We'd like to introduce you to our editor, Albina Zakirullina, who moved from Moscow to Kazan three years ago.

She has worked as a PR agent for the Ugol creative laboratory, the Anna Karenina immersive theater project, and the TAT CULT FEST festival; she conducted the Arzamas training course, teaching 21st century skills to disadvantaged children; and she founded the Teens Russia magazine.

She has an invaluable penchant for doing only what she believes in.

I probably never really thought about where I come from or what it means to me. That all came later.

I was born in 1992 in the small town of Abdulino, and there's probably only a few tens of thousands of people living there, I think, maybe twenty thousand. It was a city where everyone knew each other and nothing ever happened (I mean, I realize that now).

But it was very friendly there, maybe even what you'd consider your ideal Soviet life; you could always go to your neighbor to borrow whatever you needed. But, like, with gossip, of course; everybody talked about everyone else behind their backs, because there was nothing else to do.

I preferred hanging out with the boys, and I never stayed in one place. I never really cared for Barbies. I would rather run, jump, or kick a ball.

It was a great time because I was little and I was having fun [laughs]. Everyone important to me was nearby, but where I was wasn't really important at that age.

How long did you live there?

Seventeen years.

And how did your parents end up there?

My parents were born—you never think about your parents being born—in neighboring villages,

and Abdulino is the nearest city. My dad had already moved there, and my mom was a teacher in the village where my dad's sister worked at the post office. She would see my mother, thin and beautiful, from the window as she went to and from work and think "now she would be a good wife for my brother."

That's how they met, and after about three months they started the family in which I was later born.

I am glad for how I grew up; it had a certain kind of "LOL" factor, and it probably laid the ground for everything that happened to me later in life.

Well, different things influenced it. For example, bullying. And that happened at both schools. I didn't realize that if you stand out, if you have more talents or you work harder on them, then of course someone who isn't as talented, but who wants to be, will take issue with you. Because you're always better at something. When I started teaching, I thought about how bullying occurs in almost every (if not in every) class; it sucks, but at least it's just a teenage phase. They're still immature, and we know why they act like that. But what's worse is that it's the exact same thing with teachers (so-called adults): teachers bully each other, new teachers, young people who just started work after college, and more successful teachers whose students participate in Olympiads. Of course, they're focusing on their own problems, and not very many of them—teachers or school psychologists—are interested in stopping bullying between teenagers.

Were you bullied for getting A's?

Well, it was like this: teachers constantly praise you and use you as an example, which infuriates certain other students. Like, you come in, new to class, and begin completing your work more quickly than everyone else. You have straight A's in all subjects, even gym, where it has nothing to do with intelligence, but your body. You can make the high jump as well as the boys because you have long legs. You are too much and you are everywhere; it can't help but piss people off.

Or, more accurately, if you're another eighth-grader in Abdulino, you can't help but be pissed off about it.

So, some girls in class found a "weak" point and focused on that, without coming up with anything too creative: the girls that have boobs make up names for those haven't gotten them yet, those kinds of things.

The easiest thing to do would be to just work less and not attract too much attention, but the opposite happened with me. Apparently, my communication skills left much to be desired, or I wouldn't have wasted my nerves or anyone else's. I would have come up with a way to resolve everything. I thought everyone had to accept me as I was, and with my intellect—including my emotional intellect—all I could do was fight.

I went to all the educational Olympiads that took place in School no. 5, as well as to many citywide ones. There were only a few straight-A students at school, and the schools compete for students who can place first, second, or third, so they just send you everywhere, trying to win everything you can without paying attention to your individual interests.

I remember how shocked I was when I took first place in my district in computer science in the sixth grade just because I had a computer at home early on and I knew how to basically use it, not because I was prepared for the Olympiads or I had studied. I already knew then that my strength was in the humanities, and my teachers probably should have seen that, too, but they were just like, "We have a straight-A student, send her everywhere, she'll win something." Schools in every small town are probably the same.

Then I moved to School no. 6, which was the best in the city, and there the teachers took the students who were talented in their subject, prepared them for specific Olympiads, and didn't share their treasured pupil with any other teacher. I had two spheres there: Russian and literature and extracurricular activities such as the school newspaper and speech.

You had no desire to leave Abdulino? Were there any universities there? Did you leave without any bad feelings?

