‘Sweden’s security service has gone a little crazy’ Stockholm is treating exiled Russian scientists like security threats — and banning them from the Schengen zone
Russian scientists working or studying in Sweden are increasingly being denied permanent residency — and, as a result, receiving long-term bans on entry to the Schengen Area. Journalists from T-invariant spoke with researchers who have been affected to understand the scale of the issue and the roots of the ostensibly discriminatory policy. With permission from the outlet, Meduza is sharing an abridged translation of their report.
Some of the names in this story have been changed for security reasons.
A ‘national security threat’
Darya Rudneva, a mathematician and political activist, is facing deportation from Sweden and a 20-year ban from entering the Schengen zone. Her story has drawn significant attention not only in Swedish media, but also in Russian outlets. Interpretations of the case have varied: some see it as an infringement on the rights of Russian citizens abroad, while others have accused Rudneva of espionage.
Pro-Kremlin media used Rudneva’s case to criticize both Swedish immigration policies and the Russian academics affected:
The hosts [Scandinavian countries] met the “fugitives from the regime” with open hostility, surrounding them with suspicion and occasionally showing them the door. Periodically, Russian emigrants are kicked out of these countries, their cries of “why?!” hanging in the air unanswered.
The widespread coverage and often speculative reporting around Rudneva’s case have unsettled other Russian scientists living in Sweden. Many of them declined to speak publicly, fearing similar media scrutiny and backlash from the country’s Russian-speaking community.
Rudneva first arrived in Sweden in 2021. She had graduated from Moscow State University in 2013 and gone on to earn a master’s degree from the Higher School of Economics (HSE). She continued her postgraduate studies at Skolkovo Institute of Science and Technology (Skoltech) in a joint program with HSE. In 2016, she received a scholarship to pursue a PhD at the University of California, Santa Barbara — a leading center for research in topological quantum computing.
“It was a unique opportunity,” Darya explained. “But in 2018, I went back to Moscow for a vacation and was diagnosed with cancer. I started treatment and, at the same time, enrolled in a joint PhD program in mathematical physics between Skoltech and HSE. I went through chemotherapy, surgery, radiation — all while studying. Those two years were terrifying. I completely dropped out of normal life, and politics was the last thing on my mind. But during that time, I met so many different people, heard their stories, and saw a lot of injustice. When I started to recover, I threw myself into environmental activism and charity work — not just by donating money, but by getting personally involved.”
Darya said Russia’s COVID-19 lockdown policies were especially tough for her as a sociable, energetic person, so when she received an offer to spend a semester studying in Sweden — where there were no pandemic restrictions — it was a major relief. She arrived in the country in February 2021, initially planning to stay just six months. She successfully extended her student residence permit twice. In 2022, after receiving a short-term research fellowship from Stockholm University, she applied for a different type of residence permit, one for visiting researchers. But after a long wait, her application was denied, and she was issued a 20-year ban on entering the Schengen zone.
Some Russian-speaking Sweden residents T-invariant spoke to insisted that a 20-year Schengen ban is a clear indication that Darya was involved in espionage. However, Darya’s lawyer, Daniel Karnstedt, emphasized that she’s never been formally accused of spying. The main difficulty with her case is that most of the documents provided by the security service are classified. As a result, neither Darya nor her legal team can quote from or refer to them.
However, an investigation by the Swedish public broadcaster Sveriges Radio shed some light on the situation. According to reporting from journalists Anja Sahlberg and Daniel Öhman, who managed to access information from the classified files and speak to the head of the Swedish security service SÄPO, the official reason for the rejection was the topic of Darya’s research, which was deemed a threat to Swedish national security.
Darya, for her part, has repeatedly stressed that her field of research is entirely theoretical. Nobel laureate Frank Wilczek, with whom she co-authored a paper, and Tors Hans Hansson, another distinguished physicist and member of the Nobel Committee, have said the same; SÄPO, however, disagrees. Wilczek noted that no one from the security service ever contacted him with questions about Darya’s work, and Darya recalled that during her interviews with both SÄPO and the Swedish Migration Agency, no one asked her anything about the research itself.
