Today marks the third anniversary of the full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine. In line with our commitment to document responses of our communities to the Russian war in Ukraine we asked artists, curators, writers, translators, political scientists and other contributors to share their reflections.
The war continues, and we continue to live with it. Lately, the discussions in the disciplines related to the Russian field outside of Russia are shifting from manifestations and self-blame to reflections on how all of us who are intrinsically involved with the Russian field can actually work with addressing the challenges that we face, what changes we need to implement in our spheres, and what lessons we have learned and continue to learn.
In Pushkin House’s case this involves analysing the organisation’s history and identity, especially its blind spots, our position in relation to other cultures and institutions, and our relationships with our audiences. This is an ongoing and never ending process which requires a lot of unlearning that generates a sense of unease. Yet it is only from this unease, this feeling of lingering discomfort, that real, meaningful and impactful change can occur. We do not hold the answers to many questions, but we are keen to ask the questions and look for answers.
Over the last three years we worked with contributors from different cultural backgrounds, who, we hope, developed a joint sense of ownership of Pushkin House, who think of the house as their own, and who share with us their experiences on the themes of migration, displacement and belonging. What we have realised since the beginning of the war is that the communities around Pushkin House do not only perceive us as an exhibition space or a cultural centre, but more importantly as a space to be together – a space to meet and exchange ideas and, as a member of our community said, a “space for self-expression and the struggle”. We hope to continue on this trajectory together with all of you.
Elena Sudakova, Director of Pushkin House
The best I can do is to call attention to two outstanding bilingual anthologies of Russophone anti-war poetry: Disbelief (Smokestack Books) and Dislocation (Slavica).
A memorable poem in Dislocation (by Vitaly Pukhanov) begins:
“Remember, Alyosha, the six-hundred-page anthology of anti-war poetry published in the winter of forty-two in Berlin?”
And the poem ends:
“‘So why didn’t you stop Hitler?’ – asked the Red Army soldiers, tearing the pages for their hand-rolled cigarettes. […]
Unfortunately, not a single copy of this anthology remains.”
Ian Garner, Assistant Professor, Center for Totalitarian Studies, Pilecki Institute
After 1,096 days of war, the newspaper headlines are gone. The screaming red banners covering the latest political and strategic developments are gone. The feel-good stories of Ukrainian refugees settling into their new homes abroad are gone.
All is familiar. Another bomb dropped. Another rocket launched. Another hospital destroyed. Another family massacred. Another smiling face, briefly sliding past the eyes of indifferent social media users, obliterated. Reality – life – shattered. All but ignored by the West.
A slow trickle of stories now drips occasional updates into newspapers, television broadcasts, and social media feeds. But the world, thirsty for the excitement of new heroes and villains, new narrative arcs, and new mise en scène on the pantomime stage of modern media, has moved on. Dazzled and distracted by a world of Trumpian excitement, the West has grown bored of Ukrainian suffering. Its leaders and its public wait for the curtain to fall on a show that has limped on past its sell-by date. An easy peace deal. A simple dénouement.
Vladimir Putin has not grown bored. With his country’s media in the palm of his hands, Putin injects life into a moribund society with an intolerably repugnant spectacle of war: “When everything is calm, measured, stable, we are bored.” War makes life exciting.
For the weary West, war has become boring. For a war-hungry Vladimir Putin, it will never be boring.
For Ukrainians, there is no choice. Only fighting on can repudiate the war, the killing, the shattering.
Alisa Gorshenina (Alice Hualice), Artist
I want to use this opportunity to remind the world that there are people in Russia who do not support the current government. Right now, hundreds of thousands of Russians who disagree with the political regime are inside the country, protesting daily, invisible to the rest of the world. They call war war, they refuse to go to pro-government rallies, they refuse to teach patriotic education classes in schools, they refuse to let propaganda into museums, galleries, libraries, they lay flowers at monuments to political repression and at the grave of Alexei Navalny, they pay fines, they sit in prison, they support each other, creating invisible chains of solidarity. They exist. We exist.