There ... I think there is a branch of some university there ... and now I'm ashamed to say I can't even remember it.

When I thought about leaving, of course, I always imagined moving to, like, Orenburg; Samara; Ufa; or Almetyevsk, where my own older sister was already studying then. Those are the nearest large cities. But then, in the middle of class one spring, the school director came in and said something like "Albina, congratulations! You got Vseros, you can go to any university you want." And then everything changed, of course.

Vseros, the All-Russian Literature Olympiad prize, let me study at any university without having to take entrance exams.

So I left my small town for the big city: I went study at the Journalism Department at Moscow State University.

You were eighteen?

Seventeen. I went to Moscow for the first time to apply with my sister that summer. Since I already knew that was where I was going to study, I had a natural disposition to like it. I knew that I still had my comfy, small, familiar city, but I was glad that I had the option to move to the capital and test myself out there.

I had a relative, Uncle Rim, who took us on an excursion: we went to Red Square (right across the street from the university) and VDNKh. And then I returned to Moscow with my mother in the fall. It was pouring rain and I was kind of sad when she left on the train: either because I had left home or because of the rain, or everything together.

But a week later, my life as a student began and, of course, my melancholy was quickly forgotten.

They called the journalism department the "breath-of-free-air department." Back then you could choose which classes you wanted to go to, and, if you missed something, you just had to pass a test or exam in that subject. Sometimes, instead of taking a journalism class, you might go to the philosophy department and take a course on the philosophical analysis of psychiatric diseases. You could fulfill your potential; studying wasn't bothersome. I think the entire third year was that way. My first year I strutted around like a straight-A student ... and I was a straight-A student! But it was an old habit from school (like with my gold medal, etc.). But by my third year I started to really work, and I had to push some things off to the side, make choices.

I started teaching Russian to teenagers for the state exams at Unium [educational center].

When I saw them, I could see how different their generation was, although the difference between us was only three years. That's how I got the idea to make a magazine about teenagers: I wanted to share what I saw. And it was nice that the atmosphere there wasn't like at school: you're not a real teacher for them (they have enough of those at school), but you're a mentor, teaching the subject that they, like real troopers, are struggling to get good grades in, but without all the stress and pressure, and including (in my groups) with the use of memes, rap, and TV shows.

I told them that if they didn't go to the college that their parents wanted them to, things might get difficult between them, but to just wait it out. They'll come around. The most important thing is to do what you want. Because that will motivate you! You'll find that the path that's right for you will be marked with good signs; everything will work itself out.

And if you don't go to college, that's okay too. You'll have a year to think about what you're really interested in.

I was trying, really, just ... to calm them down a bit, or something, because for an 11th grader that's the hardest question, what brings them down, what keeps them up at night; they can't decide, and they're constantly on an emotional rollercoaster, under pressure from teachers and parents.

In short, it's complicated.

My sister, for example, did what our parents wanted her to do, put her own interests on hold, and didn't study what she wanted to. Now she's grown up and still goes back to her true interests; she studies and got a second job in that field. But it took a lot of time!

One of my classes had a situation with bullying, so I opened up class with a sincere conversation and a discussion of all the reasons why bullying sucks. After about three lessons, the girl who was the bully had stopped, and the boy who was being bullied started getting better grades. His mother later called me to thank me, crying.

In times like that, you can really feel that you're right where you're supposed to be. This is my first year without any students, and I miss it, of course. I think I'll return to it someday.

Those years spent teaching were very important for me, because I saw a lot and learned a lot with them. I started skipping classes that I didn't find interesting and which I felt were wasting my time. Everything was great; I was the group leader at that time at the university. Now I think they're stricter about taking attendance.

Our class was friendly, small, and we had a new major: media management (very few people had signed up for it). There were ten of us, all girls, and it was pretty much a family. You could even call it a closed society; we were very close and shared all kinds of things with each other. It was fabulous.

My first big influences in terms of evolving tastes, worldviews, and cultural relationships were my dormmates Olga and Rita, because, for one thing, I spent a lot of time with them—every day—and, of course, such associations always leave their mark. For another, they were just the greatest.