Darya Rudneva is far from the only case in which the Swedish Migration Agency, acting on recommendations from SÄPO, has denied Russian researchers residence permits and issued long-term Schengen bans based on concerns that their research could pose a threat to national security.
‘My faith in democratic institutions has been shaken’
Artyom first started thinking about moving to Sweden 10 years ago, after graduating from university in Russia. It didn’t happen immediately, but he eventually managed to win a scholarship and move. He completed his master’s degree in Sweden, worked for a number of tech companies, and, after being laid off during the pandemic, found a new job and planned to start a PhD. In 2021, Artyom applied for permanent residency. Then, in September 2023, instead of a decision, he received a letter recommending that he hire an immigration lawyer — something other Russians in the country had come to see as a clear warning sign.
“They flagged the field I worked in as a security risk,” Artyom said. “No matter how hard my lawyer and I tried to fight it, they refused to renew my visa and deported me. On top of that, they gave me a 10-year ban from the Schengen zone.”
At the time, Artyom was working at an engineering company involved in transport safety. “I was developing software for civilian products, for cars. The company was originally Swedish, but it later became part of a major international American corporation in the electronics and semiconductor sector. They even wrote a letter on my behalf saying I didn’t have access to any data relevant to Sweden’s national security, and couldn’t even have accidentally accessed it.”
According to Artyom, neither the Swedish Migration Agency nor the court responded to the letter. Meanwhile, while his case was still ongoing, the same company successfully hired several employees from Iran and China, all of whom were granted visas. Artyom’s lawyer suggested the difference likely came down to politics: in the past, Chinese or Iranian citizens might have been more at risk of denial, but now SÄPO had shifted its focus to Russians.
Artyom said the experience was traumatic:
I still have nightmares and PTSD symptoms. Before I even left Sweden, I had to see both a psychologist and a psychiatrist. My whole worldview — my belief in fairness and justice — took a huge hit. I saw it as a betrayal by the system I believed in. I spent eight years building a life, working hard to succeed, and in the end, I was thrown out because of some kind of witch hunt. I chose Sweden deliberately — I saw it as a country that prides itself on human rights, a “humanitarian superpower,” as they like to say. My faith in democratic institutions, at least in Sweden, has been badly shaken.
Today, Artyom works in Russia. Most European countries are off-limits to him for the foreseeable future. The same likely goes for the U.K., the U.S., Australia, Canada, and other countries that take Schengen visa bans into account.
“I’m trying to get back to a normal life,” he said. “Because of the Swedish Migration Agency’s decision, I had to give up a research position in the UK — the visa was expensive, and with the Schengen ban, the risk of being denied was just too high. I’m used to working in international companies at the cutting edge of tech, so once I’ve emotionally recovered a bit, I’ll be looking into interesting projects in Asia. And I plan to appeal Sweden’s decision in international courts — hopefully, they won’t recognize the ruling made by the Swedish Migration Agency.”
‘I can’t write a single program, but it doesn’t matter’
Ekaterina moved to Sweden in 2018 with her husband and their two children after he was accepted to a PhD program in nuclear physics. She believes the trouble their family’s now facing stems from his area of research. Two years ago, they began the standard process for foreign nationals who have lived in Sweden for over five years to apply for permanent residency. But the process took an unexpected turn and dragged on longer than usual. Eventually, an immigration officer suggested they consult a lawyer.
With the lawyer’s help, they discovered that their case had been referred to SÄPO. Ekaterina, her husband, and their lawyer suspect that the Migration Agency became concerned that his expertise and research could be passed on to Russia and potentially used against Sweden. Around the same time, Ekaterina also began hearing about people from Iran, Russia, and China who had run into similar issues when their cases were sent to SÄPO.
