"You can't see anything with your metaphorical cataracts.
                                          Your blindness is your bliss."

Random chats with my Russian family over the phone, including Happy Birthday or Happy New Year talks, often detour into political area every time "When will we see you again?" is brought up because the answer is always the same and can't be apolitical. I smoothed it over those three-years-and-counting not to unnerve the relatives, not to hurt our relationships, the choice that many people I know made, while some preferred to stop communicating. At first, the answer to that question began with "when Putin dies"1, then turned into "when the regime falls", then into "when the situation changes", and finally, but not ultimately into proverbial "as soon as I can", with no exact degree of soonness. They would probably be very upset by what I write and publish if they were to read it—the case unlikely. I smooth no angle here in regards of the war and my position, which is the main point of writing all that in the first place.

You'd be surprised but my parents do have a copy of "Deleted Scenes...", my mother asked me to send it to her so they have it at home, despite they can't read English, only, as she said "with Google translate." I can't describe the dialogue we had about all that other than awkward, for I couldn't really say what the book is about other than "Russia," in fact, I don't even remember what I said, I've just made up the answer. I've never asked whether she read it, because I can't imagine a discussion about whether she enjoyed police-torturing-a-random-guy-chapter, but I reckon she hasn't, or maybe she has but hasn't told me about it due to exactly the same indescribable awkwardness, which isn't a lack of words or a difference in beliefs or a lack of a home book club and not even fear, but a shapeless void or quite shapeful wall that has formed and prevents the discussion from happening. The very feeling is odd2—it should feel nice and heartwarming knowing that my mother has my book and wants to read it so much that she has to use an online translator, but it doesn't, not because I often immune to praise of any kind and it's hard to distinguish between polite praise and genuine interest, but because I don't even know what she'd say.

The tragedy of the situation for me isn't in the circumstances, for there're far worse circumstances than mine—I've heard and read about many stories—but in the simple fact it's unsolvable, unexitable, hopeless, I can't just by a whiff of some wand change their minds and make them agree with me, nor can I do the opposite—I can't convert to Putinism, succumb to degenerate Dugin's philosophy, and yell "goida" on the streets3, even if I lobotomise myself. We, my family and I, still have a lot in common and are still a family, and I wouldn't want to break that connection given just by doing so I won't prove anything to anyone, won't stop the war, and won't benefit anyhow, moreso, the opposite is more probable. The only one benefiting from us not talking to each other would be the Russian government, for whom the schism in the society, the shapeless void, the shapeful wall, would mean success, weird and perverted success, but success nevertheless. When the Whole is torn apart, when its parts are pulled in the opposite directions, it is, perhaps, easier to control each part and do with it whatever you want. The less in common we have and the less we can communicate at all about anything but health and weather, the more difficult it becomes to find a solution or to imagine the future at all. The relationship thus doesn't end but erodes into an unrelationship, a waltz around an absent centre.

One could start doubting what is true and perhaps put personal over universal, comfort over Truth, and, perhaps, even switch sides, or ignore the sides and scarper into one's own solipsoid. This is too what the system would like to see—people ignoring the reality, for they can no more discern what is true, insofar they start doubting the entire notion of true, the very existence of it. It becomes strugglesome for an individual to establish a working model of reality if both sides of the said Whole tell you that nothing, or at least a half of the narrative, is true and can't be trusted. No critical thinking would help to figure that out, unless you drown in research and draw conclusions based on "indisputable facts" you yourself, or the others you trust, have witnessed directly. You just have to say that whatever you believe is true forsooth and waver not, which again leads you, with a certain degree of risk, to one of the echo chambers. Even philosophy, the unevenly distributed postmodernism with its post-truth et al, isn't aimed to solve anything but to further amplify the chasm by deconstructing it. Systems4 reach their ultimate form when they start gaining energy from attacks against them. That includes criticism, deconstruction, naming, be it giving something a name or giving a name its opposite. Mayhap, even by saying that "we live in post-truth" society, we condemn ourselves to never finding the Truth, abandoning the search, refusing to accept its absurdity. "Nothing is true" from a pattern becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Thus, the sides of the Whole drift further apart, each of them ensuring themselves that no contact is possible, the void is uncrossable, the wall is impenetrable, "they" would never understand "us"5. The system has become immune to critique, leaving everyone just nodding, acknowledging, expressing concern, of course, agreeing wholeheartedly that things are off as fuck, and yet do nothing, or do only something that reinforces the difference, shapes the shapeless void, if you will, instead of seeking dialogue. Satire thus becomes entertainment, for satire such modern type of satire isn't aimed at those satirised, it's aimed to self-entertain the satirisers. Those satirised won't even see the satire, because it would never appear in their sight, channel, scope, or shall we say, feed. Even if it breaches through somehow, the satirised would just shrug it off like an annoying fly. This is most vivid not in relation to the system, but in relation to its subjects to each other. The system, in fact, might still care of the flows of information, try to censor it, ban or burn the books, exile or imprison voices, and try to ensure the crack in the reality is still there.

I could say me and my parents live in different realities: in mine it's Russia that bombs Ukraine, in theirs it's the other way around, in mine they are fascists for supporting fascists6, in theirs I'm a fascist for supporting fascists. In the end, everyone's a fascist, it's a matter of perspective, thank you very much! I could say they live in a different world, different realm, and, to an extent, they do, geographically it's the case. But reality? It's still the same reality, we do apparently share one. It is, of course, soothing and convenient to dismiss those who disagree with you as the ones who "live in a different reality", so let them think their filthy barbaric thoughts and do whatever. It is, of course, desirable to escape the ugly reality and resort to the beautiful one. As a civilisation, we've been too reckless about such fundamental words as "Reality" and "Truth" and the language about them, both in literal and metaphorical sense. I don't believe that the language shapes reality, no. Nothing shapes reality other than the reality itself, nature, or universe, and us humans, which are all part of the same Whole, but the language certainly shapes its perception, that can be and is manipulated, by others or ourselves, intentionally or not. The two, both reality and its perception, do, in fact, stem from one another, and any wishful thought of their separatedness, or a framework that instils such a worldview, are, if not a self-fulfilling prophecy, a dangerous, foolish, and cowardly path that has to be abandoned.

June 2025

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P.S. Before you go…

I’ve written a few other essays about this and adjacent topics. It includes the essays on truth, freedom, opression, authoritarianism, literature, art, and resilience of the human spirit in the face of oppression, all via personal, cultural, and literary lenses. You can find it all under the brand new “Deleted Scenes” section, as it’s complementary materials for my book “Deleted Scenes from the Bestselling Utopian Novel” that you might’ve already heard about. The epigraph quote for this essay is also from that book.

Even though essays are direct and some would say more accessible, I believe fiction has much greater potential in delivering any message by recreating the experience and immersing you into the setting. If you read fiction and enjoy what I published here, there’s a big chance you’ll enjoy my book, too.

If you’re not convinced, I’ll let readers describe the book… in her review of the book, called it “a transformative experience” for “readers who enjoy poetics, humor, and experimental forms.” described it as “strong and dark like a morning coffee and sudden and unapologetic like a slap in the face.” found it “Haunting and thought-provoking... both beautiful and unsettling.” considered it “Excellent on so many levels.” You can find more reviews on the book’s page or elsewhere on the internet. I’m grateful for all those who’ve read it and spread the word, thank you!

The book is, of course, not perfect, but it’s a deeply personal and important work for me, as well as very timely, I’m very proud of it and hope you’ll find something in it for yourself…

At one point, archetypically or dialectically, there appears a hero, a heretic, a rebel, a knight, a prince from the faraway land who impugns the dragon’s regime and validity of his power and aims to overthrow the creature and free the townspeople to lead them to the better, brighter future, where there’s no dragon, no racket, no sacrificed virgins and everything is tiptop splendorous. The heretic-hero sees the dragon as the main and the only problem and by his logic, when the dragon is gone, the problem is gone. But is it really enough to kill the dragon? What is that precisely which is going to be killed?