They were a year ahead of me, although they seemed older than that, psychologically and intellectually. Everything about them was interesting. Rita, for example, became the 21st chief editor of LAM. Olga studied Finnish and, I think, Arabic, and she was always discovering new musicians before they became famous. Both had an amazing sense of humor. When you meet someone that inspires you, you begin to feed on it, and for me it was a shocking encounter, because …

Then you get used to how nice it is that life connects you with these great people. And you're trying to do your own thing, maybe you're overestimating yourself, you see yourself differently, so you come up with new plans. You get influenced by people by people you find interesting.

For example, I talked for a while with my classmate Dima Kuznetsov (who raps under the stage name Husky), whom I was also always curious to watch. He's so bold and honest; he makes any decision with a primal independence. It was amazing. You don't see very many people like that. Like, when I just moved to Kazan, he called me to take part in a music video. I told him I'm in Kazan, but I can come to Moscow for the shoot. And he was like, you don't need to go back in forth just for this. He says: "Why don't I come to Kazan myself? I'll move there." He was obviously kidding, but at least he didn't ask me what the hell I was doing in Kazan after living in Moscow, like my other friends and acquaintances did.

In regards to my career, Igor Tsukanov from Vedomosti made the biggest impression on me.

Let me put it this way. Kindness is not just one of the most important things in a person; in my opinion, it's the most important. You can be super smart and successful, but if you're not kind to people, your coolness factor falls right away. But if someone can find success and remain kind to those around them, that's just awesome.

When I came to Vedomosti for job training, my supervisor was a girl who made me feel terribly ill at ease. It was my first experience, that time when you don't even know how much you don't know. I could tell that she was teaching me by example, like how to exert confidence over the phone, to get what I needed, to seek out information ... but I could feel her thinking we have a million of these trainees. A person broadcasts that to you; like, if you weren't there, their job would be easier. And because this is the start of your career, you feel cringeworthy all the time, which is haunting for a straight-A student.

And then, on one of my last days there, Igor Tsukanov, who headed the department of technology and telecommunications where I was training, was going on vacation. He asks questions without any hint of snobbery, just, "Do you understand economic terms?" Then he says calmly "Let me show you what you need to pay attention to."

I was so shocked by his kindness; I thought the head of the department would be even stricter than his employees. It was so great, I quickly learned all the terms, wrote the article, and it was the centerpiece of the page. It was signed with my name: I was just like, wow.

How did your attitude to your hometown change after moving to Moscow?

I fought it a bit; I thought, how could that be? How did Moscow change me? I mean, everybody changes, grows ... I learned some things ... but over time I realized that it was true.

The city plays a big role, like an aggregator, bringing you together with people, opportunities, stuff, things that occur in the city which you personally may take part in. Of course the city changes people; it affects how you are formed, how you feel and think. It determines what you see.

The more and more cool things that happen to you, the less you'll want to go back to the way you were.

It develops your horizons, interests, and musical preferences; it determines the films you watch (and you watch them in movie theaters! There were no decent movie theaters in my city).

Secondly, the world is now divided into two: your hometown and Moscow. At first, I went home often; I had a strong connection: a boyfriend, friends, parents.

My parents are Tatars, and they speak Tatar to each other ... For me, being Tatar brings back feelings from my childhood, connected with my family and relatives, going to traditional weddings, or the Koran Ashy [translator's note: when a Mullah visits one's home to bless it].

However, they didn't have Tatar language classes at any schools in Orenburg Oblast, so you could call us "Russified" Tatars. My older sister and I (especially I) spoke Russian with our parents, and I still speak Russian with them. I only speak Tatar with my grandmother, and she, on the contrary, is trying to be modern and switches to Russian.

And I would say to her, especially when I was a student,

I can speak Tatar, but on a basic level, nothing literary.

My sister was taught Tatar as a first language; they seemed to think she would learn the other language [laughing] at kindergarten. When she went to kindergarten for the first time though, she came home in tears, like, "I don't understand anything they're saying there." And so my parents were like, yeah, okay, fine, we'll teach the youngest Russian first, and she'll pick up Tatar somehow. And that's how it happened.

When I was very young, our family had the tradition of cooking bekhet pilmene, or "lucky dumplings," where they're all made with a meat filling except for one, which is all dough, and whoever ends up with that one gets good luck. Apparently, the first time I got a lucky dumpling I was so happy that they sneaked it onto my plate every time after that, and everyone would pretend to be surprised that I got it again and again.

