Their words ‘invisible,’ Russian artists escape
Many feel silenced, helpless, even complicit in Putin’s war
TKOTKA, Finland wo days after Russia invaded Ukraine, a bearded and distraught-looking Ivan Nikolaev, 35, posted a video on Youtube denouncing President Vladimir Putin. h “Innocent Ukrainian citizens are being murdered as Russia continues to occupy an independent state of Ukraine,” Nikolaev said. “As citizens of Russia, we are all involved in this military crime.” h His wife, Alena Starostina, 38, shared the video on her Facebook page. h Soon after, Russia passed a law against spreading statements not in line with the government narrative. With that, the couple, who had spent their days as longtime performers thoughtfully dissecting plays, were suddenly criminals, facing fines of 1.5 million rubles, or more than $18,000, and up to 15 years in prison.
After a final performance by Starostina, the couple took out as much cash as they could and packed up their small car. They said goodbye to Starostina’s father, who couldn’t believe they were fleeing, and left for Finland.
Within a few days, the couple realized that the war probably would not be over for months.
“It feels like a person close to you is dying, not suddenly of a stroke, but of some terminal torturous disease,” Nikolaev said. But “there is always this silly hope that someone kills (Putin) and this whole thing will be over.”
Nikolaev and Starostina are among the growing numbers of artists who have fled Russia to neighboring Finland in recent weeks. Many have long faced the threat of persecution in Russia for not supporting official stances, but their criticism of the war put them in danger of imprisonment, forcing them to give up their work and make a new home several hours from the Russian border.
Now, amid a harsh crackdown on opposing views, such artists are unsure if or when it will be possible to return. They worry about the integrity of their work in Putin’s Russia, which has increasingly suppressed free speech and expression.
Starostina and Nikolaev, who worked at a small independent theater company in St. Petersburg, have found themselves closely following Russia’s actions in Ukraine with disgust while applying for work abroad. Nikolaev’s mother had long ago moved to the snowy, southeastern seaside of Kotka, and they have joined her in the one-bedroom, third-floor walk-up flat.
They miss the lives they led, where they created elaborate worlds from words, sets and costumes to explore the futility and irony in Russian society. They worry their art failed to transform the minds of their countrymen, to foster a more open and caring Russia.
“Theater is meant to talk to people and communicate with them, to explain things about the world,” Starostina said. “But it looks like we failed. We couldn’t stop this war, and so I think we are also responsible for it.”
The couple have through May to figure out whether they will be able to get a long-term visa to work in Finland or must otherwise leave. Meanwhile, they are still paying for their apartment back in St. Petersburg, using the rubles in their Russian bank account and saving the few hundred euros they converted before sanctions made it impossible to change the rest of their cash.
“We’re waiting to see which money runs out first,” Nikolaev said.
Persecution in their homeland
The threats to free-thinking artists in Russia have become more tangible with each passing day.
In the weeks leading up to the invasion, some of the actors, stagehands, directors and other theater staff faced warnings of possible “consequences” from authorities for speaking out against the state, Nikolaev said. Once war broke out, those who publicly opposed the invasion were fired from official cultural posts and faced possible imprisonment.
Many artists in Russia work for theaters that are fully or partially funded by the Russian state, which leaves them particularly vulnerable to censorship. That was the case for Starostina and Nikolaev, who ran Theater Post, a small theater that took grants from the Russian government to fund its performances.
Even so, many of their performances were put on by activist playwrights and included subtle criticisms of the government.
Nikolaev was arrested once before for protesting. He received intimidating messages from authorities over the theater’s performances and his subscription to a newsletter belonging to opposition leader Alexei Navalny’s anti-corruption organization.
Then the theater group’s performances for March and April were canceled.
While some Russian artists spoke out against the government or quit their positions, many others weren’t able to or chose not to speak up, Nikolaev said.
Nikolaev was sickened by his peers who would not join the opposition.
“Theater is supposed to be about common values, like good and evil, but the biggest names in the Russian theater industry, they all kept quiet,” Nikolaev said. “Just a few people made statements, but most of them, the best around, they haven’t said a word. So how can I keep working with them?”
Nikolaev’s mother, Valentina Lyakhova, who emigrated to Finland for work in 2004, was grateful when her son and his wife finally arrived at her flat safely.
She gave her son and wife her bed, choosing to sleep on the floor to give them comfort. She said she worries for their safety and obsessively monitors the news, but she tries not to think of what may happen if her son and daughter-in-law must return to Russia. She, too, shared Nikolaev’s video on her social media and supports their outspokenness because “not doing anything is also a way of destroying yourself.”
Living between 2 worlds
After Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, celebrated playwright Mikhail Durnenkov went to protests in Moscow daily for a week, messaging friends on Telegram that he was “going for a walk” as code. He worried he was being monitored.
Durnenkov has spoken out against the Russian government before. His most wellknown play, “The War Has Not Started Yet,” was written after Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014 and features characters bombarded by state propaganda. Durnenkov was arrested for protesting.
As the war continued, Durnenkov’s
friends abroad urged him to leave. It was a difficult decision. “I’m a writer. I write in Russian,” he said.
It wasn’t until he, his wife, their 15-yearold son and their dachshund, Kubrik, crossed the border into Finland on March 18 that he realized how much tension he had been under. His hunched body suddenly felt lighter and taller.
Durnenkov said he was in shock but slowly came to realize “my life is broken. It is completely ruined.”
“I’m between (worlds),” he said. “Abroad you’re the invader, and in your country you’re a traitor.”
The destruction and violence he sees in Ukraine is unbearable: He has never felt more Russian in his life, and never wanted to not be Russian more.
“When I was in Russia, I had a feeling this war was started in my name, and I wanted to be as distant from the country as possible, like my identity was part of the state,” Durnenkov said. “Now I have a right to say ‘them.’ ”
Durnenkov has been given space to work inside a former psychiatric hospital in Helsinki along the Baltic Sea, a studio and common space run by the nonprofit Artists at Risk, which helps artists facing persecution relocate. The organization has assisted artists in Belarus, Afghanistan, Egypt and elsewhere.
Finland and Russia have always had a close bond, especially among artists, said Marita Muukkonen, who co-founded Artists at Risk. She said at least 220 Russian artists have applied for a safe haven through the program, including Nikolaev and Starostina.
“If we want to change governments and have more democratic governments, we need dissidents,” she said. “We need those people who speak up.”
Like many Russian dissidents, Durnenkov yearns to return to Russia one day and build change from within. He worries he didn’t do enough to challenge the Russian government. He said he lived in a liberal bubble, cutting off people who didn’t share his beliefs. He yearns to connect with people.
“It’s very nice to be brave in your bubble,” Durnenkov said. But “my words were invisible for them. Maybe this was my mistake.”
Or “maybe it’s not about art. Maybe art is not enough. I feel Russian culture has failed.”