In Evgeny Schwartz's play "The Dragon", we find a rather bleak and sore answer. The play is a fairy-tale which you could categorise as literature for children. Like other authors in a similar genre, "a political fairy-tale", Schwartz went to it to potentially escape censorship, for any serious adult political work not directly praising communism would have had a higher likelihood of being censored, banned or even, were its author unlucky enough, become a reason for repression. Many Soviet artists used the medium of children's literature as a hideaway from censorship, hence—my guess—we see so many weird, traumatising, deeply serious, sometimes psychedelic works in seemingly innocent stories and animation made for children. It was easier to interpret the collisions into which the fairy-tale characters fell, and it was easier to interpret them in an innocuous sense and to divert suspicions of anti-government intentions from the authors. It didn't, of course, guarantee safety, nor did it, of course, guarantee a piece of art its existence.

"The Dragon" was censored and didn't make it to stage for many years. The play was written during WWII while Schwartz was in evacuation in Stalinabad, now Dushanbe. The first attempt to perform it happened in Leningrad during the war, then in Moscow in 1944. Despite the play getting a green light after the previews, it was immediately prohibited to show after its first public performance and didn't see stage in USSR for 18 years, until 1962, but even then, after 17 performances, was banned again. Despite that, "The Dragon" was performed in many theatres across Europe, including Poland and Germany. Only during Perestroika did the play return to Soviet stages and was even made into a film.

According to some, Schwartz began writing "The Dragon" as an allusion to Hitler's Germany, but the brief intensification of Russian-German friendship, the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, destroyed any chance of publication or staging. If the dragon at home remained too dangerous to even contemplate, the foreign one had suddenly become an ally and an open theatrical statement ceased to be possible. Though only for a few years. After that, when the war started and the play was completed, it could be unequivocally defended as anti-fascist. Schwartz himself claimed that the dragon's three heads represented Hitler, Goebbels and Ribbentrop. However, the problem and the drama extended beyond the dragon itself and it didn't help.

Ironically, some generalised form of fascism depicted in "The Dragon" was taken rather personally in Soviet Union.

"The Dragon" is a story of a town ruled by a cynical, vile, yet "homely" tyrant for almost four centuries. The dragon archetypically imposed an annual virgin tax on the town. Every year he picks one young woman and takes her to his cave after which nobody sees her. Lancelot, a hero who arrives in the city, is disgusted by the direness of the predicament and with utmost immediacy decides to liberate the city. As he learns from Cat (yes, it's a fairy tale, having a talking cat is a must), people don't just not meow against but smile when it's time to give away their daughters to the dragon. They describe the town as a quiet place where nothing happens, which also shocks Lancelot.

Lancelot: And... what about the dragon?
Charlemagne: Oh, that... But we're so used to him. He's been living here for four hundred years.

The belief that the dragon can't be defeated is so deep that it's beyond contemplation.

Lancelot: Why?
Elsa: Because there's nothing to be done about it.
<...>
Lancelot: Forgive me, just one more question. Has really no one tried to fight him?
Charlemagne: Not in the last two hundred years.

All townspeople, including the taken daughters, are humble about their fate. From the first minutes, the play shows us the evolution of ordinary people who once became hostages of tyranny and now are a part of it.

What makes "The Dragon" unique and timely, both for 1930-1940s, beyond, and for 2020s, is it's not about oppression, violent power, or life in darkness, but about the society in a state of an impregnable panopticon, where no oppression nor violence is required to ensure obedience. The characters of the play—except the dragon himself and his new nemesis Lancelot—are disoriented, intimidated by the mere notion and possibility of terror, and by their denunciations contribute to the tyranny and ultimately take the repression for granted.

Lancelot: So—forgive me for asking again—does no one even try to stand up against the dragon? Has he become completely shameless?
Charlemagne: No, not at all! He's so kind!
Lancelot: Kind?
Charlemagne: I assure you. When our town was threatened by cholera, at the town doctor's request, he breathed his fire onto the lake and boiled it. The whole town drank boiled water and was saved from the epidemic.
Lancelot: When was this?
Charlemagne: Oh, not long ago. Only eighty-two years ago. But good deeds are not forgotten.

For me, it was hard to believe that it was written almost a century ago, given how accurately it depicts the present. You might've guessed what and whom I'm alluding to (obviously so). You needn't be a scholar of politology and sociology to see all the parallels Schwartz draws. Somehow, reduced to archetypes and ofttimes absurd comedy, "The Dragon" is even more relevant to the present time than it is to the past century, as if the play was used as a playbook by modern regimes. That is, however, not a coincidence or a prophecy—like with many similar literary cases aimed to expose societal issues—not even a self-fulfilling prophecy, but just the author's observant and surgically accurate view on those issues.

The dragon's regime in the play ticks all of the boxes of fascism as defined by Umberto Eco: cult of tradition, rejection of modernism, action for action's sake, disagreement is treason, fear of difference, appeal to frustrated middle class, obsession with plot, enemy both strong and weak, pacifism is trafficking with the enemy, contempt for the weak, everyone educated to become a hero (or ironically inverted—educated for submission), machismo, selective populism, newspeak. All of which you'd easily see yourself when reading the play, or probably have seen around you lately.

The regime, of course, has its own enemies of the state:

Charlemagne: They are vagabonds by nature, by blood. They're enemies of any state system—otherwise they would have settled somewhere instead of wandering to and fro. Their songs lack masculinity, and their ideas are destructive. They steal children. They infiltrate everywhere. Now we're completely cleansed of them, but a hundred years ago, any dark-haired person had to prove they had no gypsy blood.
Lancelot: Who told you all this about the gypsies?
Charlemagne: Our dragon. The gypsies brazenly stood up against him in the first years of his rule.
Lancelot: Brave, impatient people.

And later:

Dragon: Are you a descendant of the famous wandering knight Lancelot?
Lancelot: He is my distant relative.
Dragon: I accept your challenge. Wandering knights are just like gypsies. You need to be destroyed.

The dragon, of course, sees himself as superior to the townspeople:

Dragon: <...> You won't find such people anywhere else. My handiwork. I tailored them. <...> You see, my dear fellow, I personally maimed them. Maimed them exactly as required. Human souls, my dear, are very tenacious. Split a body in half—a person will die. But tear a soul apart—it just becomes more obedient, that's all. No, no, you won't find such souls anywhere. Only in my city. Armless souls, legless souls, deaf-mute souls, chained souls, police-dog souls, damned souls. Do you know why the burgomaster pretends to be mentally ill? To hide the fact that he has no soul at all. Hollow souls, corrupt souls, burned-out souls, dead souls. No, no, it's a pity they're invisible.

When Lancelot tries to reveal that to them, in particular Elsa, a girl to be taken next by the dragon, she's terrified to admit it:

Lancelot: The dragon has dislocated your soul, poisoned your blood and clouded your vision. But we shall put all this right.
Elsa: Don't. If what you say about me is true, then I'd better die.

The life they've been living is deemed the only possible right version of life, as townspeople are brainwashed to think, and other life is not possible, even death would be better. They dismiss any uncomfortable thought in such direction as soon as it appears in their heads:

Heinrich: Now tell me the truth...
Burgomaster: Oh come now, my little son, what's all this about truth, truth... I'm not some common townsman, I'm the burgomaster. I haven't told myself the truth for so many years that I've forgotten what it even looks like, this truth. It makes me sick, throws me back. You know what truth smells like, the cursed thing? Enough, son. Glory to the dragon! Glory to the dragon! Glory to the dragon!

All that's left for their poisoned souls is to chant "Glory to the dragon!", for it's the mantra that keeps their reality intact. Apart from Lancelot, only children, with yet innocent and unspoiled minds, dare to question the dragon's power:

Boy: Mummy, who's making the dragon run away across the whole sky?
All: Shhh!
1st Townsman: He's not running away, boy, he's manoeuvring.
Boy: Then why has he tucked his tail in?
All: Shhh!
1st Townsman: The tail is tucked in according to a pre-planned strategy, boy.
<...>
Boy (pointing at the sky): Mummy, mummy! He's turned upside down. Someone's hitting him so hard that sparks are flying!
All: Shhh!
Boy: Mummy, why is it harmful to watch him being beaten?
All: Shhh!
<...>
Heinrich: Listen to the communiqué from the city's self-government. The exhausted Lancelot has lost everything and has been partially taken prisoner.
Boy: What do you mean, partially?
Heinrich: Just that. It's a military secret. His remaining parts continue to resist in a disorderly fashion. Incidentally, the honourable dragon has discharged one of his heads from military service due to illness, with its transfer to the first-tier reserve.

The little boy appears as a voice of reason, but he's too powerless to oppose the adults. As he says to Lancelot: "I would stand up for you, but mother is holding my hands."

