Andrey Zubov: "We are not in Exile, we are in a Message" – A summary of the lecture "The Mission of the Russian Emigration Today" and an AI review (based on the YouTube video from 04.06.2026 "The Mission of the Russian Emigration Today. Lecture by Andrey Zubov in Paris").
Part 1. Summary of the Lecture
Dear friends, I am very emotional to be speaking today in Paris — in one of the places of such high education and culture. Of course, I recall that our path, the path of Russian emigration, is much longer than a hundred years. One can recall Turgenev, Bakunin, and Herzen here — those who could not live in Russia, even though they loved it immensely. France has long been the most hospitable hostess in the world.
I chose Paris for the presentation of the first four volumes of my "History of Russia in the 19th Century" not by chance: the greatest achievements of the Russian diaspora are connected with France. Bunin, Berdyaev, Georgy Ivanov, Boris Zaitsev — the journal "Put" (The Way) was published here, its last issue appearing on the eve of the German occupation. Here they suffered, agonized, wrote, loved, waited — and no longer hoped. And later, many were able to return, at least to glance beyond that terrible fence with which Lenin, Stalin, and subsequent self-appointed rulers separated Russia from the world.
Today we often hear: "Because of the tragedy of the Ukrainian-Russian war, because of the aggression against Ukraine, Russia has lost its moral right to exist; it has no future." Believe me, the same thing was said a hundred, even a hundred and fifty years ago, in Herzen's era. But Russia exists. It exists in you — in those who left the tragedy of war to remain morally free. It also exists in the homeland — in people who, risking their lives like Alexei Navalny, giving it, serve the honor, truth, and name of Russia. Russia exists in millions of silent people who lack the strength or courage to speak out openly, but who preserve the truth — teachers, professors like Dmitry Likhachev, Sergey Averintsev, like Pyotr Kapitsa, who refused to lead Stalin's nuclear project and got off with house arrest. Such people have always existed. Russia is not hopeless.
Therefore, I decided to turn my lectures into books. Not a boring text on poor paper that students read while spitting and colleagues flip through to find fault. I wanted to talk about Russia in such a way that one could look into the eyes of those people who were actors in its destiny — both positive and repulsive. One must be able to look into the eyes.
Any history is based not on the normativity of world development, but on the free choice of a person. Every person is a creator of history, for good or evil. In the history of Russia, there have been the greatest declines and the greatest atrocities, but also the greatest aspirations for good and light. Russia cannot be written off. Its falls are lessons for itself and for the whole world, as Pyotr Chaadaev said. Its victories — above all over itself — are also important.
The fall of Germany was terrible, but its rebirth into a democratic, and then united, Germany is great. This is a treasure for all of Europe. The same can be said about Russia.
The history of Russia is a history of tragic breakdowns and daring takeoffs. Everything depends on which reference points we set: from defeat to defeat or from success to success — not political, not imperial, but moral, on the path of establishing truth.
There is nothing harder than looking at pre-revolutionary Russia as a country permeated with slavery — not only of the serf peasants, but of practically the entire society. "I'd be glad to serve, but being served to is sickening" — remember Griboyedov? Russia dared to commit an incredible vileness: it enslaved over 90 percent of its citizens. The resource back then was human labor — and it was enslaved so that a few percent of the population could live well, expand the empire, and amuse themselves with conquests.
Was Russia the only one to act this way? No. Slavery poisoned the life of France — even Napoleon reinstated slavery in Haiti. It lies as a heavy burden on the United States, distorted England, although England managed to overcome slavery in the first third of the 19th century. But what do other countries matter to us? What matters is what we have at home.
Serfdom could not be corrected by anything. And then — a daring takeoff: Alexander I, the emperor, wanted to abolish serfdom, introduce a constitution, teach people literacy and the Christian life. He created the Bible Society, publishing Scripture in gigantic print runs. But nothing succeeded. The reforms were curtailed not because he wanted to preserve power, but because he met opposition from the very ruling class that reaped the benefits but feared a new Pugachevshchina (peasant revolt).
