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I harbor no emotional attachment to Russia as a legal entity, represented by its borders, flag, anthem, or national integrity. I recognize that all of these are rooted in violence and imperialistic exploitation. Similarly, like other imperial colonial constructs, the Russian ones necessitate deconstruction. I mourn the loss of Ukrainian lives, the mutilation of bodies, and carry the burden of accountability, responsibility, shame, and pain for atrocities done on behalf of the country I was born and whose passport I still carry with me. The rupture of trust and communication with extended family members and acquaintances who to different degrees support Putin’s actions has been painful as well.

My abrupt unemployment and the complexities of my curatorial position as a Russian-born citizen of both the Netherlands and Russia, a leftist cosmopolitan subject navigating repressive Russian laws from distance, and feeling complicit in the horrors of war while representing political dissent within Western cultural circles, have compelled me to reevaluate the relevance of my past curatorial methods for the present and future. 

I write this text to try to come to grips with my professional decisions over the past two years and the position I’ve taken in the cultural field—my decision to step back, without succumbing to self-censorship. I’ve pondered alternative, and at times non-public modes of expression and grappled with the notion of temporary silence as a deliberate choice, taking time to contemplate how such silence could be harnessed for constructive purposes. Silence for me doesn’t mean a complete withdrawal of my practice, but a temporary withdrawal from initiating visual art exhibitions as spaces of direct political negotiation. The aim of this text is to convey the challenges faced by cultural workers of Russian descent working in the West and to advocate for viewing this challenge as an opportunity to confront Russia’s imperial colonial history and seek a language to address this aspect of our collective past.

Repression

Since February 2022, repressive actions have increasingly targeted cultural figures, politicians, activists, and ordinary citizens in Russia and beyond its borders. Prominent recent instances from the cultural field include the prolonged detention without trial of theatre director Evgenia Berkovich and playwright Svetlana Petriychuk, the extramural eight-year prison term for artist and activist Petr Verzilov, a seven-year prison term for young artist Aleksandra Skochilenko, along with systematic committed and attempted assassinations of politicians and political journalists in Russia and abroad. These events culminated in the torture and eventual murder of activist and political figure Alexey Navalny in a Siberian prison, serving as a grim reminder of the dire consequences of dissent, cultivating an atmosphere of pervasive fear and vulnerability.[2]

The once-admired visibility and the public celebrations of one’s achievements that conferred political empowerment, joy, status, and influence now carry a grave risk, as individuals grapple with the conflicting pressures of artistic expression and personal safety, particularly concerning the welfare of relatives remaining in Russia. Following recent elections, where Putin purportedly secured 88.48% of the vote, as usual tainted by fraudulent practices, it is evident that repressions will intensify as the state is falling deeper into fascist propaganda methods, with no prospect of reconciliation with the Western world. 

Boycott

As cultural practitioners operating on the international stage, Russian counterparts had established connections with Ukrainian peers, fostering close friendships with some. In the early throes of the invasion, in a state of shock and denial of Russia’s violence, some attempted to reach out, oblivious to the deep rupture that the war had brought in these relationships. Admirably, Ukrainian colleagues swiftly asserted a decisive stance: any prospect of collaboration or discourse between Ukrainian and Russian cultural spheres was deemed untenable. The Ukrainian cultural community called for a boycott of Russian culture and cultural workers, necessitating a space exclusively their own to articulate the Ukrainian perspective, silenced and repressed by Russia historical narratives and experiences. Russian artists and curators who stood against the war were called for self-boycott, self-silence, going into shadow in support of Ukrainian voices. The clamor of missiles drowned out any semblance of public dialogue; at times the mere sound of the Russian language was perceived as an affront to Ukrainian sensibilities, even for those Ukrainians, whose first language is Russian.

Conversely, some Western institutions persisted in advocating for dialogic exchanges and collaborative ventures between Ukrainian and Russian practitioners. Despite repeated withdrawals by Ukrainian counterparts, citing the inherent violence of such public engagements, Western curators continued to extend invitations to both parties, illustrating a simplistic understanding of the complexities involved. Ukrainian practitioners not only withdrew but also had to repeatedly explain and defend their decisions. This underscores the naive approach of Western entities, which overlooked the profound trauma and impossibility of dialogue amid the ongoing conflict. Attempts at reconciliation or theoretical discourse paled in comparison to the harrowing realities faced by those directly affected by the conflict.

