Thirty-two months have passed since Russia started its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, and each week life in Moscow feels more and more fragmented. There is a war we are constantly reminded about yet, even when it encroaches on Russian territory, seems so far away that most of us do not seem to care. There is the other war, the war with our own government and our own inner demons. This one involves self-censorship, fear of informants, and the necessity to appear conformist to some extent.
Then there is the peace, “normal life,” everyday hustle: foreign products returning to market through resellers, businesses operating as if the supply chain were not endangered by combat, and emigrants returning home, mostly because they ran out of money.
This general strategy of denial coexists with a vibrant state of militarism on every corner. Living in Moscow, I see checkpoints set up on the outskirts of the city. I see recruitment posters for on-contract military service on the door of every establishment, from a coffee shop to the hairdresser’s and in every metro station.
In the courtyard of the apartment block I live in, neighbors hold weekly Russian-nationalism parties, with people in folk costumes and kokoshniks—the traditional Russian headdress—inviting volunteers to weave cotton and polyester into camouflage nets for Russian soldiers. Nearby, local kids merrily jump rope to the tinny sounds of piped-in neofolk music.
On some nights there are suddenly lights in the sky and the sound of explosions. In the morning you read about some building having been damaged, but there are so many buildings in Moscow that only the unlucky people in that neighborhood show much interest. I am sure that I also saw trench-like pits being dug in the ground in the nearby town of Khimki—but I cannot find any proof of this and keep hoping it was my imagination.
There is the other war, the war with our own government and our own inner demons. This one involves self-censorship, fear of informants, and the necessity to appear conformist.
It is not just Moscow that is falling to pieces—it is the whole country. The regions that are most directly experiencing the effects of the war are Kursk Oblast, which has been partially invaded by Ukraine since the beginning of August, and Belgorod Oblast, which has been suffering from drone attacks, some severe and with numerous casualties, for more than a year. Moscow has also been attracting drones for a long time now (and there was sort of an exacerbation of that recently), but it remains considerably less affected because of a higher security level.
There are also southern regions of Russia that are not directly hit but, being close to the border, serve as transition points for soldiers and refugees. Because of the constant movement of the troops to the front lines and back, riding trains in Russia turns into a live, often quite interactive performance of sudden, post-traumatic cries and fits of aggression by current and former soldiers.
And there is the whole mass of Russian territory stretching deeper into Eurasia and suffering exclusively at the hands of our own government, which has disproportionately drafted men from remote Siberian regions such as Buryatia and sent them home in coffins.
Last month a friend saw anti-government graffiti in a town in central Russia, stating: “They wanted to free Ukraine, but who is going to free Belgorod Oblast?” At first it felt like a kiss from a love long forsaken. Unlike in 2022, streets and public spaces now are mostly silent, and any expression of a living emotion there seems gone, very much craved but so rare as to be virtually extinct. Even a humble “F*ck the war” scratched with a nail in a corner provides a little boost of morale.
The only part of political geography that everybody seems to accept is that annexed Ukrainian regions, described by Putin as a sacred part of Russia, are not really considered parts of the country even by the most faithful of patriots. That was clearly demonstrated by loyalist bloggers mourning “Ukraine’s invasion of Russia” when only a part of Kursk Oblast was occupied on August 6 of this year.
People in folk costumes and kokoshniks—the traditional Russian headdress—inviting volunteers to weave cotton and polyester into camouflage nets for Russian soldiers.
The occupation of Sudzha, 76 miles south of Kursk, came as a blow to those who still believed in the invincible might of the Russian war machine on which billions have been spent. The contrast between the listless defense of the border in Kursk Oblast on the first days of this operation and the missile defense Moscow unleashed against Ukrainian drone attacks in August was striking. Yet it did not exactly boost morale in Moscow, either. What we learned was that, in Moscow, there still were some missiles and military troops, whereas other regions were lucky to have those things transported to them even after days of being under fire.
But what is most astonishing is how almost nobody seems to care. So many Russians, having first been stripped of ambition and resources by the pandemic, went seamlessly to living under an aggressive, militarist dictatorship. Most are focused on survival and everyday routines at work and in their homes. I do not blame anybody. I am one of those people, and I, too, sometimes find myself uninterested in the progress of the war and the new repressive laws being passed. However, it is precisely this apathy that our government has been grooming in us all along, and I try not to surrender to it completely.
This fear of our own government and its informants lurking among neighbors, strangers, and colleagues is more evident, noticeable, and deeply felt—far more than the distant and surreal war in Ukraine. But that anxiety is rarely mentioned, as if talking about it could somehow attract its malevolent spells. (To some extent, it can—it is widely known that Russian-based messaging apps are monitored by government bots.)
Because any oppositional discourse has been proclaimed “extremist” and leads to long prison sentences, we have been applying grotesque amounts of self-censorship and safety measures to our words, actions, and even thoughts.
This fear of our own government and its informants lurking among neighbors, strangers, and colleagues is more evident, noticeable, and deeply felt—far more than the distant and surreal war in Ukraine.
Poetry readings and art exhibitions that I attend now can be visited only by fully authorized persons after having somebody vouch for them. Publishing any literary text is quite impossible if it contains anything about Putin, the war, or queer matters (the latter being strongly perceived as signs of the mysterious “foreign influence”).
Speaking in public or online under your own name is a huge risk. I myself take a chance when I find it to be worth it, but by, for example, erasing dedications from my poems, I carefully try to avoid throwing any other people under the bus. I see people distancing themselves from any cultural, educational, or charitable initiative that can appear to be even slightly associated with anything anti-war or queer. It feels so mundane at this point—almost as if we never had any more freedom.
We did, though. I remember that, 10 years ago, it was possible to critique our government policies even at state schools and universities, which have now become propaganda venues. We had experimental theater and art films, and those are now in a coma.
We had independent art and literary institutions, most of which are either gone or inaccessible. Another feeling that is very palpable among people I know, apart from fear and the resulting self-repression, is nostalgia.
Do you remember how, in 2016, we could protest in the streets in a rally organized by Alexei Navalny himself? Remember how everybody was here at some queer print market or a lecture on the horrible effects of Stalinism? Remember when none of our friends or heroes had fled, or died, or been imprisoned, or shed all possible humanity?
Writing this text feels therapeutic—it is a huge relief to tell people about all this. I don’t usually talk to my close friends about the anxieties we share: it seems mostly to make everybody sad, so with each other we’re instead making jokes and incessantly trying to be fun. We have two wars at hand, one heated, another cold—and we are doing all we can not to lose our minds in all that.
Katya V. is a poet, a feminist, and a tutor of Russian and English