Despite the townspeople's attempt to weaken Lancelot, provide him with faulty equipment, and hide the details of the battle, the dragon is defeated. At the same time, Lancelot disappears, curtains fall and we're welcomed to Act 3 to witness consequences of the regime’s fall only to realise that few things have changed.

The townspeople "elect" a new leader, a president, through a sham election, a parody of a democratic process. The Burgomaster simply steps into the power vacuum, using the same methods of control as the dragon did. We see the same process unfolding for years in authoritarian regimes—either direct descendants take the "throne" or others become dragons themselves.

Burgomaster: What's happening in the city?
Jailer: Quiet. Though they're writing.
Burgomaster: What?
Jailer: Letter 'L' on the walls. That stands for Lancelot.
Burgomaster: Nonsense. The letter 'L' stands for 'Love for the President.'
Jailer: Ah. So we shouldn't arrest those who write it?
Burgomaster: No, why not? Arrest them. What else are they writing?
Jailer: Shameful to say. 'The President is a beast.' 'His son is a crook...' The President (chuckling in a bass voice)... I dare not repeat how they put it. However, mostly they're writing the letter 'L'.

The new president doesn't just preserve a power structure, but legitimises it with various bureaucratic forms, and moreover, keeps "the virgin tax", forcing Elsa to marry his son Heinrich, which prompts her poignant monologue:

Elsa: My friends, my friends! Why are you killing me? It's frightening, like in a dream. When a robber raises his knife above you, you can still escape. The robber will be killed, or you'll slip away from him... But what if the robber's knife suddenly lunges at you by itself? And if his rope crawls towards you like a snake to bind your hands and feet? If even the curtain from his window, that quiet little curtain, suddenly also lunges at you to gag your mouth? What would you all say then? I thought you were all just obedient to the dragon, as a knife is obedient to a robber. But you, my friends, it turns out you are robbers too! I don't blame you, you don't notice it yourselves, but I beg you—come to your senses! Could it be that the dragon didn't die, but, as often happened with him, turned into a human? Only this time he transformed into many people, and now they are killing me. Don't kill me! Wake up! My God, such anguish... Tear apart the spider's web in which you're all entangled. Will really no one stand up for me?

The dragon, an individual dictator, remains in history as a mere embodiment, a conduit of psychological structures of oppression that he built over the first years or decades in power. Those structures won't just go away in a snap of fingers, snap of someone's neck in a rope or under the weight of guillotine. "The Dragon" illustrates that phenomenon. The authoritarian system doesn't fall in a moment, the world doesn't pivot and strive headlong to the bright future, no, the system keeps living in people's minds. In the present historical context, this idea terrifies more than anything. When will it end? Will it ever end?

One of the stupidest and most cynical sayings in the history of political thought is that "every country has the government it deserves". It's simply a wrong and oversimplified view of extremely complex social and political dynamics and, well, victim-blaming on a national scale. But it also ignores the cause and effect. In the dragon example, the egregore of fascism lives on virally as an autonomous entity arising from the collective consciousness (and conscience) after it has been implanted there by years of violent threats, oppression, propaganda, and brainwashing. It shapes the populace's minds to fit the image of the draconian leader by justifying his existence. Thus the most dangerous damage done by the dragon is one done to the minds.

There are, in fact, two battles and two dragons: one who sits on the throne, ofttimes wobbly; and one who like a weed sits in people's minds. Once the first battle is won, the second battle begins.

Should we ignore it, we will let the dragon live in the dungeons of mind manifold for years to find a chance to manifest himself anew.

Lancelot: "The work ahead is meticulous. Worse than embroidery. In each of them, we'll have to kill the dragon. <...> I love all of you, my friends. Otherwise, why would I bother with you? And if I do love you, then everything will be lovely. And after long troubles and torments, we'll all be happy, finally very happy!"

Curtains.

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Thank you for your time! My recent book “Deleted Scenes from the Bestselling Utopian Novel” also explores the psychological toll of tyranny, how ordinary people try to survive in the opressive world (or ignore it). It is my best and most personal work to date.

"Deleted Scenes" is a surreal, experimental dystopian narrative set in the remote, snow-covered island of Novo Tsarstvo, uncanny reflection of contemporary Russia. Through a mosaic of perspectives, the author explores the lives of ordinary people struggling under a totalitarian regime where reality blends with nightmares. The novel combines psychological horror with dark humour to examine themes of truth, violence, and freedom, while showcasing the resilience of the human spirit in the face of oppression.

Should you be interested, the book is available worldwide as softcover, hardcover, or ebook at all major retailers, including Amazon, Blackwell (discounted price!), Waterstones (UK), Foyles (UK), Barnes & Noble (US), Hugendubel (DE), Kobo (ebook).

If you want to read the book but have any trouble getting hold of a copy, including financial, please reach out to me. I'll do my best to help!

To get a taste of the book, you can read one of the stories, "Dream", for free in the Soaring Twenties magazine.

Soaring Twenties

Dream

Vanya Bagaev is the standard. The benchmark. Endlessly creative, prolific (in a second language no less), uncompromising in his art, helpful, supportive, reliable. An absolutely indispensable part of the STSC group and someone who has fast become one of my favourite contemporary fiction writers, irrespective of our personal connection…

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2 years ago · 13 likes · 4 comments · Vanya Bagaev

—Were aliens to come, what would we show them?

—What else! A book!

—Don't they have their own alien books?

—They do perchance, perchance they don't, but if they did, they wouldn't be flying about cosmos, they'd be sitting, absorbed in reading, basking in wisdom.

—Or in foolishness.

—Well, those are inseparable! Everyone talks about the philosopher-king, when the true king is always the jester.

And therefore the question is not even whether to write or not to write, for the author embodies her essence only in the moments of composing text, if only in her head, whatever you might say or think. Authorship is an ephemeral state, akin happiness. A person is happy only when she is happying, and no other way, and an author is an author only in the moments of authoring, and at all other times she is someone else.

—Shall we write?

—We shall!

—But what shall we write about, my dear friend?

—About this and that, et cetera, et merda. So that the reader would fear to lift his eyes! So that the human core within him would tremble as if in a ten-magnitude quake! So that understanding would balance somewhere in between, for both absolutely full and absolutely empty cognitions are equally boring! We must torment the reader! Torment, but care for him! For those are inseparable!

—Well, you've gone too far with that, my dear friend.

Sometimes it happens that an author's hands itch to scribble something on a topical issue, to sit down and spatter the screen with bile. Of the deceased—speak well or not at all, of the present time—the opposite. People seldom write good reviews about life, because when things are good, there's no time to write, and when things are bad—please, we'll give you such a screed now, your eyes will glaze over reading it, your heart will thump so, you'll be so imbued with this problem that everyone will immediately feel better. One shouldn't suffer alone! Let's sit down, gather our wits, discuss what's wrong with our world, and what's wrong with it is pretty much everything, so we won't run out of topics, will we? Whatever you an author says, it'll come out as satire, and when everything around is satire, there's no point in satirising. The author needn't even to choose words, just sit and describe the surrounding reality, document it. There's a bubbling of shit and rotting of brains, war, epidemic, right versus left (rarely they think of the vertical, fools). Dystopian writers are out of work, they have nothing to write about, nothing more inventively decadent can be devised—they themselves are as if in a writer's dystopia.

—Pardon? The grass wasn't greener, it wasn't even growing at that time. What a nonsense.

—But the memes, the memes were funnier, weren't they?

—The memes, indeed.

—Now everything's somehow different.

—Wholly different.

—It wasn't like this before.

—Definitely not like this.

—Was it ever like that?

—Or thusly?

—And it wasn't thusly either.

—Was there aught at all?

—The past ought be banned. So that no one thinks about how good it was then, but thinks about how good it is right now.

—Then let's—bam—ban the future too. We'll live in the present, as they say.

—Oh, spare me, my dear friend, anywhere but in the present.

—You don't understand naught, pah on you.

—And pah on you, too.

They stood, pahed at each other, and parted ways. Oof... as they say, what a chat! The sun fled beyond the horizon, leaving behind only drowsiness, cool air, and empty bottles on the table. At night, a cat will jump on the table, take interest in the transparent objects, swish its tail and sow the kitchen floor with broken glass. You'll want some water with your hangover. Barely blinking you'll go for a glass, and cut up all your feet. There they are—the consequences of alcoholism and arguments about the nature of time.

