German Citizenship

The final quest of an immigrant: getting citizenship. When I moved to Germany in 2017, it was pretty clear that citizenship wasn’t in the cards—at least not any time soon. The minimum required residency period was 8 years, and, more importantly, lack of dual citizenship’s recognition from both directions (in Russia, for example, there’s no longer any restriction on acquiring other citizenships, and the requirement to renounce other nationalities when obtaining Russian citizenship was dropped about 10(?) years ago). So, even though I kept an eye on developments in the background, I didn’t get my hopes up too much — renouncing Russian citizenship was complete no-go for me.

But in 2023, some great news appeared: a new law allowing dual citizenship in Germany. That meant it was time to dig into the details!

Spoiler:

• Lived in Landkreis München for the past 1.5 years
• 7.5 years of total residence in Germany
• Permanent residency (Niederlassungserlaubnis) since January 2020
• Employed in the same IT company since moving in 2017
• 7.5 months from application to naturalization certificate
• 3 months from in-person appointment with documents to receiving the Urkunde

Citizenship Law Reform in 2024

The first sign of hope came, if I remember correctly, around late 2022, when news started circulating that Germany was planning to update its citizenship law. The main changes were shortening the required residency period to 5 years and lifting the ban on dual citizenship. Of course, nothing moves fast in German legislation, but it was still something to look forward to — finally, getting one of the world’s strongest passports might become a reality.

For the rest of 2023, there wasn’t much concrete news. Then in October 2023, the draft law was finally discussed in the Bundestag… and wasn’t passed. Interestingly, the main points of contention weren’t even about dual citizenship or the five-year rule, but rather about unrelated political concerns — like easing naturalization for guest workers, questions about Islam, and the situation in Israel (which had flared up again just weeks prior). In my opinion, this only confirms that it’s always better to break up changes into smaller chunks instead of trying to do everything at once. I’ve seen this both at work and in side projects: if you bundle too many things together, someone will almost certainly object to one of them and block the whole thing.

Still, the general direction was clear, and news outlets picked it up quickly — some even boldly announced that everything would be effective from April 1, 2024.

The next reading happened in late January 2024. It looked like lawmakers had resolved the more controversial issues, and the bill was finally approved. By then, it was obvious that nothing would take effect in April, because German law says new legislation kicks in three months after it’s published in the Bundesgesetzblatt (the official federal gazette). So with January already gone, that timeline was out the window.

It was at that moment I realized it was finally happening — Germany was changing its citizenship laws, and now it was just a matter of time and paperwork. So I began gathering the documents needed to apply. My list was missing only two things: German language certificate at least B1, and the so-called “Einbürgerungstest” (naturalization test). Knowing how quickly waiting lists for both tend to fill up, I started hunting for available exam slots. The language test was relatively easy to schedule — by the end of January, I had booked one for February 23–24 (more on that later). The citizenship test was trickier — I only managed to snag a slot for mid-March.

The next couple of months on forums were full of speculation: when would the German president finally sign the bill (the final step before it becomes law)? January passed. Then February. The most optimistic folks predicted it would take effect in May or on June 1. But nothing happened. Finally, at the end of March, a quiet update popped up in the news — President Steinmeier had signed the law, and it was officially published. That meant it would come into effect on June 27, exactly three months after publication. Time to prep the application!

Preparation

What can you start thinking about before officially applying for citizenship? Honestly, quite a lot 🙂

German Language and TELC B1

Although I’d been living in Germany for almost 7 years, I hadn’t really invested in learning German. The first couple of years, my company wouldn’t reimburse any language courses, and I wasn’t particularly motivated myself. I was in the #GermanNotNeeded camp, as they say in some chats and forums. For everyday life, my English plus basic “Doner mit Käse, bitte ohne scharf”-level German was more than enough. Most of my communication — especially at work — was in English. Meetups in Munich? Mostly in English too. I spent holidays traveling in other countries where people speak English or some third language. So, not once did I feel like German was essential for survival here. Sure, it limits your choice of meetups and chatting with your sweet elderly neighbor, but I didn’t really need that anyway.

A year before COVID, language courses finally started at the office — but only for B1 or A1 levels. I tried the B1 group first, but it was pretty tough. Maybe with more motivation and energy I could’ve powered through, but I didn’t feel like it. So I switched to the A1 group, which turned out to be way too easy.

