Society
‘We Don’t Need Your Money,
Give Us Back Our Men!’
Give Us Back Our Men!’
March 6, 2025
- Natalia SavelyevaPublic Sociology Laboratory;
University of Wisconsin-Madison -
Mariia Kalugina
Scuola Normale Superior -
Sasha Kappinen
Public Sociology Laboratory -
Aida Belokrysova
Public Sociology Laboratory
The authors explore how a shared sense of injustice among the families of mobilized soldiers fostered solidarity and compelled them to join a protest movement demanding their loved ones’ return home.
The movement of soldiers’ wives and relatives Put’ Domoy (“Way Home”) was sparked by the announcement of “partial mobilization” in autumn 2022. It had become a collective force by end-2023, openly criticizing the Russian state and military while demanding the return of loved ones.
Put’ Domoy, however, failed to fit within the classical framework of contentious politics. While observers expected the group to demand an end to the war, its members sought “just” to have their loved ones returned, framing their claims in the language of conservative state ideology. In other words, they resorted to what Jeremy Brooke Straughn described as“consentful contention” – a specific form of political engagement in which claim-makers adopt the persona of dutiful citizens to contest specific state actions or policies.
Put’ Domoy tactics
Collective actions and public claims represent only some of the “consentful contention” tactics that people in Russia have used to deal with human rights violations in the army during the war. A recent study by the Public Sociology Laboratory explores why women try to help their sons, fathers, friends, husbands and partners serving in the army to interact with state structures and why, while doing so, they choose different paths – collective or individual, confrontational or nonconfrontational. Below, based on the findings of this study, I will demonstrate how the Put’ Domoy movement emerged both despite and because of highly unfavorable political conditions and a lack of resources for collective action.
The Put’ Domoy Telegram channel was launched on August 20, 2023. In November 2023, some movement participants joined a KPRF rally, demanding the return of mobilized men. After that, both the media and the state began paying closer attention to the movement. In November 2023, the Put’ Domoy Telegram channel was officially labeled as “fake” by the Telegram administration , a common tactic aimed at discrediting dissenting voices. By end-2023, materials in the Put’ Domoy Telegram channel had become increasingly critical of Ministry of Defense officials, the situation on the battlefield and even Putin himself. Within the next year, one of the most visible activists was labeled a “foreign agent” and lost her job, subsequently leaving the group. Some participants of Put’ Domoy public actions were detained.
Put’ Domoy, however, failed to fit within the classical framework of contentious politics. While observers expected the group to demand an end to the war, its members sought “just” to have their loved ones returned, framing their claims in the language of conservative state ideology. In other words, they resorted to what Jeremy Brooke Straughn described as“consentful contention” – a specific form of political engagement in which claim-makers adopt the persona of dutiful citizens to contest specific state actions or policies.
Put’ Domoy tactics
Collective actions and public claims represent only some of the “consentful contention” tactics that people in Russia have used to deal with human rights violations in the army during the war. A recent study by the Public Sociology Laboratory explores why women try to help their sons, fathers, friends, husbands and partners serving in the army to interact with state structures and why, while doing so, they choose different paths – collective or individual, confrontational or nonconfrontational. Below, based on the findings of this study, I will demonstrate how the Put’ Domoy movement emerged both despite and because of highly unfavorable political conditions and a lack of resources for collective action.
The Put’ Domoy Telegram channel was launched on August 20, 2023. In November 2023, some movement participants joined a KPRF rally, demanding the return of mobilized men. After that, both the media and the state began paying closer attention to the movement. In November 2023, the Put’ Domoy Telegram channel was officially labeled as “fake” by the Telegram administration , a common tactic aimed at discrediting dissenting voices. By end-2023, materials in the Put’ Domoy Telegram channel had become increasingly critical of Ministry of Defense officials, the situation on the battlefield and even Putin himself. Within the next year, one of the most visible activists was labeled a “foreign agent” and lost her job, subsequently leaving the group. Some participants of Put’ Domoy public actions were detained.
“The women who organized and joined the Put’ Domoy movement had no experience of public activism, and many admitted that they never followed political news. They held differing views on the war, ranging from open support to outright condemnation.”