Sometimes it happens differently, when it's not your hands that itch to type something scurrilous, caustic, cynical, and not your tongue that wants to curse the unsatisfying reality of simple, measured life, to expose its incompetence in meeting our needs, but it's your soul that aches, suffers because the world is bleeding with tragedy, catastrophy, fiasco. You empathise it, in a word. It's been traumatised by another maniac with a God complex, and now he stands looking at the open wound, which will take half a century or more to heal, and the scar from which will gape there until the terminus of our slapdash civilisation. The past, they say, ends where the understanding of the reasons for one's own actions begins, and everything else beyond is a myth. You want to sneak up behind this maniac while he's looking at the product of his sociopathic sins, kick him in the arse with all the might of a little man, so that he would fall into the wound, and there the historical leukocytes would pounce on him and devour him traceless, the blood would clot, the wound would close up. Gradually, the epithelium would cover the gaping defect, and remodeling would lead to the formation of a solid scar—it no longer bleeds, but it still hurts.

—While it hurts, don't touch it, don't disturb it, don't expose it to direct sunlight, regularly apply protective creams.

—But when can we, doctor? When can we?

—Be patient, my dear friend. There's no rush. It's better not to talk about the tragedy at all for now.

—But how? Why has it happen?

—Just because. At least for the sake of art.

—All the victims, suffering, struggle... "for the sake of art"?

—Everything in its own time. Now—for the sake of art, and you'll deal with the rest later. You have to forgive the tragedy before you justify it. At least it created art.

—I protest.

—You are free to protest, just don't forget the cream.

Later, the descendants will gather and, as a generation, will build a temple or a museum on this wound, or perhaps a temple-museum, a monument, a memorial, a place of endurance and grief, and those among them who possess a more delicate and sensitive nature will turn it into art. Poets will compose sad verses, artists will paint dark pictures, writers will print sharp social novels, cinematographers will shoot life-affirming films, playwrights will write aware-winning plays in one, two, or even three acts. And so, until the final curtain falls, in the tension of the surrounding atmosphere and tired muscles, Tragedy will stand in front of the audience, in full regalia, and to the sounds of ovations, accepting flowers, smile, bow, and drip tears onto the stage.

Thank you for reading.

May I interest you in my book "Deleted Scenes from the Bestselling Utopian Novel"? It is set in a surreal dystopian world of Novo Tsarstvo, a twisted sibling of contemporary Russia. The book combines psychological horror with dark absurd humour to reflect on the ongoing tragedy and examine themes of truth, violence, freedom, and the resilience of the human spirit in the face of oppression.

The book is available worldwide as softcover, hardcover, or ebook at all major retailers, including Amazon, Waterstones (UK), Foyles (UK), Barnes & Noble (US), Hugendubel (DE), Kobo (ebook).

To taste what it’s like, you can read one of the stories from the book, Dream, for free on my website.

I've never properly pondered what it would be like, what it would mean for me and cost me to write and publish an anti-war, anti-totalitarian, blatantly anti-government, book if I were still in Russia. The truth is, I would likely not do it at all. I feel somewhat privileged and even lucky, but not in a sense of bold achievement or good fortune akin winning a lottery, but in a sense of holding in a special position, wherein "special" means that the position provides relative safety and an opportunity to speak against the regime without fear of prosecution. After all, I'm in the UK, far away from that regime, Russian police won't knock on my door in the morning, won't put me in prison, won't torture me and won't send me to fight in their war. They won't even read this or any anti-state statement I've put online over the past, almost three years, including my book. I'm a little man to them, though it wouldn't, as we well know, stop them from ruining my life for some words put online or in print. To wield an opportunity to speak and to exert it comes as a personal moral duty, even though it's fortified not by bravery but by recklessness in my case. I still have family in Russia and although they are safe, I sometimes feel my actions could somehow have consequences for them. In essence, it's irrational, but that's what the terrorist regime wants—to instil terror in you.

I don't feel that fear often, so I consider myself rather reckless than brave, for bravery, in my language game at least, involves courage to overcome that fear. Perhaps I don't ponder the potential and theoretical legal consequences of my actions, for I feel safe, geographically at least, to act. I did small things, not as much as I could of course—many people whom I know personally do way more than I do and I respect and acknowledge that—but still I joined protests, donated to good causes in early days, published 'illegal' statements online, etc. because I wasn't in Russia and that wasn't a dangerous thing to do. Again, being there, I would probably choose safety and I'm fine to admit it. I don't want to judge anyone who made the same decision, for it's a personal choice. "Martyrdom" is not a wholesale good and not a default behaviour you should expect from a normal person. Nobody wants to go to fucking gulag.

Once upon a time, which was a few days ago, in a land far, far away, which was in London, England, that sense of unfair and lucky position sprang again in my brain with quite surreal aftereffects. My dear wife and I held a stall at the Anarchist book fair with my book "Deleted Scenes from the Bestselling Utopian Novel". For a good half a day we had to talk of Russian propaganda, totalitarianism, and police violence to complete strangers and why they must buy the book (of course they must). That said, we managed to sell some copies and even to stock a few in a real bookshop (more on that some time later), which I consider a great success. See, the whole book situation is still surreal to me but that event propelled it to a new level due to the sheer impossibility of such an event were we in Russia. "Huh," I asked my wife, "how many years in prison would I get?" This is an ironic question that many probably ask themselves, though some already have sentences waiting for them when they come back. Today, I want to attempt to answer that question for myself and analyse the book for "legality" in my homeland were it miraculously published there in Russian.

I don’t want to come as self-important and exaggerate qualities of my work by saying that “it would be illegal and banned in Russia, therefore you should buy it!” I consider it’s rather vulgar and tasteless to speak about such things in the subjunctive mood—using “ifs” and “maybes” and “woulds”, because it doesn’t add any points to it, not for me. Well, of course it “would” be illegal, and I must admit sometimes there appears a weird feeling as “if” I’ve done something truly contrarian and non-conformist that gives me confidence, a feeling of claiming agency and power, of making a statement, in a way, but I’m not officially a dissident, not an “extremist”, not a “foreign agent”, as Russian government could kindly mark me as, and there’s not much at stake for me. For a little man in a faraway place, the risk is only hypothetical, but that is exactly the point I want to make by writing this. My goal is to once again remind of the cost of losing one’s freedom of speech and to create more awareness that even for a little man or woman out there, however absurd it should be in the XXI century, there still exists a real risk of prison, torture, and even death, for speaking out, even in a satirical, fictional way, sometimes even if you write “stop the war” covering all letters with asterisks.

After the war, and even before it started, the government introduced a range of repressive laws aimed at smothering dissent of any kind [1, 2, 3, …]. The chilling reality is that these laws are vague and can be interpreted and used widely against not only opposition leaders but ordinary people, too. Thus, people of all degrees of political involvement are arrested and imprisoned for public statements, "likes", and even private conversations. OVD-info, an organisation that monitors and advocates for human rights in Russia and aims to help political prisoners, has many articles and statistics about thousands of such cases; I can't possibly list all of them here, even though I want to.

Publishing my book in Russia would potentially violate numerous laws; again, I doubt I can list all of them, so I'll do that for the most "popular" ones, those that often become reasons for arrest.

The book's premise itself could be considered as "spreading 'fake news' about the Russian military". The fictional war between Novo Tsarstvo and Slobodna Zembla, mirroring the Russian invasion of Ukraine, and the satirical depiction of Novo Tsarstvo's "peacekeeping operation" directly contradict the Kremlin's official narrative. Article 207.3 of the Criminal Code criminalises the public dissemination of deliberately false information about the use of the Russian armed forces. Calling the war a "war" and talking about Russian war crimes can count as spreading misinformation and could lead to up to 15 years in prison and a fine of 5 million rubles.

Similar to that, negative portrayal of Novo Tsarsto’s military and its actions, including the depiction of soldiers committing atrocities, challenges the image of Russian military as “a heroic force”, which, according to Article 280.3, is counted as “discreditation” of the Russian armed forces and may result in fines, forced labour, or imprisonment for up to 5 years. As the law’s definition is broad enough, any anti-war sentiment could be considered “discrediting”.

