Russia’s Charities Struggle Against Prejudice, Suspicion to Get Funding : Moscow: Soviet Union outlawed private charities, and resurrecting a safety net isn’t easy. ‘Russians still expect the state to take care of social problems,’ founder of mental health clinic says.

Charity begins at home--in Igor Donenko’s case, in a cramped, unmarked apartment on the far edge of industrial east Moscow.

There, treating and training the mentally ill, Donenko has built his Human Soul Foundation into one of Russia’s most successful charities.

He did it mainly by tirelessly appealing to the country’s new business elite rather than average Russians. Philanthropy is nothing new in Russia, but organized charities are.

“Russians still expect the state to take care of social problems,” said Donenko, a 36-year-old psychiatrist who wears blue jeans and a denim jacket in Human Soul’s chilly five-room apartment. “We’re learning from Western charities, but . . . we have to adapt to the Russian situation.”

That means legal chaos, bureaucratic indifference, public suspicion.

Thousands of tiny charities have sprung up since the collapse of the Soviet Union unraveled the extensive state social-service network, but few have thrived without foreign help.

Russians who give generously to friends and family, or dig for pocket change for a beggar in the subway, may stare blankly or scowl when asked about charities.

“They’re fakes to take people’s money,” said Pyotr Fomin, a Gypsy cab driver who stopped to give money to a begging child. “I’ll help people, but why should I give my money to who knows where?”

Katya Greshnova, who matches Russian and American charities for the World Learning project sponsored by the U.S. Agency for International Development, said: “All charity roots were lost during those 70 years [of communism], although attitudes are changing.”

Communism not only outlawed private and church charities, it left psychological scars that hamper charities now.

There is deep cynicism about business, made worse by recent scams aimed at evading taxes through fake charities. There is skepticism about public “volunteer” work, which in the old days was obligatory. There is fear of the economic future, and jealousy over any of the new system’s spoils.

“A lot of my acquaintances say, ‘Why should these [mentally ill] people get job training--how about me?’ ” said Olga Zayarnaya, a psychologist who founded Human Soul with Donenko in 1986.

The Soviet collapse also left a legal mess. While a draft law on charities and lobbying meanders through Parliament, many phony charities have been able to register. That discourages giving.

And tax laws do little to encourage donations.

There is no charitable--or any other--tradition for Russian business, but some have begun giving.

“There is money in Russia,” said Donenko, who heads a new club for charity directors. “We just had to find a common language with business.”

Last year, Human Soul’s budget grew to about $90,000--99% of it from commercial donors, such as banks, a textile company and a commodities exchange. Only 1% came from individuals.

The charity’s projected budget for this year is about $300,000, which includes part of Human Soul’s first foreign grant--$400,000 from the U.S. government spread over two years.

While Donenko provides annual budget reports to corporate sponsors, World Learning’s Greshnova says many Russian charities that come to her for help do not know what their budget is. Few know anything about fund raising.

Publicity is another problem. Donenko says Russian journalists who have written about his charity demanded money to print the names of his sponsors, saying mentioning them was advertising.

Russian businesses themselves are often quiet about their donations, as they are about their finances in general.

Nina Petrova, a spokeswoman for the big Stolichny Bank, said it gives “hundreds of thousands, even millions of dollars for the purposes of charity.” But she said the bank avoids charitable organizations in favor of specific projects.

Many Russian charities try starting commercial operations like manufacturing or distribution companies in an attempt to support themselves. Donenko says he treated private psychiatric patients, using the fees to help finance Human Soul, but quit that in 1991.

At Human Soul, about a dozen people--most diagnosed with schizophrenia or manic-depression--were in the office one recent day doing clerical work, studying English, preparing lunch. It treats about three dozen people at any one time.