As the initial shock subsided, daily imagery of violence inundated newsfeeds, evoking a sense of anger, mixed with powerlessness and despair. Simple acts, such as conversing in Russian or attending cultural events, became fraught with discomfort and self-consciousness. The anguish of witnessing Ukrainian suffering compounded with personal feelings of guilt and complicity, prompting soul-searching and introspection.

In response to this turmoil, some individuals with Russian background sought various avenues to counteract their feelings of pain and guilt. Some examples of effective actions in support of Ukraine would be turning to fundraising efforts and mobilizing resources and support for those affected by the war. Others engaged in humanitarian activities, volunteering time and resources to alleviate the suffering of Ukrainian citizens at home and in refugee. Additionally, there were initiatives to extend invitations and redirect project budgets to Ukrainian cultural practitioners, fostering dialogue and solidarity across borders in the face of adversity. These acts of solidarity provided avenues for Russians to privately and humbly channel their empathy and address the moral complexities inherent in the war’s aftermath. 

Currently a number of artists and curators from Russia grapple with the pragmatic implications of their practice, navigating the complexities of identity and representation within the international cultural landscape. Not working with the theme of war is untenable, but working with the theme of war is impossible without Ukrainian voices. Questions of legitimacy and solidarity arise, prompting a reevaluation of personal and professional values. Some cultural workers of Russian background took such positions as rejecting boycotts, dismissing “uncomfortable” Ukrainian questions, and articulating critical responses to public cultural events with Russian participation. A fervent attribution of blame solely to Putin and his regime coexists with attempts to defend one’s voice in the Western European context. 

Amidst this tumult, some artists and curators from Russia endeavored to retain their artistic practice and visibility while navigating the intricate dynamics of identity and allegiance. Some sought to affirm their status as “good Russians” by speaking out on social media, lamenting about the cancellation of their participation on the same stage with Ukrainian stakeholders and showing abroad their political art confronting the war and Putin’s regime, strategically negotiating their positions within Western contexts. Others pursued avenues such as residencies, fellowships, master’s, or research Ph.D. programs, strategically positioning themselves to exercise their dissent more effectively while filling time and waiting out for the resolution of the war. These maneuvers underscored as temporary solution, the delicate balance between personal integrity and professional survival in the face of political upheaval. However, amongst all of these ways to survive in the present moment there has hardly been attempts to meet each other and try to work on our shared mistakes together.

The Possibilities of Non-Public Speech

Over the past two years, my stance on the actions of Russian cultural workers concerning the war in Ukraine has undergone a transformation, shifting from advocating radical boycotts and partial self-boycotts as political statements to gradually exploring alternative modes of expression. Today, I argue for the necessity of speaking out, but it has become evident to me that our language must be reconsidered, and previous approaches to political representation in visual art are no longer viable. However, I find myself uncertain about the specific path forward. I’ve noticed an increasing number of individuals grappling with similar questions.

For exiled cultural practitioners from Russia, this is not the time for grand public declarations or self-promotion or entering public discussions. Instead, I would argue that it should be a period of quiet reflection and introspection, accepting the daunting task of unlearning entrenched narratives of Russian cultural hegemony and supremacy-over former Soviet republics, a prelude to learning to critically narrate Russian colonial imperial history.

Some Russians I’ve spoken to regard the invasion of Ukraine as a kind of civil war, a fratrical conflict. On the contrary, I find this view disturbing and regard this war as a decolonial struggle, where a former colony asserts its right to self-identification and self-determination, reclaiming its muted language, culture, and narrating its history of oppression. In this context, before engaging in dialogue or advocacy, a cultural worker of Russian descent must confront their own complicity and privilege, dismantling the oppressive structures that underpin their identity.

As a cultural practitioner born in the USSR and raised in post-Soviet Russia, now based in Western Europe, I envision my next step as a critical reevaluation of my own relation to Russia’s cultural heritage and colonial legacy. I yearn for solidarity and mutual support from like-minded individuals across geographical and political divides. I aim to articulate a new vocabulary of dissent that transcends linguistic and cultural barriers. Only through collective action and introspection can we reignite hope and work toward another future.