The book dehumanises and insults law enforcement by portraying the police and military as pig-headed demons, has scenes of violence commited by the police and against them by the protagonist. Article 319 criminalises public insult of a representative of authority while carrying out their “official duties” (it may also include torture, apparently), and may lead to fines or correctional labour for up to 1 year. The satirical portrayal of the Tsar (guess who that is), as a tyrannical and power-hungry leader, can easily be constructed as an insult and disrespect for the authorities as well.

The combination of the book’s themes — the criticism of the war, the portrayal of the Novo Tsarstvo regime as dystopian, the dehumanisation of police, the depiction of violence against a law enforcement officer — creates “a highly charged and potentially inflammatory message” and can be considered as “extremism”. Such as, Article 282 of the Criminal Code, has a broad definition of it, encompassing actions aimed at inciting hatred or hostility, as well as violence. Due to the article’s vagueness, anything can be considered as “extremism”, any online posts included—that’s how this article has become one of the most commonly applied methods of silencing dissent. It is punished by the penalty, or compulsory labour up to 5 years with deprivation of the right to hold the certain posts or to engage in the certain activities for the term up to 3 years, or imprisonment for the term from 3 up to 6 years.

The book's critical stance and me having “foreign connections” could lead to my designation as a "foreign agent". This also imposes stringent legal limitations and obligations, including mandatory registration and reporting of activities, along with severe penalties for non-compliance, such as fines or imprisonment.

The list might be incomplete, but I want to stop here—I already feel like I'm doing someone else's job (вечер в хату, товарищ майор!). It's difficult to predict the exact consequences that I would face, given the wide latitude in how the authorities interpret and apply the laws. Given the overlapping nature of the charges, I could be labelled as a criminal and an enemy of the state, or arrested, or imprisoned, or have my property confiscated (only if I had any), but in any case, my life would be "altered", to put it mildly.

Nevertheless, these laws are used not only to punish specific actions but also to discourage any form of criticism or dissent. They demonstrate a selective manipulation of the legal system and are designed to protect the state rather than ensure justice, especially when it comes to the war in Ukraine. Being in Russia is a real risk for anyone, whether you're low-profile or high-profile, especially for men when it comes to mobilisation, and this risk, however small it might often seem, is always asymmetrical.

Having my book published and writing this post obviously doesn’t reduce it. In no way it makes me better than anyone else—that’s not and shouldn’t be the point of writing such a book. I have few opportunities to affect the downward-spiralling tragedy, but speak about it publicly, whether it’s non-fiction or fiction, is one of them that I don’t want to lose. It’s the least I can do, at least for myself, at least now.

Mikhail Shishkin, a contemporary Russian novelist, is an active opponent of Putin’s regime. In his essays, published in leading global media outlets (WSJ, The Guardian, Le Monde, and others), he elucidates Russia and its aggression against Ukraine to the Western reader through the prism of the country's history and his own family's story. You can read his “letter to an unknown Ukrainian” or interview with him in English, or his essay or his interview about silence in Russian. He left the country in 1995 and has been living in Switzerland since then. Back in 2004, in his interview about writing in emigration he said:

"Russian literature is not merely a form of language's existence, but a means for non-totalitarian consciousness to persist in Russia. It has wedged itself into the fissure between a bark of command and a groan of suffering. Its language is a defence, an islet of words upon which human dignity must be preserved. This is my struggle, my war."

I love this quote; it’s incredibly comforting and inspiring at the same time. Despite all that I've published so far being in English, I consider myself a Russian writer, at least partially, and I hope my work and my book are that spark of non-totalitarian consciousness which can elucidate some portion of truth to you, my dear reader.

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Thank you for your time! “Deleted Scenes” is my best and most personal work to date. Although I originally started it as a sublimation, its true purpose manifests only when someone reads it.

Should you be interested, the book is available worldwide as softcover, hardcover, or ebook at all major retailers, including Amazon, Waterstones (UK), Foyles (UK), Barnes & Noble (US), Hugendubel (DE), Kobo (ebook).

If you want to read the book but have any trouble getting hold of a copy, including financial, please reach out to me. I'll do my best to help!

To get a taste of the book, you can read one of the stories, "Dream", for free on my website.

Here’s a recent review by to pique more interest:

Haunting and thought-provoking

Bagaev’s “Deleted Scenes from the Bestselling Utopian Novel” is a haunting and thought-provoking collection of interconnected stories that explore the dark underbelly of a supposedly perfect society. With vivid prose and surreal imagery, the author crafts a chilling portrayal of life under an oppressive regime. Each vignette offers a unique perspective on themes of freedom, identity, and the human spirit’s resilience in the face of tyranny. Bagaev’s writing is both beautiful and unsettling, drawing readers into a world that feels eerily familiar yet disturbingly alien. This book will linger in your mind long after you’ve turned the final page, challenging your perceptions of utopia and the cost of societal perfection.

Darya Serenko, an activist who, along with the Feminist Anti-War Resistance, was collecting and analysing those dreams, described the reasoning behind the project:

"I would divide all dreams into two categories: dreams about experiencing horror and dreams about the impossible. In the first category, exaggerated anxiety, absurdity, and horror from the ongoing reality are reproduced. In the second, people feel political will and participation, political agency that they don't have in reality. In dreams of the second category, people dream of Putin's assassination, retribution, personal communications with the president: people humiliate him, tell him everything they think, or participate in his trial. These are dreams in which the isolated, all-powerful Putin from the bunker turns into who he really is - an aging man who has driven himself and the entire country into a corner. I don't know how those who will read our dreams years later as anthropological material will react to them. But I see that these dreams are sometimes a more accurate description of the era than all political and sociological measurements of public opinion.

I don’t recall having Putin dreams myself, or any similar dreams for that matter, and I rarely remember what I see at night, but I’m a daydreamer and a writer, moreover a writer who loves employing surreal and dreamlike sequences in his work2, whether they are symbolic or absurd. I always have visions, imaginary situations and scenarios inspired by the real events that can suddenly morph into a story, and sometimes I cannot help but to write them down. This is how it works, anyhow, a blessing and a curse, an internal urge to turn everything into a story.

Thus, after the war started, the events witnessed in the news or heard from the people affected by them, as well as consequences of those events, invaded my visions and have been fermenting there since. Even when it wasn’t one, it felt like a dream, sometimes surreal and absurd, sometimes horrid and often unbelievable, one that’s hard to make sense of, one that haunts you everywhere even if you’re not there physically. Thence my visions and my writing became darker, more emotionally or politically charged, direct reflections of the zeitgeist or its image in the funhouse mirror of the subconscious. A few years3 later, they became a book, “Deleted Scenes from the Bestselling Utopian Novel”.

For a while, especially closer to publishing, I had an internal struggle whether I should name my book “Deleted Scenes…” or “Adaptations of Lurid Dreams”. Both fit well for the contents and perhaps I will choose some interpreted version of the latter for Russian edition if I ever translate it, for the former sounds too clumsy in my native language. I don’t see this as an issue; some novels and films change their titles considerably when translated (though, not always for the best). Despite “Deleted Scenes…” is now an official title, I used “Adaptations…” in the book description, so both of them stay with the story.

A “lurid dream” is a recurring motif in the book, especially in the first part of it, a central novella. Whenever the protagonist sees a dream or a nightmare or recalls one, the description of it almost always starts with “A lurid dream there was…” or mentions “a lurid dream”.

The book starts this way, too:

Every snowflake that settles on the frozen city carries the weight of silent dissent. Buried under the drifts, we gather our strength, stretch out our hands and soar. It is but a lurid dream, we know, for that is the only time when we can fly. Our wings draped in snow, we, a lonely androgynous angel, sweep over the age-bleached streets, peering into the windows of grey houses where corpses try to tune into Channel One. The screens show nothing but static that taunts them and, lost and distressed, the corpses smash their black boxes, bend the aerials, twist the knobs, yet nothing happens, nothing — the static does not disappear and they give up. They approach the window, and the first thing they see is an angel with wings blinding white. Oh, they envy us, they envy our graceful flight, frown, and grind their teeth, while we, angelically apathetic, dismiss their existence. Eyes closed, we whirl round the towering buildings as the corpses boil oil on their foil-covered rusty kitchen hobs, and the moment we pass by their windows, all together they douse us with the bubbling liquid. The oil sizzles and splashes, our white wings disintegrate, the skin on our face peels away to expose the bare flesh beneath, we scream and

At that point, this dream end abruptly, just like dreams often do when you wake up, without a logical resolution. The phrase appears in the book eleven times and the word “dream” alone more than thirty times, not even mentioning that there’s a story titled with it there. The book is full of dreams and many of the stories, vignettes and random scenes can be considered dreams, too. They can flash out of nowhere and flash back in an instant scarring the narrative or leaving no trace.