The signs read "justice means demobilization for the mobilized" (left) and "it's time for the mobilized to come home" (right). Moscow, November 2023.
Source: Telegram-channel Istories_media
Source: Telegram-channel Istories_media
How then, despite this and the unfavorable political environment in Russia, did they manage to form a social movement?
What prompted the women to organize
For our study, we interviewed 13 women who joined Put’ Domoy and 14 women and men who were trying to help their mobilized, contracted and conscripted loved ones individually.
The first thing we discovered was that none of the movement participants had reacted enthusiastically to the announcement of partial mobilization. Presumably, this was because their families’ financial situation was relatively stable – they were not interested in the potential material benefits of fighting in the war and were unwilling to risk the lives of their family members for government compensation.
Those aware that their loved ones had received mobilization notices tried to dissuade them – unsuccessfully – from going to the military enlistment office and signing mobilization documents. Neither ideological motives nor material incentives played a key role in their decision-making. The men did not try to avoid mobilization, either because they failed to realize that a “visit” to the enlistment office “to update their records” could mean a one-way ticket to Ukraine or because they underestimated the risks of serving during the war and overestimated the social consequences of refusing to go.
They feared they might be condemned by those around them for failing to conform to “masculine behavior” and were deceived by the authorities who promised them safe service for a limited time. As the husband of one movement participant told her, “Pet’ka goes, Vas’ka goes and I’m supposed to stay here hiding behind your skirt?” “He believed that running from it was pointless,” explained the wife of another mobilized man. “Sooner or later, [the authorities] would find everyone and send them [to the front line] anyway, and that would be disgraceful. He thought it was better to go voluntarily – otherwise, they might take him in handcuffs and that would be even more shameful.”
Having recovered from the initial shock, women tried to figure out when their loved ones would return and what regulations governed their service. Using formal channels of communication with the state, such as petitions, forms and meetings with officials, they sought official explanations of the term “partial mobilization” and clarification of the rights of mobilized men.
Since partial mobilization had no legal precedents, there were no proven ways to deal with it. This led to the emergence of online chats and communities, where future movement participants initially shared information with one another and later found like-minded individuals.
What prompted the women to organize
For our study, we interviewed 13 women who joined Put’ Domoy and 14 women and men who were trying to help their mobilized, contracted and conscripted loved ones individually.
The first thing we discovered was that none of the movement participants had reacted enthusiastically to the announcement of partial mobilization. Presumably, this was because their families’ financial situation was relatively stable – they were not interested in the potential material benefits of fighting in the war and were unwilling to risk the lives of their family members for government compensation.
Those aware that their loved ones had received mobilization notices tried to dissuade them – unsuccessfully – from going to the military enlistment office and signing mobilization documents. Neither ideological motives nor material incentives played a key role in their decision-making. The men did not try to avoid mobilization, either because they failed to realize that a “visit” to the enlistment office “to update their records” could mean a one-way ticket to Ukraine or because they underestimated the risks of serving during the war and overestimated the social consequences of refusing to go.
They feared they might be condemned by those around them for failing to conform to “masculine behavior” and were deceived by the authorities who promised them safe service for a limited time. As the husband of one movement participant told her, “Pet’ka goes, Vas’ka goes and I’m supposed to stay here hiding behind your skirt?” “He believed that running from it was pointless,” explained the wife of another mobilized man. “Sooner or later, [the authorities] would find everyone and send them [to the front line] anyway, and that would be disgraceful. He thought it was better to go voluntarily – otherwise, they might take him in handcuffs and that would be even more shameful.”
Having recovered from the initial shock, women tried to figure out when their loved ones would return and what regulations governed their service. Using formal channels of communication with the state, such as petitions, forms and meetings with officials, they sought official explanations of the term “partial mobilization” and clarification of the rights of mobilized men.
Since partial mobilization had no legal precedents, there were no proven ways to deal with it. This led to the emergence of online chats and communities, where future movement participants initially shared information with one another and later found like-minded individuals.
“The Put’ Domoy movement emerged in response to a demand that existing support options, like NGOs tackling rights violations of conscripts and contract soldiers, failed to meet.”