Alexander II began great reforms not out of conviction, like his uncle, but because his advisors convinced him: a general uprising of the slaves was coming. Custine wrote in 1838 that in 50 years, Russia would be swept away by a slave revolt. And Alexander II carried out a comprehensive, brilliant reform. Economically, the later Stolypin reforms settled everything: the state effectively abandoned redemption payments, allowing peasants to become landowners — unheard-of sums for those times, and this after the Russo-Japanese War, when the treasury was nearly empty.
But reforms are only half the work. It is necessary for the reform to occur in people's minds. Alexander II carried out reforms when 4/5 of the landowning nobles were against them. They were not afraid of the Pugachevshchina; they wanted to continue enjoying power over other people. The most terrible imperialism is not the conquest of lands, but when power extends over other people, and you can do whatever you want with them, and they can do nothing. The internal empire is the most soul-corrupting thing.
And so the peasants were freed. They were given land, no payments were taken from them. The Russian economy developed at an incredible pace — together with the USA, the fastest-growing economy in the world. But the memory of terrible injustice remained in their hearts. The upper classes did not repent, did not say, "That was bad, that was a crime." They simply corrected it and fell silent. And in the end, the Bolsheviks seized power. They appealed to the simple, not very literate, but embittered by the past, people. Remember Bunin, Zaitsev — free and already wealthy by peasant standards, people who hate the impoverished nobleman. "Your Excellency, how are your circumstances?" — they mock, laugh, kill en masse. Do not be indignant, one must understand the reason. This is an ancient hatred generated by the upper classes. Arnold Toynbee showed perfectly: the former upper class is always responsible for social tragedies, revolutions, and revolts. It creates conditions under which the lower classes sooner or later rise up and sweep it away.
And so it happened. A new terrible, bandit power emerged, which deceived the people, promising an earthly paradise, but demanding the abandonment of all ten commandments. The mass of the Russian people threw everything away. They did not enter paradise. These repulsive people, playing on the psychology of hatred, wanted only one thing: to become merciless rulers and turn the country's wealth to conquer the world. The new coat of arms — the hammer and sickle on the globe. "The proletariat has no fatherland, its fatherland is the whole world," but by proletariat these bandits meant only themselves.
More than a million Russian people went into exile after five years of the most severe war. But the very fact of the Civil War is interesting. We were given a chance. When people saw the deeds of the Bolsheviks in 1918–1919 — the Red Terror, 2 million victims, expropriation, outrage against the right to private property and the right to life — they should have come to their senses. The White armies stood near Petrograd and Tula, Yekaterinburg and Perm were occupied. It seemed almost there. But the people did not follow the Whites. They said: "We are for the Soviets, but without the Communists, we don't need any old power." The people are not fools, the people remembered the old power. Any general, even one from the people like Denikin, any priest, any bishop was perceived as a representative of that same hated power. And the people made a choice. Later they had to pay for this choice with collectivization and the Holodomor.
And then an incredible miracle happened — Perestroika, Gorbachev's reform. Just as Alexander I tried to carry out reforms against his own class, Gorbachev — cleverly, cunningly, deviously, deceiving not-very-smart people in the Politburo — led the country to free elections in 1989, to the election of the president on June 12, 1991. Yes, he did not manage the market, but he did the main thing. How could a village boy, a combine operator, who received the Order of the Red Banner of Labor at age 16, do all this?
And then Yeltsin — the first popularly elected ruler in the thousand-year history of Russia — appointed a KGB officer as his successor. And the circle closed. And we found ourselves anywhere but in Russia.
In February 1924, Bunin delivered his speech "The Mission of the Russian Emigration" in Paris. Russian people were demoralized, the people (back home) did not accept them, and an unenviable fate awaited them in Europe. And Bunin, the greatest writer, future Nobel laureate, said: we are not in exile, we are in a message, in a mission. We left not because we were saving our skin, but because we were saving our honor. We must create free literature, science, law, historical thought — everything that cannot be created at home under Bolshevik power. In 1926, a congress of the Russian diaspora took place. We must prepare a different Russia. And they prepared it. Without Bunin, without Struve, without Berdyaev, without Frank — Russia would not have been reborn under Gorbachev. The first thing he did was open the floodgates for publishing books. Everything that was under seven seals poured out like a sea and changed consciousness. But consciousness was distorted too strongly. We received freedom for free and considered it a thing of little value. We loved the word "as if". The majority thought not about building Russia, but about building themselves. And this brought Putin to power. Not Yeltsin's mistake, but our common one.