I noticed that the book was one big dreamlike sequence only during editing and decided to emphasise it further.

“Not sure we want to tell any of these stories. Not sure we want to tell any story at all. It's better to tell something absurd, create a literary cage, the content of which cannot exist under any possible conditions anywhere and nowhere. Some stories must not see reality, for they may emerge into it, merge with it and make it far worse than it already is."

— from the protagonist’s inner monologue.

This artistic decision, however, was not intentional but intuitive, subconscious, if you will. It emerged naturally during writing and was a trope that seemed appropriate and comfortable to use to tell the story I wanted to tell. The events in the book never happened to me, but they either happened or could happen to someone in life, surely could’ve been someone’s dream, and certainly were my daydreams.

Dreams, even nightmares, provide a safe space where they are caged isolated and cannot escape as long as we know they are dreams or as soon as we realise that. I wanted to create an experience and talk about the real events but do it in an environment I had full control over, and the dreams are a perfect device for that. I can pump up the grotesque, I can turn metaphorical demons and pigs into literal demons and pigs, I can warp the reality in a hyperbolic way, I can transform a real nightmare into a surreal nightmare that, despite being terrifyingly close to reality, still remains fantasy. Thus dreams, even the most lurid, become controlled environments where subjects can be dissected, studied, and understood. From that safe distance, I could look at the reality, share and discuss it with others and with you.

Perhaps it's just one of the ways of digesting the present, chanelling your experiences, emotions and worries, giving them some form to finally stop thinking them. As Darya Serenko described it in her interview:

In my childhood, we had a belief in our family - a nightmare should be told aloud so that it doesn't come true, so that you don't remain alone with it in sticky horror. This way, you can distance yourself from it and laugh at everything that happens with our reality - at the state, the government, and the security forces.

This, for me, encapsulates the gist of it; the nightmare must be told aloud, for ofttimes it’s the only thing you can do to fight it.

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Thank you for reading.

If you're intrigued by this exploration of dreams, reality, and political surrealism, I invite you to delve deeper into "Deleted Scenes from the Bestselling Utopian Novel."

The book is available worldwide as softcover, hardcover, or ebook at all major retailers, including Amazon, Waterstones (UK), Foyles (UK), Barnes & Noble (US), Hugendubel (DE), Kobo (ebook).

To taste what it’s like, you can read one of the stories from the book, Dream, for free on my website.

If (or when) you have read the book, consider rating it and leaving a review.

Some of the early reviews from the readers:

"A really good book from very talented Vanya Bagaev. It's strong and dark like a morning coffee and sudden and unapologetic like a slap in the face. Grab it while it’s hot." 5/5 — on Goodreads.

“Excellent on so many levels.” — on Substack.

“The world Vanya's characters inhabit is grim, grotesque but incredibly believable. The real tragedy of the aptly named Utopia is that it is, in fact, real for so many people.” —

“I’ve read it three times. It can give you a panic attack.” — my dear wife.

I’m pleased to announced that my new book "Deleted Scenes from the Bestselling Utopian Novel" is officially launched!

“Deleted Scenes” a surreal dystopian narrative set in the remote northern island of Novo Tsarstvo. Through a mosaic of perspectives, the author explores the lives of ordinary people struggling under a totalitarian regime. The novel combines psychological horror with dark absurd humour to examine themes of truth, violence, freedom, and the resilience of the human spirit in the face of oppression.

Read full description.

Buy: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Waterstones | eBook | other places
Rate and review: Goodreads

This is how 3.9kg of literature (and more later) look like:

The aforementioned further ado:

It’s been two years since I drafted the first words for this book. At first I thought it would be a rather more traditional character-based novel with a coherent plot that I even outlined multiple times but none of that worked out. Perhaps I’m not able to write a rather more traditional character-based novel with a coherent plot, perhaps it wasn’t the story I really wanted to tell or the real events alluded in the book haven’t yet concluded hence it was too early for that kind of novel, who knows.

I cut a significant portion of that coherence from the copious early drafts, completely deleted scenes that didn’t satisfy me, stashed some that had potential. That envisioned novel was condensed into a shorter, more impactful novella about propaganda, oppression, violence, and the cost of conformism—the part one of the book, and some of the deleted scenes turned into interconnected stories—the part two of the book.

A single protagonist became many: the disillusioned, the resistance, and those caught in between as they navigate the totalitarian landscape and try to stay human in a dehumanising environment. Through their struggles, I wanted to explore the nature of truth, violence, and freedom, whilst showing the enduring capacity of the human spirit and childlike imagination in the face of oppression, as many characters of the book happed to be children.

Real unsettling scenarios became surreal, grotesque situations were elevated to absurdity, paving a way to dark humour, gut-wrenching psychological horror, and poignant revelations at some points. There we have the senile Tsar who rules with lies, an evil professor who turns people into pig-faced demons, snow angels that have become acts of rebellion, black cats that are outlawed, television in human form (considered the best character by my wife) who knocks on your door in the morning, and many other peculiar characters, including already famous Fluffislav the Fearsome.

And yet, the book still has an overarching narrative, a mosaic of perspectives. It’s expressed through common themes—dystopian, anti-totalitarian, anti-war; common universe—remote northern island of Novo Tsarstvo, twisted twin sibling of contemporary Russia after the invasion of Ukraine (and in many other time periods, honestly); common images, tropes, symbols, subtle self-referential elements, and, most importantly, the order of the stories. I orchestrated them carefully to create that sense of what people deem “coherence” and tell the story that unfolds behind the deleted scenes. Each of the them, be it a standalone story, a little embedded vignette, a randomly appearing dreams or nightmares haunting the characters, are aimed to explore the psychological toll of tyranny, the effect of it on people, and ways of resisting it.

The main concept is, in the northern island of Novo Tsarstvo, a government-pronounced utopia, existed a well-known bestselling novel. Some scenes, however, did not comply to the utopian standards and were deleted and presented as a report to the chief censor. Thus, as you might rightfully reckon, both “deleted scenes” and “bestselling utopian novel” have double meaning and a double dose of irony behind it: inside the book and beyond it.

This is a deeply personal work for me, despite only parts of it mirror and encode my own experience, and it’s not even written in Russian (though some of the drafts were, as I usually do). It’s an adaptation of lurid dreams, personal anxieties and worries, and, to be completely honest, an attempt to rationalise the horror happening in the world, to cope, and to channel somewhere all the accumulated anger and hate towards the Russian state and its deeds, while still trying to preserve hope for the future change (as the last few chapters hint).

Some of you might’ve read the deleted scenes separately when I published them on my website and in my newsletter during the past year, most of you will read them for the first time. This book presents a polished, slightly extended, and rearranged version of pervious works. I’ve put a lot of effort, emotions, and nerves, to create something unique, something that would stay for you for more than a few evenings, and make you think, laugh (often nervously), or maybe cry, to give you a chance to experience something that you, thankfully, have never experienced; to create images, characters, and scenes, be it deleted or not, that you will never forget, and, judging by the feedback from my friends and early readers, I believe I succeeded.

So… Have I interested in reading it? If yes, then grab your copy!

If you want to get a “taste” of the book, I offer you one of the stories to read for free on my website—“Dream”, a story about a sniper who dreams of assassinating the dictator.

Physical editions

The book is available in three formats:

• Softcover (ISBN: 978-1-0687677-0-8)

• Hardcover (ISBN: 978-1-0687677-2-2),

• and ebook.

It is available for online purchase in many places around the world from the most popular retailers. Try searching it with ISBN or title in one of your favourite bookshops or even search engines.

Some places to order your physical copy:

Amazon (Universal link)

Barnes & Noble (US)

Waterstones (US)

Foyles (UK)

Hugendubel (DE)

If you want to buy it but experience issues with finding or ordering it in your country, you can always write me to vanya [at] nova-nevedoma [dot] com or DM me, and I’ll sort it out for you!

Any other inquiries are welcome, too.

Digital editions

For ebook, there are two options so far (more coming later):

Buy epub and pdf in my store

Or become my literary patron for $5/mo or $50/y and download your copy as well as my previous (and future) digital books from the Patron Library at Nova-Nevedoma.com.

