The same fate befell small theater troupes whose play styles and tones, although not directly criticizing the authorities, do not adhere to the official Moscow narrative. Philosophy and political clubs moved into the kitchens and living rooms of people’s homes, drawing a parallel with Soviet times.
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At such gatherings throughout Moscow, one topic hangs in the air, though it is rarely spoken about directly – the war in Ukraine.
“There are unwritten, intuitive rules of behavior: don’t talk about it loudly,” says Russian political analyst Andrey Kolesnikov, who still lives in Moscow. “Even better – don’t talk about it at all.”
“What is there to talk about? You can’t change anything anyway,” he said.
Repeated drone attacks on Moscow from Ukraine have one goal – to make Russians feel the reality of war in their own country. This creates cracks in the city’s calm facade. After Ukraine’s strikes on Russian oil refineries this summer, long lines formed at gas stations.
Such a sight is striking in a place that surpasses its European neighbors in many aspects of modernity: with its impeccably clean and well-maintained parks, excellent transport system, and abundance of digital services.
These attacks have heightened the anxiety in the air, especially among artists, writers, academics, and other cultural figures. The hidden anxiety has been simmering since the start of the war: is the comfortable lifestyle of the capital a mirage that can disappear at any moment?
Many people living under such tension use various euphemisms when talking about the war. Some call the conflict “that,” economists talk about “increased budget expenditures,” and others, when mentioning any topic related to military actions, say “due to the current situation.”
Although brand-new metro trains are full of passengers absorbed in their phones, with the Kremlin banning many international apps, they have to connect from one VPN (virtual private network – editor’s note) to another to maintain contact with the outside world. During rush hours, this becomes extremely difficult.
Parents in Russia rush from one school to another, trying to find one that still provides secular education without propaganda.
At a school meeting, a principal proudly told how students exercised their democratic rights and prepared an official petition with 120 signatures demanding that hot dogs be included in the school menu. The principal, who spoke anonymously out of fear of repression, whispered that students might skip mandatory propaganda lessons by arriving late to them.
Nina Khrushcheva, a professor of international relations living between Moscow and New York, noted that Russia has once again revealed its duality, perfectly embodied by its coat of arms – the double-headed eagle.
“One head is in Europe dreaming of a prosperous 21st-century civil administration, while the other wants to drag the country back to the Middle Ages and bow to Genghis Khan,” said the expert.
Since Russia’s invasion of Ukraine began in 2022, hundreds of thousands of Russians have fled the country, including many well-known artists and entertainment figures who openly opposed the war. Others stayed in Russia and remained silent to preserve their careers, often becoming targets of criticism from those who left.
Recently, one of the most discussed films in Moscow is “Pictures of Friendly Relations” – a multifaceted drama about millennial generation theater and film professionals who throw a farewell party for their biggest star leaving Russia. This spring, it was shown in dozens of cinemas and is now available on one of Russia’s main streaming platforms.
The film does not directly explain why he leaves his dearest friends and former girlfriend. Largely black and white, with only two vivid color episodes from the past, the cinematography draws a clear “before and after” line that has become all too familiar to many Russians.
The war in Ukraine is never mentioned once. However, the prolonged conflict is like a menacing shadow determining everything that happens on screen. We see a theater director trying to avoid censorship by removing seemingly innocent hints about freedom and prison from the play. Another character is forced to work an extra job at a delivery company to make ends meet. There is an atmosphere of complete isolation, where only friendship provides temporary refuge.
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As one critic noted, the film “managed to capture an era in which you cannot talk about ‘now,’ but you can show the present – so to speak, without unnecessary words.”
People have learned the rules indicating what is tolerated, meaning talking about the war is not allowed. If you want to stay in Russia and engage in creativity, you must know the “red lines” and never cross them. But the fear of making a mistake or those lines being redrawn has not disappeared.
Several people I met in Moscow while preparing this article refused to be quoted. One asked me to delete the entire recording of our conversation and, feeling great tension, broke down in tears. Another doubted whether it made sense to publish articles that could endanger people.
Nevertheless, many independent gatherings take place in the very center of the city, so anyone can interrupt them.
At the end of May, a group of Russian artists belonging to the “Boloto” collective exhibited their works on the roof of the Moscow Youth Palace from the late Soviet period – among them were a carousel of sickles and even a life-sized catamaran. The event, which the organizers called the “Bolotnaya” (or “Swamps”) biennale, was disclosed only to invited guests. Meanwhile, media representatives were asked not to write about it until the three-day exhibition ended.
Since the beginning of organizing such exhibitions in 2020, their organizers have tried to go against the current of both commercial galleries and official culture of state art institutions, said its two curators – 40-year-old Olga Tumanova and 42-year-old Vasilisa Lebedeva.
“There are certain statements that, given our context, are difficult to express,” Olga noted.
“Because of this, many artists working here resort to metaphors, symbolism, and indirect forms of expression. This often gives the works more openness and complexity,” added Vasilisa.
This spring, a 90-minute performance took place in a closed parking lot under a huge Moscow shopping center roof, during which famous Russian actor Yevgeny Tsyganov navigated through dusty set elements of Thornton Wilder’s 2020 play “Our Town.” This performance was abruptly stopped in 2022 when its famous director Dmitry Krymov condemned Moscow’s invasion of Ukraine and stayed in New York.
In a recent performance, J. Tsyganov not only recalled the lost play but also Krymov’s earlier work in Moscow theater and life in Russia before the war.
Among the 300 spectators were high-caliber government representatives such as Central Bank head Elvira Nabiullina and influential head of Russia’s state television “Channel One” Konstantin Ernst. Ernst, who oversees state television propaganda, called the nostalgic performance illustrating the fractured reality of Moscow one of the best things he has seen in recent years.
Some artists who fled abroad have returned, unable to settle in foreign and often unfriendly countries. For those who stayed or returned, navigating the city means retreating to what some locals call “calm capsules” or “islands of peace.”
These spaces – hidden art exhibitions, underground bookstores, or alternative theaters – seem to teleport people to another place or time and provide temporary peace.
They have no illusions about their ability to change the direction of the authorities. According to analyst A. Kolesnikov, this vibrant underground life resembles the Soviet-era “quiet resistance.”
Today, gathering to watch a play or discuss a book is the only path civil society can choose.
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“It is a way of survival,” he emphasized.
This article was published in The New York Times.
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