Russian Delusion
What it looks like when your fellow citizens gamble away a gift of peaceful life.
Like many Moscow residents, I usually avoid Red Square. But on February 22, 2022, I find myself standing before the Mausoleum — the Lenin’s tomb, making snapshots of the fading remnants of the New Year’s fairytale with my camera: an empty ice-skating rink, a lonely carousel, and yellowish garlands futilely struggling against the cold daylight. And for some inexplicable reason, two days before the world crumbled, it felt crucial to capture the opulence of LOUIS VUITTON storefront, with the faint reflection of the Kremlin tower in it.
It’s the 38th day of the war, a cloudy April one. Guided by a student-driven telegram newsfeed, I walk through Alexandrovsky Garden, urged to take photos of peace activists gathering in nearby Zaryadye Park. It’s a mere two-minute walk from the Kremlin, but sleepy Red Square is closed for passage. By the time I arrive on site, it’s already finished: dozens of young protesters are being instantly intercepted and detained. I’m only here to witness police vans departing into the snowfall.
Back in Alexandrovsky Garden, the Heroic WWII Cities’ alley sees no change. A girl molds snowballs, scraping fresh snow off the granite slab that reads “Kyiv;” guided young cadets look on with admiration at the Eternal Flame memorial as the Guard changes. A line of tourists waits patiently to get inside the Kremlin museum. Open umbrellas are covered in falling snowflakes, creating a serene view. In about twelve hours, the world will witness the first photographs from Bucha.
On May 9th, Victory Day and day 75th of the war, I stand in the shadow of the abandoned McDonald’s near Pushkin Square, watching people clutch black-and-white reprinted photos of their grandmas and grandpas, gathering to march in the newly-formed state-supported The Immortal Regiment memory parade.
The crowd is diverse: some carry orthodox-style posters proclaiming “God gave us Victory,” while others are dressed up for the celebration, there are families, there are groups, there are young singles and elderly ones. Some wear strained smiles with signs of concealed tension in their eyes, while most just look slightly exalted. The Pushkinskaya street is all fenced with iron railings. People get closer as they approach entry gates, the exaltation rises, marching columns readily form.
Camera in hand, my goal is to snap a picture of every passerby. Suddenly, a self-assertive lady questions me, “And who are you taking pictures for?” I reply quickly, “I’m shooting a chronicle…” The lady nods contentedly, poses formally for the camera, and moves to join the parade. “… of madness,” I add to myself.
Back home, as I select stills, I realize that what I’ve witnessed isn’t madness. It’s something else, but I can’t pin the right word.
I have a dream later that evening. It’s a beautiful May twilight in Moscow, and I’m standing with a crowd on Kutuzovsky Bridge, gazing at the front wall of the White House of Government, which looks like a gigantic cinema screen. The bridge is adorned with red banners for some significant occasion, and the ruby star atop the Spasskaya Kremlin Tower projects a powerful beam of light, directly aimed at the White House facade, weaving the Russian national flag. The projection isn’t very bright, and it’s been swaying there for many years. A black Kremlin voice says, “The time of the celebration is crucial. The projection must be stronger. Do make it brighter.” The beam instantly intensifies, multiplies, and suddenly, everyone sees that it’s no longer just a building, but a colossal Russian white-blue-red tricolor, shining brightly in the endless black void. As I watch, I can still make out the building, with a few dimly lit windows. The black voice says, “You still see. It’s not dangerous until others perceive it right, but you’ve disappointed us.”
This is my chronicle about the deepest form of oblivion: false memories.
© 2022–23 by R.B. under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0.