Shattered hopes for dialogue with the authorities
In authoritarian countries, protest is often prompted by the state’s intrusion into people’s private lives. It was precisely the “right” to have a normal, private life – which most Russians kept living – that “partial mobilization” took away from future Put’ Domoy participants. When their husbands, partners and close relatives were sent to the front line, their everyday existence profoundly changed: they were constantly worried about their loved ones’ lives and well-being; those with children had to raise them alone; and some had to quit their jobs because they no longer had time to work. Their new reality was vastly different from the life they had known before and considered to be normal.
While initially optimistic and expecting constructive dialogue with the state, the relatives of mobilized men grew truly outraged only when they realized that the state’s intrusion into their lives was indefinite – that their husbands, partners and sons, as they were informed by the end of summer 2023, would not be demobilized until the war ended. Gradually, it set in that their loved ones were not coming home – either in the near future or, possibly, ever.
The final straw that turned both the Telegram channel and many movement participants into open critics of the political regime was Putin’s December 2023 annual call-in show, an event on which they had placed great hopes. The TV channel encouraged Russians to submit questions to the hotline, and among the questions there was one specifically asking when demobilization would take place. Putin, however, completely ignored it and avoided the topic of demobilization altogether.
In authoritarian countries, protest is often prompted by the state’s intrusion into people’s private lives. It was precisely the “right” to have a normal, private life – which most Russians kept living – that “partial mobilization” took away from future Put’ Domoy participants. When their husbands, partners and close relatives were sent to the front line, their everyday existence profoundly changed: they were constantly worried about their loved ones’ lives and well-being; those with children had to raise them alone; and some had to quit their jobs because they no longer had time to work. Their new reality was vastly different from the life they had known before and considered to be normal.
While initially optimistic and expecting constructive dialogue with the state, the relatives of mobilized men grew truly outraged only when they realized that the state’s intrusion into their lives was indefinite – that their husbands, partners and sons, as they were informed by the end of summer 2023, would not be demobilized until the war ended. Gradually, it set in that their loved ones were not coming home – either in the near future or, possibly, ever.
The final straw that turned both the Telegram channel and many movement participants into open critics of the political regime was Putin’s December 2023 annual call-in show, an event on which they had placed great hopes. The TV channel encouraged Russians to submit questions to the hotline, and among the questions there was one specifically asking when demobilization would take place. Putin, however, completely ignored it and avoided the topic of demobilization altogether.
“‘We have been buried alive and there is nothing left to lose,’ one of our interlocutors said, describing her reaction to the show.”
Elena, the mother of a mobilized soldier, has carried her sign "return fathers to their children" every Saturday since her son was mobilized. March 1, 2025, marked 888 days without him home. The words on her T-shirt read "bring the mobilized back home." Source: Telegram-channel Put’ Domoy
Solidarity from a sense of injustice
In a way, the state itself paved the way for protest. By calling partial mobilization, it created a new constituency consisting of mobilized men and their families. These men, though granted certain privileges (money, social benefits, etc.), were stripped of their civil rights and placed in a situation of mortal danger. As a result, a sense of situational solidarity emerged among their family members, which eventually evolved into collective action.
In addition, partial mobilization deepened divisions within Russian society, enabling the majority to continue ignoring the war and maintain a sense of normalcy – sustained, in effect, by the disenfranchisement of the mobilized and their families. “It feels like everyone else’s life is going on as usual, while ours has simply been taken away,” one movement participants explained her feelings. “We were simply erased from society,” another told us.
Most Russians continued to live as if nothing had happened and as if there was no war. They remained unaware of – or unwilling to know more about – the situation facing mobilized men and their families. These factors combined to create a deep sense of injustice among those families.
In a way, the state itself paved the way for protest. By calling partial mobilization, it created a new constituency consisting of mobilized men and their families. These men, though granted certain privileges (money, social benefits, etc.), were stripped of their civil rights and placed in a situation of mortal danger. As a result, a sense of situational solidarity emerged among their family members, which eventually evolved into collective action.