“At that point, there were no known positive outcomes for Russians whose cases had been sent to SÄPO,” Ekaterina said. “That’s when we joined the support group organized by Darya. There are 13 people in the group now, though at one point it was larger, but some left, and their cases were closed.”
The lawyer advised them not to wait for an official decision and to leave Sweden — the risk of refusal and a ban on entering the Schengen zone was too high. If they left before they got a response, the case would automatically be closed, and they could try to find work in another E.U. country.
Ekaterina, like her husband, is pursuing a PhD, but hers is in linguistics. The situation with their children has been especially difficult. Their daughter came to Sweden in the third grade and has been attending a Swedish school for the past six years. Their son has a disability and was enrolled in a specialized school, where he also receives ongoing rehabilitation and medical care. When it became clear that Ekaterina’s husband would have to return to Russia — at least for a while — they decided to keep their son in Sweden with Ekaterina and submit his documents separately. Their daughter went back to Russia with her father and will finish her final two years of school in Moscow. The stress and uncertainty have been hard on both children.
“Following the lawyers’ advice, we attached a letter to my documents asking for permission to stay due to my son’s disability and the fact that interrupting his treatment could be dangerous. We included all the necessary documents. It’s been six months now, and there’s still been no response,” Ekaterina said.
Additionally, she’s worried that some online courses she completed on the platform Coursera during the pandemic could be an issue. “Honestly, I realized that programming is not for me. But now, it seems that these courses might be enough for SÄPO to see my activities as a potential threat to Sweden’s security. I can’t write a single program, but it doesn’t matter. Nonetheless, I decided to stay in Sweden. I’m collecting data for my PhD, and I just have a little left to finish. If things don’t move forward with the Migration Agency, I’ll probably leave too.”
Ekaterina graduated from a military university, studying linguistics (though she holds no military rank and has never worked in any military institutions). She thinks this was also likely a red flag for SÄPO.
“I’ve never hidden that I graduated from that university, and I provided the relevant information for my master’s program application,” Ekaterina explained. “And most importantly, I’ve seen my case file, and it states that SÄPO has no issues with me regarding that point.”
According to Ekaterina, all Russian scientists with technical specialties who are applying for permanent residency should be concerned. She knows biologists, chemists, physicists, mathematicians, and IT professionals who have faced similar challenges. For those in the humanities, meanwhile, everything seems to go smoothly.
‘Don’t poke the bear’
Tatiana is no longer working in academia, though she spent many years doing research in both Russia and Sweden. Her husband, however, is still pursuing an academic career. Both specialize in theoretical mathematics. Tatiana has held Swedish citizenship for several years. Her husband completed his PhD at a Swedish university and, after living in Sweden for five years, applied for permanent residency — just as he was offered a new long-term postdoctoral contract.
Tatiana explained that her husband’s position required frequent travel to academic conferences. But once he applied for residency and no longer had valid documents, international travel became impossible. After six months of waiting — the standard threshold in Sweden — they requested expedited processing. In response, the authorities asked for a list of all his published work and any contact he’d had with Russian researchers. Their request for expedited processing was denied.
“We knew that Russian nationals get screened by the security services, and we didn’t mind — we have nothing to hide,” Tatiana said. “We even offered to help them gather whatever documents they needed — like getting official records from friends in Russia. But they told us just to wait. That’s when we started seeing posts on social media warning that researchers in the hard sciences were being subject to extra scrutiny — and that it could cause problems.”
Tatiana and her husband then asked their case officer at the Migration Agency whether their application had been referred to the Swedish Security Service, SÄPO. It had. After waiting a few more months, they decided to seek legal help. Tatiana warned the secretary in advance that the case might be complex. But in the end, they were assigned a junior lawyer — someone whose competence Tatiana now questions. “We spoke for an hour, and the entire time she kept reassuring me that everything was fine. She said there was no way someone could be rejected just for holding a Russian passport, and that since we weren’t involved in any secret work, deportation wasn’t possible. But she did say she’d check with her colleagues.”