Я хочу использовать предоставленную мне возможность сказать что-то публично, чтобы напомнить всему миру - в России есть люди, которые не поддерживают действующую власть. Прямо сейчас сотни тысяч несогласных с политическим режимом россиян находятся внутри страны, и совершают ежедневный невидимый всему миру протест. Они называют войну войной, они отказываются идти на провластные митинги, отказываются проводить уроки патриотического воспитания в школе, отказываются пускать пропаганду в музеи, галереи, библиотеки, они кладут цветы к памятникам политических репрессий и на могилу Алексея Навального, они платят штрафы, они сидят в тюрьмах, они поддерживают друг друга, создавая невидимые цепи солидарности. Они есть. Мы есть.
The tragic, prolonged duration of this war has provided ample time for deep scars to form. While sceptical, I remain hopeful that there is a way back to a better, more stable social, economic, and political environment in Russia, and for recovery and renaissance in Ukraine. Human beings everywhere are resilient and resourceful; my hope springs from that conviction. But, we live in turbulent times of great disruption. The principles and institutions that kept us prosperous and at peace for decades are under withering assault. They remain ours to defend and reaffirm.
The first and foremost cost of Russia’s war against Ukraine continues to be the horrors and suffering it inflicts on Ukrainians, but the radical change in rhetoric from the second Trump Administration is recasting assumptions about how the war will continue. Without US support, Ukraine’s ability to sustain its defences will come under serious doubt, but Vladimir Putin’s war has birthed a unity and willingness to resist in Ukraine that will find ways to carry on if the worst fears are materialised.
The economic war has until now continued apace. Trump has hinted at concessions, but sanctions will be far harder to lift than many expect, with Europe continuing them and the US Congress likely blocking significant rollbacks. While it cannot be compared to the importance of Ukrainian lives, the Trump Administration here too underappreciates the importance of this aspect of the war to Putin’s regime. He mentions the US Dollar’s geopolitical role nearly twice as often as he invokes NATO. Driving schisms between the West on geo-economic matters is one of Putin’s key war aims, and will remain such. Failure to address this risks disruption that would make the global economic challenges Putin wrought in 2022–2023 seem minor in comparison.
The past three years have been a complete transformation. Like millions of others, I found myself separated from home, family, and previous professional connections. In trying to rationally understand the deeper roots of the tragedy, I uncovered the trauma of my family’s past: at least eight relatives shot during the Great Terror and more than twenty family members exiled to Siberian Gulags. Amidst this, I’ve been fortunate enough to rediscover distant branches of my family after a century of separation, which has given me a feeling of fulfilment and a clearer sense of who I am.
I’ve learned to focus less on the future, knowing that life will often shock and surprise. Professionally, I’m building from the ground up, embracing the slow and organic growth that was absent in my younger years. Living in upstate New York for the last five years, I’ve gained wisdom from the flowers and plants in my garden – each species teaches me its own unique survival and life strategy. As a mother to a toddler, my greatest challenge is ensuring that the generational trauma I carry does not pass to her. This, I believe, is my most important work.
It is horrifying to think that the full-scale invasion is now entering its fourth year, and Russia’s war on Ukraine its twelfth. I remember vividly how sick and shocked I felt in February 2022, because I have felt similarly every day since. I remain in awe of the bravery and resilience of the Ukrainian people. They continue to battle courageously against relentless Russian aggression, amidst a persistent failure of foreign powers to offer the necessary levels of support. This war should be recognised – and perhaps, with recent changes in US politics, is finally being seen – as existential not only for Ukraine, but for Europe and the world.
As an academic in a large Slavonic department, and more recently a Trustee of Pushkin House, I have witnessed up close the ongoing process of rethinking how we teach, research and communicate the cultures of our region. I have been inspired by opportunities over the last three years to collaborate with Ukrainian academics and writers, and to participate in new initiatives (such as Oxford’s new Ukraine Hub). All this has opened my eyes to many things that I should have known much earlier, but can at least work towards understanding now.