Once COVID came, and we all went remote, I went to travel around in a motorhome for two years, and the language courses were paused for a year. In early 2022, online classes resumed twice a week at A2 level, and I also started poking around on Duolingo. There was some progress. By fall 2023, we’d slowly wrapped up A2.1 and started A2.2. And right around then, the news about the new law hit — and I started seriously looking into the B1 exams.

A quick note on the exams. When applying for permanent residency (NE, Niederlassungserlaubnis), the language requirements weren’t very strict — officially A1, and even then, they didn’t always require a certificate. I managed to bumble through a chat with my caseworker, who apparently believed that I could at least say something in German. (I still remember learning and repeating the word “Niederlassungserlaubnis” a few days before my in-person appointment). But for citizenship, you need at least B1, and you need a proper certificate — not some screenshot of your Duolingo progress (although I did read on Facebook that someone had used that for their NE, and it actually worked). For naturalization, it has to be a recognized international exam.

There are three organizations in Germany that officially offer such exams: TELC, Goethe, and DAF. But the DAF exam is only available if you attend integration courses — which I hadn’t. So that left me with two options. They’re fairly similar overall, but there are a few key differences:

• TELC is split into two parts: speaking, and everything else. If you fail one, you have to retake the entire part. Goethe divides it into four modules: speaking, reading, writing, and listening. You can take each module separately, and your final result is a stack of four “passed” certificates (as long as they’re all within a year).
• TELC includes a grammar section and only one writing task. Goethe doesn’t test grammar explicitly, but has three writing tasks. Since I’m not a fan of writing but grammar isn’t an issue for me, TELC felt like the better option.
• There’s a noticeable price difference, though not a dealbreaker — TELC cost me €160, while Goethe would’ve been around €250.

Our course teacher also recommended TELC, which further reassured me I’d made the right call.

I didn’t do any serious prep. Sure, the teacher went over the exam format with us, and I booked a couple of one-on-one lessons on iTalki with an Austrian guy who also happens to be a TELC examiner. But other than that — not much effort.

Depending on the school, the exam might be held all on one day, or spread across two — written test first, speaking the next day. I would’ve preferred to do everything in one go, but the only available slot I found split it into two days. Not a big deal. The examiners were friendly but strict — you weren’t allowed to flip pages ahead of time, even if you’d already finished the current section. During the test, we had a bit of a hiccup — turns out the room we were in had been double-booked, so we had to move to another one midway through. Normally that would mean canceling the exam and rescheduling from scratch, but they let us continue and even gave us an extra 10 minutes “for the stress.”

The next day, we had our speaking sessions — each person had a designated time slot. The actual test sounds impressive, but in reality, it’s only five minutes per couple. You’re not speaking with the examiner, but with another test-taker. That means you only get 2.5 minutes of real talking for yourself. When I practiced with the Austrian tutor, I asked if that seemed too short, but he said it was perfect — that’s exactly how it should be.

Results came about a month later. I got a solid “Gut” grade — 267.5 out of 300 points. Surprisingly, my lowest score was in listening: 55/75 (I was sure I’d mess up the writing). Reading: 70/75, Grammar: 28.5/30, Writing: 39/45, Speaking: 75/75. Not perfect, but I wasn’t aiming for perfection — just to pass and get the certificate.

Einbürgerungstest

The second required document was the “Einbürgerungstest”, or naturalization test. It consists of 33 multiple-choice questions, each with four possible answers. To pass, you only need to answer 17 questions correctly — just over half! There are several hundred possible questions in the question pool, so it’s not like the German driver’s license theory test. The first time you look at the questions, your eyes might pop out of your head — nothing makes sense at first glance. Most are phrased in dry legal German, full of unfamiliar terms. The prep materials say that B2-level German is expected. But once you push past that initial fear and start working through the questions, you realize that failing this test is nearly impossible. Despite the complicated phrasing, most of the questions are surprisingly basic. Things like, “Which of these is the German coat of arms?” or “What is the name of Germany’s basic law?” (Answer: the constitution). Of course, there are some trickier questions you have to memorize — like who elects whom: Bundestag, Bundesrat, people’s assemblies, the roles of the president vs. the chancellor, and so on.