A few days later, the lawyer followed up by email — confirming Tatiana’s concerns. “According to my colleagues, there is indeed a risk that SÄPO may object to your husband’s permanent residency application,” the message read. “Even if his field of research isn’t considered sensitive, SÄPO may take issue with the fact that he works at a university and could potentially access information or materials from other ongoing projects.”
The same email explained that if SÄPO opposed the application, the Migration Agency would not override that decision. It would not conduct an independent investigation or grant a residence permit on other grounds. In cases involving nationals from certain countries, SÄPO can block residency without needing to provide a detailed justification. The lawyer also issued a warning: if the Migration Agency recommends legal counsel and it becomes clear that SÄPO has issued a negative report, it’s best to leave the country before a final decision is made. Otherwise, the person risks being banned from the entire Schengen Area for several years.
Tatiana and her husband’s employers were ready to write letters of support, affirming that the couple were valued colleagues and that the uncertainty around the case was affecting their work. But the lawyer advised against it — as did others they consulted. “Don’t poke the bear,” they were told.
In the end, Tatiana’s husband was granted permanent residency and has continued his academic work. They’re still not sure what tipped the scales in their favor. SÄPO could have simply concluded that his research posed no risk. It may have helped that they hadn’t visited Russia in five years, and had cut ties with Russian colleagues. It’s also possible that Tatiana’s Swedish citizenship played a role.
‘A never-ending cycle of suspicion’
T-invariant spoke to Dmitry Dubrovsky, a lecturer in the Russian Studies master’s program at Charles University who’s currently researching the migration of academics and scholars to Europe, to help shed light on the challenges Russian researchers are facing in Sweden.
“Since Sweden joined NATO, its security service has gone a little crazy,” he said.
It’s understandable — they suddenly have a lot more work to do, and that’s a fact. I don’t think any security service in the world can claim to be free of mistakes. But Sweden is taking things too far with its obsession over security clearances, especially when it comes to Russian and Belarusian researchers.
Dubrovsky gave a concrete example of how this might play out. “Let’s say someone in bioinformatics applies for a job in Sweden, gets it, submits their visa application, and the Migration Agency refers the case to the security service simply because the person is a biologist,” he said. “As a result, the process takes a year. Naturally, the employer withdraws the offer — they can’t afford to wait that long for a specialist they need.”
He also pointed out that the Migration Agency’s decisions are often based on a document whose contents are completely unknown — not just to the lawyer and the applicant, but to the court and even the agency itself. It’s only thanks to the efforts of Artyom’s lawyers that such a document is known to exist. The only information disclosed is that SÄPO considers the applicant’s field of study to be a security threat — but the evidence for this is in the top secret document.
“So the decision rests on a document that isn’t just classified — it’s completely inaccessible to the legal system,” Dubrovsky explained. “There’s no way to know what the decision is based on, and no way to challenge it. An independent court hasn’t been shown any grounds for the decision. At this point, both the Migration Agency and the courts are being influenced by a document none of them has seen. Is the issue an unwillingness to disclose it — or an inability to?”
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Dubrovsky noted that the Swedish Migration Agency had been known to assess threat levels based on how much anti-war content residence permit applicants have posted on social media. The process becomes easier if the candidate has already been arrested — and even more so if there’s a prison sentence involved. “Honestly, it would be easier to get refugee status after getting shot,” Dubrovsky told T-invariant. The Agency often lacks background information on Russian applicants and tends to reject cases rather than investigate further.
At the same time, heightened vigilance in places like Estonia is not without reason, especially after the case of Viacheslav Morozov. Russian intelligence services continue to attempt infiltration in Europe. But, as Dubrovsky pointed out, spies are rarely academics. “It’s too long, too expensive, and too unpredictable a path,” he said. “There are far easier ways to get a visa — Malta’s golden passports, business visas, or journalist visas like the one [Pablo] González had.”