In my view, scholars of our region, and public-facing institutions such as Pushkin House, must continue to use their positions to amplify Ukrainian voices and perspectives, to advocate for the expansion of Ukrainian studies and to continue to critique and reform approaches to Slavic studies, history and area studies. The tasks of creating new curricula and rethinking programming pose daunting practical, intellectual, and personal challenges. But while the invasion is ongoing, and after it ends, we must continue this work in the hope that it can be one of the lasting legacies of this terrible war.
Just before the third anniversary of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, the world was shocked to hear some extraordinary things from President Trump. On 12 February, when asked by a reporter whether Ukraine was an equal member in the peace negotiations he was advocating, he replied: ”It’s an interesting question. I think they have to make peace… that was not a good war to go into…” That was just the beginning. In the following days he blamed Ukraine for starting the war, for misappropriating American money, for not holding elections and for many other things, but his main belief had already been aired: Ukraine should have surrendered from the start. Why? Because it is not “an equal member”, obviously not on a par with the US and Russia. Like, presumably, the rest of Europe. Some countries, in the American President’s mind, are definitely “more equal than others”.
Mourning over the brutal destruction of flourishing cities by the ruthless enemy and the tragic loss of Ukrainian lives over this time, we are nevertheless celebrating the spirit of the country that did not surrender three years ago and would not capitulate now. We are celebrating President Zelensky, whose firmness made even Russian – and now also American – leadership wish to replace him with somebody more compliant as they realise Zelensky would not yield to their demands. We are celebrating the Ukrainian military who have acquired skills necessary to fight modern battles, and the ordinary Ukrainians whose resilience helped the country to resist under unbearably hard circumstances. The age-long struggle for its independence will be won. Glory to Ukraine!
My heart goes out to Ukraine and its people at home and abroad who continue to fight not only for its territory and independence, but also for its literature and culture! As it continues to take lives, the war keeps producing new books, films, and art – a contradiction especially hard to reconcile, yet one that is bound to survive the war itself and those who will not live to see it end. This record is being written in multiple tongues. Regardless of background, we have been, and will be, speaking this “language” as our native for a long time. Forgetting this war in the hypothetical future will mean forgetting one’s native language.
Over the past three years I have come to realise that there is no hope except for us. And that our efforts are not enough.
I cannot offer any consolation.
The war is ongoing. No good can come of it. It is mass murder with murky political motives – as if murder could have any motive other than death. It disgusts me that Russia started this war, that Russia is prolonging the war, and that the war is reshaping and consuming Russia. And there is nothing I want more than to be close to my people, and to write about what I see and hear.
I know for sure: the pain doesn’t get better. You just get used to it. It can become your whole life. It can replace all of your feelings, and you will become a shell of a human being. Dehumanising people is another aim of war. May this aim never be achieved.
No words can stop a falling bomb. But they might be able to stop the people who are dropping it. Mightn’t they? That is what I am trying to figure out.
Peace isn’t needed by the dead, but by the living. I need peace.
За эти три года я поняла, что нет надежды, кроме нес. И что наших усилий недостаточно.
Мне нечем вас утешить.
Война идет. У войны нет хорошего лица. Это массовое убийство с неясными политическими целями (как будто у убийства может быть цель, кроме смерти). Мне отвратительно, что Россия начала эту войну, что она длит ее, что война перестраивает, переваривает ее. И нет ничего, чтобы я хотела больше, чем быть сейчас рядом с моими людьми, писать о том, что я вижу и слышу.
Я точно знаю: боль не становится меньше. Зато к ней можно притерпеться. Она может стать твоей жизнью. Она может подменить собой все чувства, и ты станешь шкуркой человека. Это еще одна цель войны - превращение людей в нелюдей. Пусть эта цель никогда не будет достигнута.
Ни один текст не остановит падающую бомбу. Но он может остановить людей, которую эту бомбу сбрасывают. Может ли? На это я сейчас пытаюсь ответить.
Мир не нужен мертвым, он нужен живым. Мне нужен мир.