What turned out to be far more difficult than the test itself was signing up for it. You have to register through one of the VHS schools (there are a few other organizations in Bavaria, but either they weren’t offering the test or everything was fully booked, or it was impossible to reach out to them). Registration usually has to be done in person. Some places don’t have online registration at all; others do, but it doesn’t work or shows outdated info. So I made myself a spreadsheet with all the VHS in Bavaria (a bit over 100 of them), added their websites and phone numbers… and started calling each and every one.

In my opinion, that was a far more accurate “integration test” than the actual test itself. Being able to make phone calls, talk to people in German 10 times a day, and extract the info you need — that’s the real Einbürgerungstest. The actual test, where you can guess randomly and still have a 25% chance of getting the right answer? Not so much. Eventually, I found a school in Bad Reichenhall — almost on the Austrian border, about 1.5 hours from Munich — that had an available slot for March 19 (and I’d started calling around in late January or early February). That was the earliest date out of the 20–30 places I contacted. Most of them had no slots at all, or were booked until at least April. Ridiculous. So I spent half a day driving down to that school just to register in person… and then drove back and waited for the big day.

Being a bit of a nerd, I even calculated the probabilities — if you picked answers at random, you’d have a 44% chance of getting at least 9 right. Of course, that’s still not enough to pass, but if you can eliminate just one obviously wrong answer from each question (increasing your odds from 25% to ~33.3%), then your chance of randomly passing goes up to 2%. So yeah — passing isn’t that hard.

One nice thing is that unlike the German driver’s license theory test, this one has decent mobile apps — for free. They track your stats and let you review only the questions you previously got wrong. A few days before the test, I started grinding the questions, and by the end, I was pretty much as fast and confident as I had been when studying for the driving theory test back in Russia — almost instant answers.

On test day, we didn’t want to get up before dawn, so we drove to the area the night before and stayed in a hotel nearby. It was just a 15-minute drive from the school, so I got up as usual and arrived right on time. We didn’t start immediately — some people were late. About 5 minutes in, they decided to begin. Then, a girl ran up to the door, out of breath. She was 7 minutes late — and they didn’t let her in. On the one hand, I felt bad for her — getting a spot was tough. But on the other… precisely because it’s so hard to get a slot, how could you possibly be late? Anyway, they spent a solid 10 minutes explaining how to mark your answers (on paper, using a pen), how to correct them if you changed your mind, and how to un-correct them if you changed your mind again. Once we were finally told to begin, it took me about 3–3.5 minutes (I timed it) to answer all the questions and raise my hand to say, “I’m done.” I got lucky with my question set — there was only one I hesitated on. Ironically, it was the very one I’d reviewed right before the exam — something about who elects whom in the Bundestag/Bundesrat/people’s assemblies. I handed in my sheet first, left the room, and we hit the road.

It wasn’t clear how long it would take to get the results. There’s a website that shows which exam dates are currently being processed (or have been processed already), and based on that, the usual turnaround seems to be under 4 weeks. But online, you’ll also find plenty of horror stories about people waiting for months. I got lucky — my result came even sooner than expected, on April 9 - exactly 3 weeks later. The certificate was dated March 28, so I guess it had just been sitting in a pile of letters waiting to be mailed. The result - 33 out of 33 correct.

Birth Certificate and Translation

In some regions, a birth certificate isn’t required for citizenship at all — but that wasn’t the case for me. You’d think, “It’s just a birth certificate, how complicated can it be?” Turns out, it can be trickier than expected.

Let’s start with the apostille. I didn’t give it any thought when I left Russia in 2016 — or during COVID, when I was briefly back in Russia. So my birth certificate is the most basic Russian version, with no apostille. Thankfully, in Landkreis Munich, they didn’t ask for one. Otherwise, I’d have had to go through the whole process of requesting an official copy via the consulate (those are usually issued with an apostille automatically).

The more interesting complication was the translation. How can you “mis-translate” a birth certificate? Well, turns out you can. For submission to German authorities, the translation must (or at least should) be done by a sworn German translator. These translators are required to transliterate names using a particular standard — ISO-9. That “yet another standard” differs from the system used for Russian international passports. For example, “Альбертович” under ISO-9 becomes “Alʹbertovič”, and “Войнов” becomes “Vojnov” (whereas in a Russian passport it would likely be either Voynov or Voinov). So it’s easy to end up with names that don’t match what’s in your passport. Naturally, I wanted to avoid that.