Today, we — the new generation of Russian emigration — also have a mission. It is akin to the one that inspired Bunin, but not identical. We also preserve the torch of Russian culture, but at the same time, the Iron Curtain is now much more permeable thanks to the internet, the absence of rigid ideology (Dugin's attempts are comical). We have much greater contact with people at home. We are preparing the future Russia there where we are given a relatively safe life.
The first act of struggle for each of us should be the struggle for our own mind and heart, so that they do not lie, do not say "forget" and "useless". We must pass this torch to the homeland, to the youth. Perhaps I will not see it, but you, who are younger, will return and transform Russia. I promise: if the regime falls, I will return on the first ship. Our mission is great. Let us not renounce it. If not me, then who? Every such action brings closer a worthy Russia, which the world will not fear, despise, or immensely respect, but will be able to consider part of itself.
Part 2. Fundamental Essay-Study: "Mission as Destiny: Historiosophy, Psychology, and Culture of the Russian Emigration"
Introduction: Repetition with Deepening
The lecture by Andrey Borisovich Zubov, delivered in Paris in 2026 and referencing Ivan Bunin's speech of 1924, is not just a historical excursion or a political statement. It is an act of historiosophical self-determination by a man belonging to the tradition of Russian religious-philosophical thought, stemming from Chaadaev, Khomyakov, Solovyov, Berdyaev, Frank, and Fedotov. Zubov, like his emigrant predecessors, poses the question of the meaning of historical rupture, the teleology of exile, the metaphysical responsibility of those who find themselves outside the physical borders of their country, but not outside its destiny.
In this essay, we will attempt a fundamental analysis of the key themes of the lecture: the nature of the Russian catastrophe (serfdom as an internal empire), the phenomenon of "non-acceptance of the liberators" (why the people did not follow the Whites), the paradoxes of post-Soviet democracy and restoration, and, most importantly, the mission of emigration as a pedagogy of freedom, a school of moral choice, a liturgy of memory and hope.
1. Serfdom as an Ontological Trauma: The Internal Empire and the Metaphysics of Power
Zubov offers a shocking but precise formula: the most terrible imperialism is not the conquest of foreign lands, but power over other people inside one's own country, when you can do whatever you want to them, and they can do nothing. This definition moves the problem from the economic or social plane to the spiritual-anthropological one.
Serfdom in Russia was not merely an archaic institution. It shaped the structure of the soul of both slave and master. For the landowner — a narcissistic expansion of the "self" at the expense of another person turned into a thing. For the peasant — a splitting of personality: external submission and internal hatred that accumulates for centuries. This hatred becomes not a political program, but a metaphysical passion, directed not so much at a specific master, but at anyone who bears the sign of "the top," "culture," "education," "rank."
Zubov cites Toynbee: the former upper class, not the lower classes, is responsible for revolutions. And this is profoundly true. The upper classes, having benefited from the reforms, did not do the main thing — perform an act of public repentance. They corrected the legal mechanisms but did not produce metanoia (a change of mind, repentance). They said, "The issue is solved," but did not say, "This was a sin." And the people remembered not the freedom they were given, but the humiliation that was not atoned for.
Hence the tragic paradox: the people reject the White generals, priests, and even reformers because they see them as a continuation of the same face, just in different clothes. This is not rational calculation, but a psychological reflex — a collective post-traumatic disorder that the Bolsheviks brilliantly used by donning the mask of "people's power."
2. Moral Choice vs. Historical Determinism
One of Zubov's key historiosophical positions is the rejection of the normativity of historical development. He decisively opposes any form of determinism (whether Marxist "lawful transition to communism" or liberal "automatic progress of market and democracy"). History, according to Zubov, is driven by man's free choice. Every person is a creator of history, for good or evil.