In the three years since the full-scale invasion, having spent two of them in England, I’ve started to get used to the violence, the deaths, the unfolding wars, the loneliness, the tears that come every couple of months – less often now. I’ve stopped believing and dreaming that one day I’ll see my parents again, or return to Russia while I’m still young. I look into the faces of the British people and the locals, trying to understand and connect with their peaceful lives. I look into their eyes, dissolving into the thought: I am them. But there’s one thing I cannot accept. I step onto the stage to stop this hell. It’s my naïve weapon. I feel its energy – it’s my connection to reality.
Ever since the new American government and Russia started the so-called peace talks, I can't escape the feeling that what is happening is a personal insult to me. Perhaps now is the final stage of my disillusionment with some generalised “West” as the bearer of values that I share almost by default.
For me, growing up in an anti-Soviet family, this attitude was hypertrophied. My parents looked at the West as something to oppose the disgusting Soviet machine, and it was important for them not to look into the details. Even later, I thought that it was possible to suffer for bringing these Western values to Russia as a package, just as they are (as in the nineties).
Now I see how “the West”, at least the most influential part of it, is committing pure treachery in what was preached as the highest Western value – the defense of humanity, or at least its support. But it turns out that all it takes to be considered is to be a superpower (Putin's version will do too).
There is still a possibility to hope that the real life turn of events will not be so unworthy. That some European countries will come to the help of Ukraine, that the American president and his team will be pressed by at least some sane structures of his country.
But (my) sobering has already happened.
For me personally, maybe it is for the best.
Since February 2022, the University Consortium – a rare forum for dialogue among Americans, Russians, and Europeans (including Ukrainians) about Russia’s war on Ukraine – has largely framed discussions in terms of a US-led Western coalition resisting Russian aggression. Despite intra-Western disagreements, the West remained broadly united in its three-year struggle to uphold post-World War II international norms, particularly the principle that no country can seize another’s territory by force.
No longer. As of February 2025, it is now the United States that threatens to upend this rules-based order. President Trump has proposed sweeping concessions to Russia with no reciprocity, dismissed President Zelensky as illegitimate, emboldened hard-right forces across Europe, sought to erase references to Russia as the ‘aggressor’, and floated a plan to seize $500 billion in (unproven) Ukrainian rare-earth minerals as a supposed US security guarantee.
Under these circumstances, any US-brokered deal with Russia would amount to American appeasement of Russia and Ukraine’s forced capitulation. Whether this moment resembles a new Munich Agreement or, perhaps more accurately, a new Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, as suggested by an exiled Russian diplomat, Trump’s diplomatic revolution is shattering the principles of the Helsinki Charter and positioning the US as an adversary in the eyes of its own allies.
This seismic shift risks sacrificing Ukraine, emboldening Russia, weakening Europe, strengthening China – and severely damaging the United States itself. For those of us in the University Consortium, this makes Russia-US-Europe dialogues even more challenging than in the past three years—and even more urgently needed.
Donald Trump’s wanton disregard for the truth and cackhanded attempts at deal-making are only increasing uncertainty – and compounding Ukrainians’ suffering – three years on from Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. As the world continues to be shaken by the insecure, violent egos of self-styled strongmen, Pushkin House continues to be a vital space – a venue for defiance, creativity, and self-reflection.
Three years ago, the world we knew was torn apart. Now, it is clear: this war didn’t come from nowhere. It grew from the past – the unspoken history, the old silences and myths, and the patterns that we had failed to break.
As an artist, I have spent years exploring memory, Soviet history, and the forces shaping contemporary Russia. These projects, from Promzona to Hometown, and my latest A Child in Time, examine the legacies of power, repression, and identity that have led us to this catastrophe. The question of who we are – once abstract – has now become painfully urgent. What does it mean to be complicit with the country that unleashed the war?
I grew up in a time of contradictions. Perestroika promised change, but much remained the same. We were taught to fear an enemy we had never seen and to believe our country was both the strongest and yet the most peaceful. Military parades and war films filled our screens, blending with children’s cartoons. Even our first schoolbooks carried messages about duty and loyalty. These ideas did not simply fade into the past; they shaped how generations see the world. To break free from this, we must first see how deep this influence runs.