So I asked the translator to write my full name exactly how I wanted it — and I think that played a big role. She included a footnote explaining that ISO-9 would render the name differently, but in the main translation, it was written “normally” — no weird symbols or apostrophes in the patronymic, and the surname matched my preferred spelling.

These translated details from the birth certificate are what end up in your Einbürgerungsurkunde, the Melderegister, and (partially — without the patronymic, more on that below) in your German passport and ID card. So it’s best to get the spelling exactly how you want it during the translation stage. Some translators might resist (mine initially objected, saying it “I have to follow ISO”), but if they’re willing to include the standard version in a footnote, that’s usually enough. There are definitely translators out there who get it. Find one — it’ll save you a ton of hassle with “wrong” spellings later on.

What to Do About Patronymic?

As you may know, Germany doesn’t have the concept of a “patronymic.” There’s just the first name and the surname (and you can have more than one first name, if you like). So every new German citizen with one of these “foreign” middle names has to decide what to do with it.

Thankfully, starting August 2024, a lot of the local bureaucratic chaos has been reduced thanks to an updated instruction guide for issuing German identity documents. As of now, you have the following options:

– Do nothing. In this case, the patronymic (taken from the translated birth certificate, in Latin script) will be entered into the Melderegister (Germany’s internal population registry), but it won’t appear in your passport or ID card. Personally, I think this is the best option and would recommend it to everyone.

Note — this omission of patronymics from documents was the key change in the August 2024 guidelines, specifically section 4.1.2.2 in the PassVwV, which clearly states that patronymics cannot be entered into German passports or ID cards. As always in Germany, some clerks may not be aware of this change — so if this matters to you, be prepared to insist, bring printed copies of the guidelines, ask to speak to a supervisor, or email them in advance. If you’re lucky, they’ll already be up to speed and you won’t have to do anything. But as of November 2024, many people still reported having to fight with under-informed caseworkers who hadn’t read the updated policy.

– Use your once-in-a-lifetime right to “Germanize” your name — Namensänderung. This allows you to formally drop the patronymic completely. It will no longer appear in any German documents or databases. However, a potential catch here is that the name change might trigger attention from Russian authorities, who could require you to update your Russian passport to reflect the “new” name (without the patronymic). In the worst case, you might only find this out at the border — and not be allowed to leave. Also, the absence of a patronymic in Russia might create issues when filling out certain forms. So there’s some risk involved.

– The last option is to go ahead with the Namensänderung, but convert the patronymic into a second given name. In that case, it will appear everywhere in full. The risks are likely the same as above — and now the patronymic becomes part of your official name, not just an inherited middle name.

I chose the first option — do nothing and get a passport without a patronymic. I think it’s the simplest, cleanest approach that avoids extra hassle and keeps my German documents limited to a familiar first and last name.

“Germanizing” Your Name — or Namensänderung

Before receiving your citizenship, it’s worth considering whether you’d like to change your name in any way. Germany allows newly naturalized citizens to “Germanize” their name — but only once. And honestly, there aren’t that many changes you can make:

1. Restructure names that consist of multiple parts (like Arabic names such as Ahmed bin Hassan) by clearly defining which part is the first name and which is the surname.
2. Remove name components that are not recognized under German law (like patronymics), or turn them into a second given name.
3. “Standardize” first names and surnames when they vary by gender or marital status. A common example — Russian women often adopt the invariant form of their husband’s last name, dropping the feminine “-a” ending. That’s how you get “Elena Ivanov” instead of “Ivanova.” This can reduce confusion for locals, since German authorities treat Ivanov and Ivanova as entirely different surnames.
4. Germanize your name. Options are even more limited here. For first names, you can adopt a German equivalent (e.g., Pyotr → Peter). If there is no equivalent, you can choose a completely new first name. For surnames, you’re only allowed to change the spelling to a German version (like Sajc → Seitz). The rules explicitly state that translating surnames is forbidden. From what I understand, outright changing your surname is also not permitted.

And that’s it — that’s the full list of permitted changes. Personally, I didn’t feel the need to change anything about my name, so this wasn’t particularly relevant for me.