Additionally, he said, it’s not just security services working to identify spies — Russian migrants themselves are often looking out for them as well.
It’s a never-ending cycle of suspicion, trying to figure out who among us might be an agent — first for the NKVD, then the KGB, now the FSB. It’s a long and sad tradition — one that’s not just Russian, but that definitely includes Russia. It’s toxic, and it really damages relationships. That’s not to say there are no spies, but people need to be more careful. I’d say the potential gains from uncovering a spy are far outweighed by the atmosphere of constant suspicion, which just makes it harder for anyone to do anything.
‘People assume you must be a spy’
T-invariant sent a list of questions to both the Swedish Security Service (SÄPO) and the Migration Agency. They received only standard form letters in response. SÄPO’s press officer, Gabriel Wernstedt, responded to every question with the same statement:
The Swedish Security Service is in ongoing consultation with the Swedish Migration Agency. Our mission is to assess permits in relation to potential security threats. However, SÄPO is not responsible for decisions on permits — that responsibility lies with the Migration Agency.
The Migration Agency also declined to provide any information about Russian citizens, citing confidentiality. However, public reports show that the number of cases referred by the Migration Agency to SÄPO has been steadily increasing — from 296 in 2022 to 424 in 2023, and then to 593 in 2024.
Russians aren’t the first foreigners to be affected by SÄPO’s work. One of the most talked-about cases in the Swedish media concerns the Kurdish community. In April 2024, 25 leading Swedish lawyers signed a petition defending the rights of Kurds. Part of it reads:
In recent years, the Security Service has begun to criminalize Kurds, and we believe SÄPO’s operations are out of control. Political views and activism for which many Kurds were initially granted protection in Sweden have, over the past several years, been reclassified by SÄPO as ‘terrorism’ — a classification then upheld by decision-making authorities. […] The political persecution of Kurds, Kurdish institutions and organizations must stop. The broad definition of terrorism adopted by the Security Service, influenced by information-sharing with Turkish security services, deserves serious scrutiny.
T-invariant asked members of the Russian community in Sweden why similar coverage of immigration struggles has been more common for Kurds, Iranians, and Chinese nationals, while cases involving Russians have received relatively little attention.
Many attributed this to timing — the issue is still relatively new for Russian nationals, they said, and Swedish media hasn't yet caught up.
“Russians only started running into this recently. It’s clearly a response to the war between Russia and Ukraine,” said Mikhail, who had been waiting nearly a year for a residency decision. “After the war began, it took a while for the bureaucratic system to respond. But by 2023, it was in full swing, and strange rejections started appearing. My colleague — also Russian, in the same PhD program — applied just six months earlier and got approved in under a month.”
Others pointed to the academic community’s closed nature. Researchers, they said, are often reluctant to “air dirty laundry” — especially to the media, and especially when the issue has little to do with their research.
But the most common answer was this: Russian nationals often choose not to go public. Several interviewees noted that people are quick to blame applicants for their residence problems, assuming the problem must be personal — a questionable travel history, the wrong educational background, or suspicious affiliations. Nearly everyone could recall someone who initially defended SÄPO’s caution, only to quietly disappear from online groups after suddenly leaving Sweden under threat of expulsion.
“The stress people are under is overwhelming,” said Daria Rudneva. “Most simply don’t have the energy to go public. Even after receiving a decision, many are afraid to speak to journalists under their real names — either hoping silence might help their chances of staying, or fearing that if they have to return to Russia, publicity could put them at further risk.”
“People often don’t know how to respond — or what their options even are,” added Vitaly. “Many are afraid of talking to the media. Information spreads haphazardly, things get twisted or taken out of context. There’s a real risk of deportation — and returning to Russia after that kind of exposure could be dangerous. It ends up feeling like being branded a traitor in one country and a pariah in the other.”
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Original story by Yulia Chernaya for T-invariant