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Rate and write a review!

Regardless of where you buy my book, please, please, please rate the book and write a review after you finish it.

Rate and Review on Goodreads

I would immediately send the most radiant beams of appreciation towards you!

And of course, share this book with your friends, family, followers, and everyone, really. The world must know! I want more people to read it.

On this note, I scarper and will be back soon with more exciting news. In the upcoming months I’ll be talking more about this book and the process and events surrounding it.

Beams of appreciation,

Vanya

Thank you very much everyone who was involved in making this book real and whoever helped me and supported me on my journey. LOVE YOU!

Also, special thanks to Jeanne and Andrew for the lovely drumroll at the beginning!

A few days ago, my mother and I had another argument about Russia's invasion of Ukraine. For her, I was once again “a traitor”, although this time she didn't say it outright, just one of those young people whose minds had been warped by the West. For me, she was once again someone who supports the regime's actions, whether she consciously chose that stance or not, one of those people whose minds had been warped by Putin, yet each of us believed ourself to be right. As usual, she put forward arguments formulated in the same way they're articulated in the pro-government media, while I, as usual, tried to prove that killing people on the territory of another country is wrong and must be stopped. My verbal rhetorical skills are nothing, and in such situations, I tend to act more emotionally than rationally, so the dispute ultimately ends up right back where it started—we change the subject. It's still better than not talking at all, but each time there's a palpable tension between us, like an invisible wall of disappointment, a pain born of irreversibility and a longing for that "before" when I didn't have to think about such things.

My position is not unique; on contrary, it's quite common. It could be worse, as I know a fair number of people who have completely fallen out with their relatives and no longer speak to them, but there are still more who continue to keep in touch and absurdly change the topic from war to weather, from bombings to how marvellous the peonies are blooming this year. It's a mental civil war that no one wants, but at the same time, it's impossible to completely rid oneself of it. "You are so very wrong, to the point that the future realisation of this may be excruciating for you, but I still love you, and hearing your voice and knowing that you're doing quite well is more important to me than arguing with you, even about issues that seem existential—at least you're not being bombed."

If we abstract a bit, this personal situation easily translates to the entire country—Mother Russia and her dissenting sons and daughters who left the country to avoid a draft notice or a prosecution for imaginary crimes, each considering the other a renegade, where the children betrayed the Mother's past, and she betrayed their children's future.

I tried to explain everything to myself, to substantiate it logically, to rationalise it because you can't make sense of the situation only with emotions, their quantity and behaviour are so overwhelming at times that one can dry up, shrivel and wither away. A framework is needed, an understanding of where this seemingly unfillable chasm between us suddenly materialised from, and perhaps how to prevent this from happening in the future again.

This problem did not appear out of nowhere and manifests itself far from always as innocently as in my case. The entire war, the destruction, the brutal murders—this is the result of a much deeper malaise that has slowly grown in society over the years, taking firm root. As they say, small things compound. Step by step, moral, ethical, ideological boundaries shift and, to the tragedy of all, not always in the best direction.

I can blame everything on Putin, oligarchs, officials, security forces, those who support the system. I can blame “the Soviet legacy”, for its damage to critical thinking, ideas about enemies surrounding the country or “the special path”1, which are happily used and developed by Russian propaganda now. Or I can get angry and blame the whole country and myself too because it’s all feels so hopeless at times. But instead of the two "eternal Russian questions"2: "Who is to blame?" and "What is to be done?" I would rather ask, "How is this possible at all?" and "Why?" How did they manage to convince people that this heinous atrocity was necessary, and why did the people believe in it?

Common

“If the whole complex lives of many people go on unconsciously, then such lives are as if they had never been.”
— Leo Tolstoy

People rarely deem themselves to be wrong, and if they do, they immediately cease to be so because both the very fact of admitting wrongness and its consequences makes them right, magically. The old truth becomes untruth, and the new untruth becomes truth. The same goes for whether a person is good or bad. By default, habitually, people tend to consider themselves good, and in their perception they only become bad for a short time when the wrongness is being admitted. In that case, a person has either gone through a painful realisation of his or her past wrongness, regret, remorse, a kind of catharsis. Otherwise, if a person knows they are bad and still continues to do evil, he or she is either a sociopath, a psychopath, a maniac, or something worse. Few can continue to do what they consider wrong, immoral, evil, without experiencing cognitive dissonance, guilt, self-flagellation. One cannot remain in such a state for long, so a person naturally seeks a way out of it.

And there are two ways out—to accept the new truth, or to reject it and strengthen the old one. It does not matter which of these two truths is more correct and makes a person objectively good, which in turn does not mean that all viewpoints are equivalent and that objective truth does not exist; it means that our perception of it is always limited. Moreover, admitting one's wrongness is essentially acknowledging this exact limitation. It arises from the fact that access to information and knowledge, access to truth, from which our experience and values are built, is far from always the same for everyone, but nevertheless, there are moral and religious imperatives, objective traits inherent in many cultures. For example, Christian "thou shalt not kill".

In nature, it is normal that animals kill each other for food, protection of territory, procreation, and for many other reasons—this is natural and is part of their behaviour. But if we take the most social animals, such as primates or elephants, even they have altruism and mutual aid, avoidance of intraspecific aggression, conflict resolution through submission or reconciliation instead of killing, mourning for the dead, and caring for others' offspring in one form or another, despite not having any moral imperatives. For humans, the very idea of "thou shalt not kill" as a moral principle isn't new and emerged long ago in various ancient cultures and religious traditions around the world: the "negative confession" in Ancient Egypt, ahimsa in Hinduism and Jainism, condemnation of violence and advocacy for a life led by good thoughts, good words, and good deeds in Zoroastrianism, and so on. Killing, as well as causing harm to a living being, i.e., violence, has long been considered evil by humans. Society began to recognise the value of human life and limited violence for its stability and well-being.

In this sense, we can say that there are certain objective truths, universally accepted moral principles, signifying the value of human life. But wars still happen. And how do those who start them justify them? By the survival of some "group", whether their own or a friendly one, by self-defence or the defence of "higher values" and superiority of their morals, which are often marked by paranoid fantasies, a cult of personality, confrontation with "evil", insidious enemies ready to undermine the country from within, a "preemptive strike"—after all, if you don't attack first, your foes will attack you, and it's not a sin to defend yourself because in a sense, it prevents of greater violence, right? The Russian state uses the same rhetoric: "protection of the Russian-speaking population", "NATO threat", "historical unity", and other3. The same words are now in the heads of my parents and a big part of the country.

Why haven't they suddenly, or at least over these two-plus years, realised that their country has been doing evil? It's easier to maintain the existing worldview by inertia than to rebuild it. To abandon it means to put something personal and important at risk. It was built up over the years, hammered into heads from birth. Some serious upheavals, crises that would overturn one's view of the world are needed to destroy it. But isn't war such an upheaval? As it turns out—no, rather, even the opposite. The media and society around only confirm old beliefs that there are enemies all around and that "defending" the Motherland is a sacred duty, while contradictory information is ignored or simply not allowed to be "broadcasted", and if it does seep through, it is automatically considered "untruth". Here, state censorship that has been diligently working for years is no longer needed because in every head a little censor has grown.

Artistic [intermission]

You can see this Richard Oelze’s painting in MoMA in New York. In real life, it looks way more ominous and silently terrifying than it's on the screen for you now. If you have a chance, I do recommend you to go to the museum and find it there.

When I first saw it in real life, I thought the people in the painting were not waiting for or expecting the dark cloud but following it. Even though both interpretations can be true, they either passively wait or blindly follow, I still prefer the latter because it resonates more with me. Moreover, the people in the painting aren't just following something they probably know is dark and potentially dangerous, ignoring that fact, but many of them are wearing white overcoats.

This is an important detail for me now, despite I don't know whether Richard Oelze put it there for the same symbolism purposes or to create a contrast and hint the innocence of the characters. This struck me deeply because of the now-popular and widely used Russian idiom "wearing a white coat". It's an ironic reference to a person who acts self-righteously or sanctimoniously, often highlighting his or her own perceived moral superiority. Such a person tends to criticise others while presenting oneself as being on the high moral ground, innocent, pure, good. It might be true, yes, yet the person's focus on that makes him or her typically look apologetic and insincere.