The Naturalization Process

I decided to submit my application a bit early — before the new law officially took effect on June 27. The logic was simple: processing takes time, and by the time my application makes it to the top of the pile, the law would most likely already be in force. So, as soon as I received my final missing document — the result of the citizenship test — I went ahead and started filling out the application. In Landkreis Munich, the entire process is online, including the form itself. There’s nothing particularly unusual about the form, except maybe one weird question — the date of your parents’ wedding. I had to ask them, since I had no clue. No idea why they need that, but whatever. You also have to list previous places of residence — for addresses abroad, the city is enough, but for within Germany, you need to provide postcodes.

As it happened, I was in the U.S. when I was filling out the application. You’d think that wouldn’t matter. But when I got to the confirmation page right before hitting submit, I noticed that all the dates had shifted by one day — I had entered “permanent residence from December 31,” but the preview showed “from January 1.” Fine, I’m not picky — I went back and re-entered incorrect dates in the form just to get the correct ones in the preview. Before clicking “Submit,” I downloaded that preview copy — just in case.

Good thing I did. Because after payment, I was shown the final version of the application that had actually been submitted to the office… and it had the wrong dates — exactly what I had entered into the form. Clearly, the front-end developers hadn’t tested their scripts properly, and I had run into a classic JavaScript date-handling bug, well-documented in top-rated Stack Overflow answers (here or here). Definitely a facepalm moment. I immediately sent an email asking them to correct the dates in my application and attached the preview I’d downloaded. Epic fail.

Anyway, now all that was left was to wait.

About Timelines and Going to Court

While waiting for a reply, I started looking into ways to potentially speed up the process — in case the ministry turned out to be “slow.” And there are plenty of horror stories out there — people waiting years for their citizenship. The authorities always seem to have excuses like “we’re understaffed” or “we’ve received a record number of applications.”

Thankfully, not everywhere is like that. In Berlin, for example, a major overhaul of the citizenship department took place in January 2024. They introduced online submission of documents, stopped requiring in-person appointments, and started processing complete applications in just a few months — even under the new law, before it had officially taken effect. I read quite a few success stories where people in Berlin got their citizenship in 2–4 months — which is considered fast. The only in-person step was the final appointment to receive the naturalization certificate — the Einbürgerungsurkunde, or simply “Urkunde.” Similar reports came out of small towns in Bavaria and even Munich city, though in Munich it was more like 6 months. Still, way better than the “officially stated” 12–18 months — or the nightmare stories of people waiting years.

One of our reasons for moving to Landkreis Munich was the hope that government processes might be quicker than in the city. Spoiler: I still don’t know if it actually was.

Now, here’s the interesting part — Germany has a beautiful law: §75 VwGO. It clearly states that any “administrative act” must be resolved within a reasonable time. If no decision is made within three months of filing the application, the applicant has every right to file a lawsuit in administrative court and demand that the authority issue a decision. This law doesn’t only apply to citizenship cases — it applies to any interaction with the state. It just happens that naturalization is often the slowest and most painful.

For some reason, many people still believe that “three months is too short — they said it takes 18 months, so wait 18 months.” But that mindset probably helps the rest of us — because those who quietly wait in line just get pushed further back. Meanwhile, those who assert their legal rights often get results — maybe not instantly, but definitely faster than if they said nothing.

If an objection or an application for an administrative act has not been decided on the merits within a reasonable period of time without sufficient reason, an action is admissible in derogation from Section 68. An action may not be brought before the expiry of three months from the lodging of the objection or the application for the administrative act, unless a shorter period is required due to special circumstances of the case. If there is sufficient reason why the objection has not yet been decided or the administrative act applied for has not yet been issued, the court shall stay the proceedings until the expiry of a period of time set by it, which may be extended. If the objection is upheld within the period set by the court or the administrative act is issued within that period, the main action shall be declared settled.

My free translation of § 75 VwGO

On a well-known Russian forum about life in Germany, people had already started posting reports about lawsuits, “pre-litigation complaints,” and stuff like that. That information turned out to be invaluable. For example, I used to think that you couldn’t file a case in a local court without hiring a lawyer. But that turned out to be completely false — at least for an “inaction lawsuit” (Untätigkeitsklage), you don’t need a lawyer at all. In fact, the complaint itself is incredibly simple and consists of just a couple of paragraphs. Some might be put off by the court fees — around €800 — but in my opinion, that’s a small price to pay to get the department to actually do its job. So I took this insight to heart and started reading more detailed reports.

