For Anna, Vladimir, Piotr and Daria, leaving Russia is out of the question. "We'll stay in Saint Petersburg, in our city, in our country! It's not up to us to leave. It's up to [Vladimir] Putin to leave power ..." Between two confidences, on the terrace of a café in the heart of the former imperial city, Anna resolutely asserted her opposition to the head of the Kremlin. Yet she insisted on remaining anonymous, like most of the politically active people of Saint Petersburg "back in the day" before the conflict in Ukraine and the wave of repression that was unleashed to silence all critical voices. These dissidents, who continue to work in the shadows, all asked for their names to be changed, as a precaution.

"We can no longer demonstrate or meet up at opposition headquarters. On social media, I censor myself, so as not to be prosecuted for a simple post," explained Anna, 42, a mother and business executive. In Saint Petersburg, she works for the defense of civil and electoral rights in an organization classified as a "foreign agent" by the Russian courts. She is worried about her 21-year-old son and her 13-year-old daughter.

At university, the eldest has to "zigzag to avoid military mobilization," she said, and her hands trembled when she imagined him having to go to the front. Every Monday morning at school, her youngest child is forced to attend flag-raising and "lessons in important things," patriotic rituals that have become compulsory. "Fortunately, education doesn't just happen at school. At home, I come back to the real important subjects with her!" said her mother. "You can't rebel anymore, but you can still resist. And be patient," summed up Anna, who often reproaches herself for "not doing more."

Unlike around 50 of her relatives who have fled the country, she has chosen to stay – for the time being. "But that doesn't mean I'm content to live in Putin's Russia. I lead a parallel, barely normal life..." The memory of recent raids on her home, for her participation in one of the opposition movements prosecuted for "extremism," has continued to haunt her. "Twice, the police came at dawn to search my apartment. My children still remember them. Sometimes, at 5 am, I wake up, gripped by the fear of another heavy-handed visit." A third search and the red line will be crossed: "We'll leave!" she has decided. She has also started learning German.

Anna is far from the only one who is continuing to resist quietly, trying to slip under the radar of the regime's surveillance. "Between the determination to oppose and the fear of being arrested, we're living in a state of schizophrenia," said Vladimir, 59. His way of "saying no to the Kremlin and its war" is to correspond with political prisoners already caught up in the police and judicial apparatus, and to attend their trials. "It's not yet forbidden to go into courtrooms!" joked this history teacher, between humor and disillusionment. "It allows us to count ourselves among dissidents and support each other," said the man who, with self-mockery, described himself as a "fearful liberal."

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