"A Disgrace": Stripped of Citizenship for Opposing War

Maksim Polovnikov

Maksim Polovnikov’s story hits hard. He’s 34, used to play professional futsal, and called Norilsk home for almost his whole life. He was born in Baku in 1992, moved to Russia as a little kid, and built his career there—even worked at Norilsk Nickel. But after Russia invaded Ukraine, everything he thought he knew started to fade. Two years in, the country wiped his legal identity away.

Polovnikov didn’t commit any big crime. He just listened to his own conscience. The war unsettled him, so he spoke out. Sometimes, he vented in private; other times he posted comments online. He left a "No to War" sign at work and refused to give money for the so-called "special military operation" even though security tried to pressure him. These small acts got him hit with charges for "justifying terrorism" thanks to Article 205.2 of Russia's criminal code. Before he knew it, he was getting punished for his take on anti-war protests and a video with a Ukrainian journalist.

He got two years in a penal colony, but the real blow was about his citizenship. Russia changed its laws in 2023 so it could strip citizenship from anyone convicted—especially those with opinions the state despised. Ten months before he finished his sentence, officials told him his Russian citizenship was gone. He’d held it since 2005. Suddenly, he wasn’t just a convict—he was a foreigner. The system whisked him from prison straight to a migrant center, then deported him to Azerbaijan without so much as a pause.

All this left scars, not just legally, but physically and mentally. Before his trial, investigators blindfolded and beat Polovnikov for hours, trying to shake loose the names of friends and imaginary plots. One of the men interrogating him was, weirdly enough, someone Polovnikov had played football with years ago. Still, a strange twist came behind bars: other inmates—also convicted for anti-war views—actually congratulated him. Losing citizenship felt like freedom from a country they didn’t want to belong to anymore.

Legal experts like Ilya Shablinsky don’t mince words; he calls it a “disgrace.” It’s a throwback to old Soviet tricks: citizenship as a badge of loyalty or a weapon for crushing dissent. Russia’s constitution was supposed to stop that, but here we are. More than 2,600 people lost citizenship in 2025, all labeled as “threats to national security” for things like “spreading fake news” about the army or connecting with “undesirable organizations.”

Now Polovnikov’s back in Baku, trying to get a new passport and start over. He actually feels relief—he figures staying in Russia would’ve been worse. Despite the humiliation, torture, and losing his old life, he doesn’t hold much hostility toward the people who built his case. In his mind, they need help more than he does. So he’s walking into this new chapter, starting fresh in the city where his story began, feeling strangely calm after years defined by conflict.