse in Moscow’s wealthier districts.
In Rublyovka, a guarded neighbourhood west of Moscow that is home to Russia’s political and business elite – and close to Vladimir Putin’s residence – only a handful of names appear.
“It was always the Kremlin’s priority to keep Muscovites happy and shielded from the war,” said a Kremlin insider.
“Any serious discontent only becomes dangerous if it comes from the capital,” the source added.
As losses mount, the key question facing both sides is whether Russia can continue drawing recruits from villages like Kerchomya to sustain its slow, grinding offensive.
For the first time since the start of the war, Russia’s battlefield losses appear to be outpacing recruitment, a senior western official said in a recent interview.
“We see that Russia is no longer able to call up quickly enough to replace those dying on the battlefield in Ukraine,” the official said, speaking on condition of anonymity.
Russia is recruiting an estimated 30,000 to 35,000 people a month. But a sharp rise in casualties this year, combined with signs of slowing enlistment, has left Moscow struggling to maintain the tempo of its operations along the front, the official said.
The official cautioned, however, that the Kremlin still had tools at its disposal. These include raising enlistment bonuses even higher to attract fresh recruits and increasingly turning to foreign fighters, particularly from poorer countries in Africa and Asia.
In Kerchomya, there are still men who say they want to go to Ukraine.
Aleksei, whose brother was killed in Ukraine last year, said he has considered signing a contract himself, driven by a desire to avenge his death.
“The boys are out there defending the motherland,” he said. “It’s hard to stay here and just watch.”