In addition, partial mobilization deepened divisions within Russian society, enabling the majority to continue ignoring the war and maintain a sense of normalcy – sustained, in effect, by the disenfranchisement of the mobilized and their families. “It feels like everyone else’s life is going on as usual, while ours has simply been taken away,” one movement participants explained her feelings. “We were simply erased from society,” another told us.
Most Russians continued to live as if nothing had happened and as if there was no war. They remained unaware of – or unwilling to know more about – the situation facing mobilized men and their families. These factors combined to create a deep sense of injustice among those families.
“Ignored by an indifferent majority, Put’ Domoy participants were then condemned both from the prowar media and ‘patriotic’ Russians and from the antiwar opposition.”
When the activists made their first public appearance in autumn 2023 at a KPRF rally, they faced a wave of criticism.
Criticizing the state by using its own rhetoric and symbols
The state media countered the movement with the image of a “good wife” – one who obediently waits for her fighting husband to return, organizes humanitarian aid, prays, believes that he will come back safe, sings songs and raises her children. Meanwhile, movement participants were accused of lacking patriotism and suffering from political naivety. As one of them recalled: “[Russian propagandists] try to discredit us by claiming we are some Ukrainian psychological operations center… Basically, they say we are not real, we do not exist, we are just a ‘fabrication.’”
To justify their demands, Put’ Domoy participants invoked social roles inherently tied to their private lives – they presented themselves as women in need of their men, as wives, as mothers, as individuals longing for family, love and the chance to raise their children with their fathers. By using the language of the state and drawing on traditional and conservative social roles, values and symbols, they effectively turned the state-sanctioned apolitical value of a “normal family life” into a weapon of criticism against the government. They articulated their criticism of the state using its own rhetoric.
Among friends and family of soldiers, it is the mothers of conscripts and the wives/partners of mobilized men who tend to develop the collective identity necessary for public action. Yet the former failed to mobilize and engage in organized protest of their own. In the Put’ Domoy movement, mothers of mobilized soldiers are present, albeit in smaller numbers than wives and partners. They feel empowered by their social status to challenge the state when their sons’ lives are at risk; however, this potential is unlikely to be realized unless conscripts are sent en masse into combat.
As the case of Put’ Domoy demonstrates, in an authoritarian state, social movements do not emerge through the same pathways as “classical” examples, such as the Civil Rights Movement, where access to resources and a favorable political opportunity structure support mobilization efforts. Despite significant challenges, however, the Put’ Domoy movement continues its efforts — albeit with limited success — to bring mobilized men back home.
Criticizing the state by using its own rhetoric and symbols
The state media countered the movement with the image of a “good wife” – one who obediently waits for her fighting husband to return, organizes humanitarian aid, prays, believes that he will come back safe, sings songs and raises her children. Meanwhile, movement participants were accused of lacking patriotism and suffering from political naivety. As one of them recalled: “[Russian propagandists] try to discredit us by claiming we are some Ukrainian psychological operations center… Basically, they say we are not real, we do not exist, we are just a ‘fabrication.’”
To justify their demands, Put’ Domoy participants invoked social roles inherently tied to their private lives – they presented themselves as women in need of their men, as wives, as mothers, as individuals longing for family, love and the chance to raise their children with their fathers. By using the language of the state and drawing on traditional and conservative social roles, values and symbols, they effectively turned the state-sanctioned apolitical value of a “normal family life” into a weapon of criticism against the government. They articulated their criticism of the state using its own rhetoric.
Among friends and family of soldiers, it is the mothers of conscripts and the wives/partners of mobilized men who tend to develop the collective identity necessary for public action. Yet the former failed to mobilize and engage in organized protest of their own. In the Put’ Domoy movement, mothers of mobilized soldiers are present, albeit in smaller numbers than wives and partners. They feel empowered by their social status to challenge the state when their sons’ lives are at risk; however, this potential is unlikely to be realized unless conscripts are sent en masse into combat.
As the case of Put’ Domoy demonstrates, in an authoritarian state, social movements do not emerge through the same pathways as “classical” examples, such as the Civil Rights Movement, where access to resources and a favorable political opportunity structure support mobilization efforts. Despite significant challenges, however, the Put’ Domoy movement continues its efforts — albeit with limited success — to bring mobilized men back home.
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