And for me that's what being Tatar is, because we called that tradition by its Tatar name, although I get now that it was a joke and wasn't really connected with anything ethnic.

Some significant, perceivable changes began occurring in me in the last two years here in Kazan. In Moscow, I went with the flow.

Three years ago, moving from Moscow to Kazan was my first major independent step out of the river.

I always heard stuff from my friends in Moscow like, "really? Kazan??? What are you going to do there?" They're always like "Kazan isn't Moscow, so it must be a village." Now when I hear from friends who have been here, more often they say "now it makes sense."

They'll ask me how I got into all of this, especially my friends from Moscow or St. Petersburg, or even people from Kazan who haven't started their professional careers. They ask: "How is that? So many things! So many projects. How do you do it all?"

The beauty of Kazan is that everything is close in terms of connections. If you've had one successful project where you've proven yourself to be responsible and professional, then you'll be recommended to others. It's the beginning that's important. You need to find something that interests you and that you want to develop.

How did you decide to move here?

It was a meeting between two crazy people. When Inna Yarkova (head of the Zhivoi Gorod [Living City] Foundation) posted on Facebook that they were looking for a PR manager at Ugol, you tagged me. I thought, well, I'll go, introduce myself. I just wanted to see this place.

But I really wasn't going to actually work. I took it as a joke! But as soon as Inna and I talked, I realized that I'm really interested in what they're doing at Ugol. I go to different theaters in Moscow for specific directors, for one at the Gogol Center, another at the DOC Theater, but here they managed to work with everyone. I felt like there's life here, that I want to be here.

I took a day to think about it, but I already knew that I would most likely try it just for the heck of it: move to a completely different city, one completely new for me, to have a cool job in a cool place.

In Kazan, first I lived next to Gyros ([laughing] that's a great geotag) on Dostoevsky, then on Shchapov between Tsiferblat and Smorodina, and then (my favorite) on Moskovskaya, near the green house with an art-supply store. I very was happy there.

I used to think that living life like a floating cloud, renting the apartment I need in the neighborhood I need it in, was the most convenient way to live.

But in Kazan, I found that that's not always the case: either a neighbor is running a rotary hammer at 3:00 a.m., or your unreasonable landlord kicks you out of the apartment because you didn't come home one night and you let a director you know crash there. So my parents and I agreed that it would be better to have my own apartment so I could avoid all of that.

I had to go through all of those things in order to figure that out.

Three years ago, I never saw that, but now I can tell that people think that it's a really cool city.

Moreover, it's not just Kazan, but there's a kind of decentralization going on in general, albeit little by little. There are several other cities in Russia that could be interesting to live in. Like Yekaterinburg.

I'm happy to be able to promote it through this project, not only my own stories, but those of others as well. For me, talking about moving from Moscow to Kazan is as natural as saying "Hi! I'm Albina," when I meet someone.

I've told my story many times, several times just the past month, in fact. In Berlin I explained to a student from Barcelona, who was originally from Thailand, what Tatarstan is, and why you might want to choose to live in a city that's not the capital. Just last week I was sitting in St. Petersburg with a friend who was interested in programming, and we were comparing life in St. Petersburg with life in Kazan. I told her "Did you know that only two cities in Russia have a Sberbank programming school? Moscow and Kazan." And my friend looked at me pensively and said "So ... maybe I'll move to Kazan for a month?" ...

Once, a classmate visited me and left (completely fascinated by Kazan and Sviyazhsk) saying

"Yeah ... Now I understand why you moved."

And of course it's amazing when you realize that you can get a person to feel that way for a different city, and, in the case of Kazan, a different culture.

We all think stereotypically. It was really important for me to feel like I could try it; like I could find a great life and a lot of interesting things outside of Moscow; and like it has a very similar standard of living, but the size of the city is much easier to handle.

You can try it out. I tried Kazan on for size, and it fit me, so I wear it.

Here I felt more at home than in Moscow. And if I feel that at some point there's something I'm missing in Kazan, I move somewhere temporarily to find whatever I'm looking for. But I always know that I can come back and use what I found here.

If you don't look at your relocation as a lifelong decision, it's easier to try different things.