Of course, going to court should be a last resort. If you can avoid it — all the better. That said, experience shows that it’s important to remind officials you know your rights. That’s why a common tactic is to send what is essentially a “pre-litigation complaint”. A typical template looks like the one below. The idea is dead simple — if your patience is wearing thin, and you still haven’t heard back from the authorities, you write a formal letter stating that you submitted your application and provided all required documents, but haven’t received any decision (or even any response). You should also include a firm deadline — for example, 2 to 3 weeks — by which you expect them to act. Don’t forget to mention that if they fail to respond, you reserve the right to file an Untätigkeitsklage in court. Ideally, you’d send this by certified mail, but I simply sent it to the general email address of the office — and it worked. I got a reply the very next day!

Sehr geehrte Damen und Herren,

<Say that you have applied for Einbürgerung on XX.YY.XXXX and haven’t received any decision and/or communications yet>

Ich habe alle erforderlichen Unterlagen vorgelegt und meine Lebenssituation hat sich nicht geändert. Eine Behörde muss über einen Antrag auf Vornahme eines Verwaltungsaktes in angemessener Frist sachlich bescheiden sein. Daher bitte ich um eine sachliche Entscheidung bis spätestens <put some meaningful deadline for them in 2-3 weeks>

Sollte bis dahin keine sachliche Entscheidung ergangen und ich darüber schriftlich informiert worden sein, werde ich die mir nach § 75 VwGO zustehenden Rechte in Anspruch nehmen und eine Untätigkeitsklage beim <Put the name of the responsible court (Verwaltungsgericht) in your Kreis> erheben müssen.

Mit freundlichen Grüßen

Your name

If you do decide to take the matter to court, the core content of the lawsuit will essentially mirror the contents of the complaint above: the decision still hasn’t been made after an unreasonable delay, so you’re asking the court to compel the authority (the respondent) to issue a decision on your naturalization case. You can even ask ChatGPT — it might give you a pretty decent draft of such a complaint.

Important caveat — the law does not require the authority to issue a positive decision on your application, only to make a decision. So, for example, if you’re applying under a legal paragraph that leaves the final outcome to the discretion of the official (as opposed to those sections where they must grant citizenship unless you’re a terrorist), then be aware: filing a lawsuit could backfire if the authority decides to respond with a rejection.

In my case, thankfully, it didn’t come to that. I sent a “complaint” and received a prompt reply in which they promised to get back to me within a month. After that, I noticed clear progress on my case — and by the time I returned from a long vacation, the good news was already waiting for me.

Life After the Einbürgerungsurkunde

The moment you’re handed your Einbürgerungsurkunde, you officially become a German citizen. But at the same time, your permanent residency (Niederlassungserlaubnis) is taken away — since that status is only for non-citizens — and suddenly, you’re left without any documents you can use to travel. To get a German passport (Reisepass) and ID card (Ausweis), you need to bring your (properly translated) birth certificate, the naturalization certificate, and, if you have one, your original passport to the town hall where you live and apply there.

I’m not sure if the email I sent a couple of months earlier about confirming the exclusion of the patronymic from official documents made a difference, but everything went super smoothly. The clerk gave my patronymic a funny look (probably a newbie), but then called over a more senior colleague, who was well aware of what a “patronymic” is and that it doesn’t go into the documents. It still stays in the Melderegister (internal registry), but won’t appear in the passport or ID. They took my photo right on the spot.

It’s worth noting that you can request an expedited passport for an extra fee — it’s ready in about three days. Also, the standard German passport has only 32 pages. For another extra fee, you can order the larger 48-page version instead. Since Russian passports also have 48 pages, I didn’t hesitate and went with the bigger one.

As for the ID card, it can only be processed using the standard timeline — they told me it would take 2 to 4 weeks to be ready.