Now, we stand at the edge of an abyss and we must face it clearly-sightedly: not be consumed by it, but try to understand it. We must not turn away. Only by understanding the past can we hope to break the cycle that brought us here.
Three years is a long time. But war crushes and distorts time, making it unrecognisable. It stretches endlessly and yet vanishes in an instant. A moment – a missile strike, a phone call, a name on a casualty list – can sever time itself, leaving only an absence that no future can fill. People ask how things have changed and what comes next. But war renders such questions hollow. There is no neat progression, no certainty, no arc toward resolution – only the weight of ongoing loss. A wise person might say that time heals – individuals, communities, nations. But these past years have been a painful reminder of time’s impossibility. It does not exist when war continues. This soul-crushing realisation deepens with every passing day of this war.
Vera, a young Ukrainian woman, approached me at a talk I was giving in London about my book, Muppets in Moscow. She was quite emotional as she shared how she had grown up watching Ulitsa Sezam (the original version of Sesame Street, produced in Moscow). The show became a huge hit across the former Soviet Union, including in her hometown, Kyiv. She told me how she had fallen in love with the Slavic Muppet characters, Zeliboba (a tree spirit), Kubik and Businka – wildly creative and original puppet designs developed by our team of over 400 artists from Russia, Ukraine, Georgia and Armenia.
She explained how she escaped Kyiv with her two small children, after the start of the war, and was grateful that the UK provided sanctuary and some assistance. She took my hand and started to cry, telling me how hard it is to live in London without her husband who is on the front line. She spoke about how grateful she was for Ulitsa Sezam as the programme offered joy, laughter and a safe place for children to express themselves freely. “This is something I only dream of for my children.” Letting go of my hand, she added, “I hope one day, Ulitsa Sezam will air again, because that will mean we have freedom.” I hugged Vera and struggled to hold back tears, thinking about my former colleagues and the many people in Ukraine, and in Russia, who fought so hard to create freedom and safety for the next generations.
The only thing I can say, and keep reminding myself, is not to forget that we live in the time of an ongoing war and our thoughts and actions matter.
I really have no words for the bravery and resilience of Ukrainians, who somehow continue to resist the Russian onslaught that was supposed to defeat them in three days. I was frustrated by the Biden administration’s overcautious attitude toward Russia, but Trump’s seeming abandonment of the US commitment to the systems that have more or less kept peace in Europe since 1945 is absolutely shocking. Shocking, because I don’t think US policy on this issue is well-conceived (nor in the best interests of the US) but also thrilling, because diminished US influence over European security might ultimately be better for Europe – and for Ukraine.
I’m not sure it’s possible to have expectations in the current climate, but I do have hope; hope that Europe and the UK will find the willpower to unite in strong support of Ukraine, a country that has defied its former colonial master to stand for Europe and “European values” at such a terrible cost these last three years. Ceding all or part of Ukraine to Russia now would not only betray Ukraine: capitulating to Putin on Ukraine can only end badly for all of Europe, and for the rest of us, too.
For three years, we have been living in a new reality, unfolding in ways we could never have imagined. We never believed a full-scale invasion of Ukraine was possible. And when it began, we couldn’t imagine it would last. One year in, we believed that Navalny would survive his uneven battle. Two years in, we wept at his grave. Three years in, we find ourselves unable to believe the headlines: the United States, once a stronghold of democracy, is allowing its President to trample human rights and push for so-called peace negotiations – without a ceasefire. What’s next?
In 2022, the shock was so overwhelming that, like many of my friends, I couldn’t work for a while. I didn’t know what I could say about art or what purpose it could serve. I was wrong. Art cannot change the world, nor will it ever stop a war. Yet the artists I admire affirm, in the very way they live and create, the values that, if embraced by society, could make war impossible.
It’s become clear that declarations of the Russian enlightened intelligentsia, full of sound and fury about the invasion, signify nothing. Their role has lost its historical, political significance. If we want to change the situation, we should stop philosophising about historical and psychological causes of the conflict and devise, instead, some concrete actions in order to resolve it, everyone in one's own way. The rest is poetry.