This position is a direct heir to the Christian personalism of Berdyaev and Frank. History is not a process with a predetermined finale. It is a drama of freedom, in which every act has metaphysical weight. Therefore, Russia is doomed neither to eternal tyranny nor to inevitable democracy. Everything depends on whether people — here and now — make a choice in favor of truth.
This is why Zubov so insistently speaks of the "struggle for one's own mind and heart." The internalization of the mission is the first step. As long as the emigrant thinks, "Nothing depends on me," he has already lost. As soon as he says, "If not me, then who?" — he becomes a subject of history.
This radically differs from both Soviet fatalism ("the historical inevitability of communism's victory") and post-Soviet cynicism ("nothing will change anyway"). Zubov offers a third path: tragic optimism, based on faith in human dignity and the belief that even a small action in the right direction has value.
3. The Phenomenon of "The People Did Not Follow": The Historical Psychology of Betrayal and Fear
A key point of the lecture is the analysis of why, in 1919, when the White armies stood at the gates of Moscow and Petrograd, the people did not support them. Zubov gives an answer that breaks the usual liberal schema ("the people were deceived by the Bolsheviks") and the conservative schema ("the people were corrupted by the socialists"). The answer: the people remembered.
The memory of the Russian peasant and soldier proved longer than the fear of the Red Terror. He remembered not the legal subtleties of the 1861 reform, but the humiliating ritual: the master who could flog him, sell him, separate him from his family. And when the White general — even the most honest, even one from the people — spoke of a "united and indivisible Russia" and "restoring order," the peasant heard: "The master will return."
Zubov does not justify this choice. He calls it a tragic mistake for which the people paid with collectivization and the Holodomor. But he explains it. And herein lies a crucial moral lesson for contemporary emigration: one cannot appeal to the people without understanding their trauma. One cannot call "back" without performing an act of repentance for what happened "there."
Zubov implicitly addresses this same principle to today's emigrants, especially those who speak of "returning." Return is possible only when not only a change of regime occurs in Russia, but also a moral revision of the past — Soviet, post-Soviet, and even pre-revolutionary. Without this, any "new order" will be perceived as the old enemy in a new mask.
4. Perestroika as a Miracle and a Missed Chance
Zubov calls Perestroika an "incredible miracle." And this is not rhetorical hyperbole. If we look at the Soviet system as a total, super-centralized empire of lies, its peaceful (almost) self-destruction from within does border on a miracle. Gorbachev, an offspring of the nomenklatura, an order-bearing combine operator, for some reason decides that the system must become free.
Zubov paints a complex portrait of Gorbachev: smart, cunning, devious, deceiving the not-very-smart people in the Politburo. But at the same time — not understanding the market, incapable of completing the economic transformation. For Zubov, it is not so much Gorbachev's economic failure that is important, but his political success: free elections, glasnost, abolition of censorship, opening of borders. This is precisely what the first wave of emigration prepared: the ability to publish Bunin, Berdyaev, Struve.
But this is also where the tragedy lies. Russia received freedom "for free," without suffering for it in struggle. And therefore did not appreciate it. The word "as if" becomes a marker of the era: democracy as if, market as if, freedom as if. The lack of existential effort led to freedom becoming synonymous with chaos, and order with nostalgia for empire.
Zubov spares neither himself nor his circle: "The majority thought not about building Russia, but about building themselves." This is a harsh verdict on post-Soviet liberalism of the 1990s, which could not (or did not want to) create a national idea capable of competing with Soviet mythology. And into the void entered Putin — not as a historical necessity, but as a consequence of collective lack of will.
5. The New Emigration: Similarities and Differences with the First Wave
Zubov draws a subtle parallel between the emigration of the 1920s and the emigration of the 2020s. Similarity: both streams leave not because of a good life, not from a desire to destroy Russia, but from a desire to preserve honor and truth within themselves when this becomes impossible inside the country. Both streams carry with them culture, science, language. Both face demoralization, poverty, and misunderstanding in the host countries.
But there are also three decisive differences.