Full Timeline (2024)

January — heard the news about changes in the citizenship law and started gathering the documents I’d need.
February 23–24 — took the Telc B1 exam.
March 19 — wrote the Einbürgerungstest in a small Bavarian mountain town on the Austrian border (it was the only place with available appointments).
March 28 — received B1 exam results.
April 9 — received Einbürgerungstest results (dated March 28).
April 12 — submitted my citizenship application online through the portal. Uploaded all documents except my birth certificate. There was also a bug with the dates (everything got shifted by one day). Immediately sent an email asking to fix the dates.
June 27 — sent an email threatening to file a lawsuit. Got a reply right away, saying I should receive an update by August 2024.
July 2 — replied to that email and submitted my birth certificate and current payslips.
July 13 — received a physical letter dated July 5 (only 3 days after the email exchange), asking me to schedule an appointment and bring the original documents by October 5.
July 15 — replied to the email asking when I could come in… and got an auto-reply saying my caseworker was on vacation for 2 weeks. <– I think this was the main reason for the delay. If they’d notified me on time, and we scheduled the appointment sooner, the whole process would’ve been 2 months shorter.
July 31 — caseworker came back, I reached them by phone, earliest available appointment was August 28. Booked it.
August 28 — went to the appointment, signed a bunch of forms confirming I’m not a terrorist, and they copied all the documents I had already submitted earlier. They also had me sign a paper saying I “submitted my citizenship application on August 28.”
September 18 — sent an email asking for updates. No reply.
October 23 — sent another email. Got a weird auto-reply saying the caseworker was “out of office” with no further explanation. Forwarded the email to the general inbox. Got a response saying my background check was ongoing, and I’d be notified once it’s done.
November 18 — received an email inviting me to pick up my Einbürgerungsurkunde on November 26. I was on vacation, so I replied and asked to reschedule. It was moved to November 29.
November 29 — picked up the Urkunde. They asked for my last 3 payslips, took back my NE (permanent residence card), and had me sign a statement confirming nothing in my life had changed (literally ten checkboxes). They gave me a printed oath to read standing up, congratulated me, and shook my hand 🙂 As a gift, they handed me a copy of the constitution.
In the Urkunde, my patronymic was written out, but without the label “Vatersname.”
They also asked me to sign a paper stating whether or not I give the German government permission to notify the Russian consulate about my citizenship if asked. You could either say “Sure, I don’t mind,” or “Nope, Datenschutz über alles — Russia shouldn’t know anything.” I went with the first option — didn’t see a reason to make a fuss. But I suppose for people with issues in their home country, the second option might be helpful.
November 29 — later that same day, I applied for my passport (big size + expedited processing) and ID card.
December 4 — collected the passport.

Field Notes and Random Tidbits

• Specifically in Landkreis Munich, the actual processing of your application starts only after you’ve presented the original documents in person. From the end of August to the end of November, it took exactly 3 months. If you manage to find out who your caseworker is (I only learned mine after I sent that email threatening legal action) and can schedule an earlier appointment — do it. Some caseworkers assign a date in the letter, but mine asked me to choose one myself. It’s unclear why the difference, but the key takeaway is: until the originals are checked, nothing really happens.

• In Landkreis Munich, you don’t need to memorize the oath by heart (though I did try to memorize it the day before, just in case). They hand you a printed version to read aloud.

• I had read all sorts of horror stories about the passport/ID application process requiring a “special kind of signature,” with people being forced to change their usual signature — Cyrillic not accepted, or first letter had to match your surname, or whatever. In my case — nothing of the sort. I signed exactly as I always do. My signature is super simple, made up of just two letters (both Latin-compatible), and the first isn’t the first letter of either my first or last name — but the lady at the town hall didn’t even look at it twice. So at least in our little town, they really don’t care.

What’s Next

As for future plans — long-term, it’s still a bit up in the air. German citizenship feels like finally securing that long-awaited “non-expiring asset”: I now have a document that won’t turn into a pumpkin if I go traveling for an extended period or move to another country. Just knowing that my permanent residency would expire after six months of absence from Germany had always stressed me out, and more than once I had to plan around that fact.

Short-term, though, things are lining up perfectly — I’ve had New Year’s tickets to Kuwait booked since the summer, already betting on having a German passport by then. With a Russian passport, you can’t get a tourist visa and can’t enter the city at all (which is why I also had a “plan B” ticket from Kuwait to Dammam, in case I had to pretend it was just a transit). But with a German passport, I can get an e-visa and actually explore the city. So, Kuwait — here I come!

Update January 2025 - I successfully got into Kuwait and published the detailed report