In today’s Russia, a peculiar cultural battle is unfolding not on the streets, but within the very structure of its language. Online life coaches, wellness gurus, and pseudo-psychologists are leading a charge against established grammar and etymology, replacing it with a web of superstition and invented rules. This trend offers a fascinating window into modern Russian society and mirrors a global rise of folk theories challenging expert knowledge in the digital age.
A prime example is the growing avoidance of the common Russian word for “free of charge,” *besplatno*. The reason? Its prefix, “bes-,” is identical to the word for “demon” or “imp.” Adherents to this new belief, fearing they might summon an evil spirit, have coined the non-existent word *bezoplatno*. Some attempt to justify this by blaming the Bolsheviks’ 1918 orthography reform, framing it as a godless plot to insert demons into the language. However, a quick look at pre-revolutionary dictionaries reveals that words like *bespolezny* (“useless”) and *besporyadok* (“disorder”) have long existed, their spelling dictated by simple phonetic rules, not satanic influence.
The linguistic purification extends to everyday pleasantries. Wishing someone “good luck” (*udacha*) is now frowned upon in some circles, following a false claim that the word derives from *ud*, an archaic term for a phallus. Similarly, the standard “thank you” (*spasibo*), a contraction of “God save you” (*spasi Bog*), has been reinterpreted as a protective ward: “God save me *from* you.” Instead, followers are urged to use the more formal *blagodaryu* (“I bestow grace”). These folk etymologies are easily debunked by historical linguistics, yet they gain traction, revealing a desire for a world governed by hidden, mystical rules.
Perhaps the most widespread linguistic superstition is the fierce battle between the words for “last” (*posledniy*) and “extreme” (*krayniy*). A belief that originated among pilots, soldiers, and others in high-risk professions—for whom the “last” flight could be fatal—has now seeped into mainstream culture. In queues, at meetings, and in casual conversation, people will correct others for using *posledniy*, insisting on *krayniy*. The word “last,” derived from “following a trail” (*sled*), is seen as a bad omen, while “extreme,” meaning on the edge, is considered a safer alternative.
The absurdity of this superstition was highlighted in a recent conversation with a woman who had been married three times. When asked if her most recent husband was her “last,” she recoiled. “Don’t say ‘last,’ say ‘extreme’!” she insisted. The logical paradox was pointed out to her: using “extreme” implies that more are to follow, just as one’s “extreme” vacation is hopefully not the final one. If she truly intended for this marriage to be her final one, then he was, by definition, her *last* husband. Caught between superstition and logic, her conviction faltered, revealing how deeply these irrational beliefs can embed themselves even when they contradict one’s own desires.
While amusing, these linguistic contortions are more than just harmless quirks. They represent a microcosm of a larger struggle in the information age, where personal beliefs and charismatic influencers can successfully challenge centuries of scholarship. This battle for the soul of the Russian language serves as a cautionary tale about the erosion of trust in expertise and the powerful allure of misinformation, a phenomenon with consequences that extend far beyond grammar and into the realms of public health, politics, and international perception.