First: modern emigration has the internet. The Iron Curtain is permeable. One can speak with those who remain inside almost in real-time. This is an unprecedented possibility for directly influencing minds.
Second: the absence of a rigid ideology in the current regime. Zubov calls the attempts of Dugin and Surkov to create a "Russian idea" comical. Putin's system is not communism, not even fascism, but pure cynical pragmatism, devoid of great lies. This makes it vulnerable: there is nothing worth dying for except money and power.
Third: the first emigration prepared the ground for Gorbachev for almost 70 years. The current emigration can hope for a shorter period — because the system's crisis (war, economic stagnation, isolation) is unfolding before our eyes, not in the frozen Soviet space.
But there is also a danger: modern emigration may dissolve faster than the first. French culture, work, children, grandchildren — all this calls for integration, not mission. Zubov does not condemn those who choose a new homeland. But he reminds us: a mission is not a duty for everyone; it is a vocation for those who feel responsibility. Bunin did not address all emigrants, but those who could not forget.
6. Pedagogy as the Main Weapon: The Mission of Teaching
Zubov's central metaphor is the emigrant as a teacher. Not a propagandist, not an agitator, not a politician. A teacher in the high sense: one who transmits not ready-made doctrines, but the ability to distinguish good and evil, truth and falsehood, freedom and arbitrariness.
This pedagogy begins with small things: with a kitchen conversation, with a remark "boys, speak Russian," with an honest answer to a student, with a book written not for career, but for conscience. And continues at the level of high culture: publishing archives, translations, research, free journalism.
Zubov does not give recipes. He gives a direction: in one's own field — whether historian, musician, electrician — to build truth. Not to destroy lies (it will collapse on its own), but to build an alternative. This is the classic strategy of non-direct resistance, dating back to Christian martyrs, to dissidents, to those who, in Soviet times, simply taught children literature without lies.
Why does this work? Because lies, in the long run, self-liquidate. It cannot be maintained endlessly without internal rupture. And truth is self-reproducing. One teacher who tells the truth is enough, and some student will remember. And then pass it on. Emigration is needed so that this "gene of truth" does not disappear when attempts are made to burn it out at home.
7. Eschatological Hope: Returning on the First Ship
The lecture ends with a strong gesture: Zubov promises to return on the first ship when the regime falls. This is not a political declaration, but a confession of faith. Faith that Russia has not exhausted itself, that its catastrophes are not a death sentence, but a purifying fire.
He cites the example of France and Germany. Two peoples who hated each other after two world wars became heartfelt allies. Not because they forgot the past, but because they did the hard work of reconciliation: Germany through repentance, France through magnanimity. Is the same possible between Russians and Ukrainians? Zubov answers: yes, but the price is withdrawal from occupied territories, restoration of what was destroyed, trials for war criminals, lustration — and, most importantly, repentance without reservations.
This passage shows that the mission of emigration is not only to preserve culture but also to prepare for future reconciliation. Today's emigrant is not a fugitive, but an architect of a bridge. A bridge that will be built when the war ends. And if it is built without the participation of emigration, it will be fragile.
Conclusion: Freedom as Burden and Gift
Zubov's fundamental theme is freedom. Not freedom from something (from a regime, poverty, fear), but freedom for — for creativity, responsibility, love for the homeland that has expelled you. This freedom is not given to everyone, but everyone who receives it is required to respond.
The emigrant is one who could forget but does not forget. Could dissolve but does not dissolve. Could say "This is not my war" but says "This is my Russia, no matter how sick it may be." In this lies his tragedy, but also his greatness.
Zubov's lecture is not a call for a literal return (although he himself will return). It is a call to return to oneself — to those values for which it is generally worth living and dying. Honor, truth, conscience, memory. And if emigration preserves them even in a small number of hearts, then its mission will be fulfilled. And Russia — someday — will be ready to accept them.
"If not me, then who" — these words, spoken in Paris in 2026, continue what Bunin said in the same city in 1924. And as long as they resonate, Russian history is not over. It is simply making another — perhaps the most painful — turn towards its true self.
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