Literary

"You're not going to believe who this guy reminds me of."
— Mike Godwin on Twitter, 16 Mar 2022

One of my favourite pieces of literature and theatre is C.P. Taylor's play "Good"4. Having seen it live for the first time (and then reading and watching recorded) I was shocked and terrified by how accurate and shrewd were the parallels between the play's events and the events I had to witness myself in real time.

The main character of the play is Halder, a liberal-minded writer who works at a university in the 1930s Germany and teaches students about Goethe5, among other things literary. He's not evil and has no intention of doing any harm. On the contrary, he deems himself "a good man" who lives a simple life, works, writes, and takes care of his wife Helen and their children.

At the beginning of the play, Halder and his friend Maurice, who's a Jew, discuss the current state of affairs and both can't believe it. It causes them distress and confusion more than anything. Maurice says that the anti-Jew propaganda makes no sense and thinks that "Germany depends on Jewish brains"; hence the Party is "bound to drop all that racial shit they had thrown around to get their votes" later "for the survival of the bloody state".

Maurice: Objectively. Intellectually . . . The Nazis . . . That's just flag-waving to get hold of the masses . . . This anti-Jew hysteria . . . Now it's got them where they wanted to go . . .
<...>
Halder: I'll get you a drink, Maurice . . . Relax . . . You're right . . . All that anti-Jew rubbish . . . You're right . . . Just balloons they throw up in the air to distract the masses . . . You're right.

If earlier they described the situation as "a bloody neurosis", later they say it's "bloody reality".

At the same time, the Nazi Party notices Halder’s pro-euthanasia novel, inspired by the difficulties he went through with his senile mother. He's given a choice to join the Party and develop his career. His wife, Helen, supports that and says that he could even lose his lectureship if he doesn't enrol (as the rumours go). Under all that pressure, Halder joins the Party, justifying it first and foremost with love for family:

Halder: I'm doing it because I love you . . . You know that. If it was just myself, I'd take a chance. I'm not one hundred per cent sure about Hitler . . . You understand that . . . I love you and the children . . .

At the same time he's started having an affair with his student Anne, who's also reacts either passively or supportively to his decision. The whole play is written brilliantly, but the dialogues between Halder and Anne are the most painful to observe and full of bitter and tragic irony:

Anne: I think . . . you see . . . People just survive and live . . . It doesn't seem to matter what kind of government people have. They survived through all kinds of terrible times, didn't they?
You find somebody you love . . . and you have a family . . . and look after them . . . and try not to harm anybody . . . Isn't that what happens? . . . In the end you have to survive . . . And the less you harm people in surviving . . .
Halder: It's not only survival, is it? Joining the Nazis. If people like us join them . . . instead of keeping away from them, being purist . . . And pushed them a bit towards humanity . . . Is that kidding yourself?
Anne: What if they push us the other way?
Halder: Yes . . . It could happen . . . Yes . . . If it did . . . I'd get out . . . No question about it . . . I'd pull myself away . . . I'd get out of the country . . . We'd get out of the country . . .

Despite at first it seems hard for Halder to justify his decision completely, and he's still doubtful about Hitler, everyone round him supports his decision, considering it a necessity, except, of course, Maurice:

Maurice: You joined the Nazis! You . . . For fuck's sake
Halder: I told you I joined the Nazis . . .
Maurice: The reality is coming to me . . . Jesus . . . Johnnie . . . God in heaven . . .
Halder: Facts of life . . .

Thereafter, Halder's life flips over and follows a downward spiral as we witness it as external observers. He's now a "fucking Nazi S.S. officer" and officially a humanity expert, expected to make recommendations and arrangements "on general humane grounds".

In a state of panic, now real, Maurice demands his friend to help him to get out of Germany, yet Halder finds excuses and refrains from helping his friend, saying that it's not a sensible action for a "bloody officer in the S.S." even “during this temporary racialist aberration”. He dissuades Maurice from going anywhere and again points out that Hitler, "a mystic idealist", is not going to survive another six months in the "still capitalist country". Moreover, he says he loves Jews, their culture, and calls Mein Kampf rubbish, describing the whole situation is "a political hysteria".

Soon, he receives a letter while reading which he understands that it is, in fact, a list of books, books that he also likes, but at the end of the letter he realises that he, a writer himself, is ordered to organise the Book Burning Ceremony at the university.

He tries to rationalise it, justify it, thinking to himself that "man does not live by books alone" and burning is a symbolic act. He has left his wife and children already for Anne at that point, and now she's his "voice of reason", a voice that supports him. She believes that the book burning is just a gesture that doesn't mean anything, and "most people aren't even aware those books exist".

Anne: All we can do is hold on to each other. If we're good to each other. And the people round us . . . If we try to the utmost to be good . . .
The bonfire flares up.
What else can we do?
Halder: I haven't even read Einstein.

When Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass, happens, during which the Nazis carry out a pogrom targeted at Jewish homes, businesses, and synagogues, it shocks Halder. He attempts to understand it at first, but then tries to justify. He calls the operation "a bad thing, no question about it", "excess", "the roughneck in the party", yet later in a long monologue describes it as a "humane action" that is meant to "shock the Jews into the reality of their situation".

Halder: This Jew operation tonight. It weighed on me . . . along with the food I couldn't digest properly . . . I enjoyed the duck . . . at the same time . .

He admits to himself that he has his things to care about, and "the Jews and their problems are very far down on the list". All he fears is if the Nazis stick him in a concentration camp, or he gets a cancer, or Anne stops loving him and runs off with another man, or his own personal happiness:

Halder: Emotionally. Intellectually . . .
As an intellectual concept it's fairly high as a moral problem . . . The thing is, I am fundamentally a happy person . . .
That's what it is . . .
That's the problem. I'm a happy person . . . Absolutely . . .

The reality around Halder blurs, and the play's non-linear, fragmented narrative supports it well. He starts thinking that everything terrible that has happened, including to Maurice, who is supposedly already tortured and killed, was a mistake, and yet he thinks that the whole situation is complex.

Halder: What we are doing, Maurice . . . listen to this . . . is we are allowing ourselves to be trapped by obvious, stock responses . . . Instead of daring to confront ourselves with reality maybe, Maurice, maybe . . . It's the Jews' fault . . .
They are responsible for pushing Germany into this Jewish, moralistic, humanistic, Marxist total fuck up . . .

At the end of the play, during a long scene, we see Anne helping Halder to put on the S.S. uniform while their talk about the previous years.

Halder: Yes . . . We probably are . . . good . . . Yes . . .
Whatever that means . . .
Anne: You know what it means.
Halder: Yes . . .
Anne: Remember it then.

And a few moments later, at the very end, he finds himself as one of the officers in Auschwitz.

Thus, through a series of compromises and self-justifications dictated by supposedly good intentions, Halder goes from a 'good' man to an accomplice to heinous crimes. He justifies his co-operation with the regime by wanting to help people, to soften politics from within, and to protect his family. His arc is driven by passivity, by the need to adapt to survive. Step by step, the line between good and evil blurs for Halder, and it's alarming to see this gradual transformation, often only visible from the outside.

Unfortunately, Halder's example isn't unique. We can find other examples happening throughout history on different scales. To list just a few… Adolf Eichmann, the bureaucrat responsible for deporting millions of Jews to death camps, was an ordinary man who believed he was merely doing his job conscientiously. Évariste Gamelin, the protagonist of Anatole France's novel "The Gods Are Athirst", was a young artist who initially joined the French Revolution with idealistic fervour, but gradually descended into fanaticism and violence, ultimately justifying his actions, including sending innocent people to the guillotine, as necessary sacrifices for the greater good of the Republic. During the Russian Civil War, people with good intentions of freedom and a better life overthrew the Emperor, killed his entire family without a real reason, and created a state responsible for the oppression and suffering of unprecedented millions of people inside and outside the country, justifying the violence along the way as a necessity in attempts to build the glorious communism6. Or these days in Russia, I see a similar social dynamic when artists, actors, writers, scientists, politicians and ordinary people "swear an oath" to the brutal regime—some do nothing and hide, some become voices of propaganda, others go to war without even understanding why, saying that "once it's started, it has to be done", believing that they're "defending their interests".

In any of these cases, there are people who hold guns and who hold pens, those who give commands and those who obey, those who believe in the greater good and those who just have to adapt, those for whom it is a personal choice and those on whom it is forced. We must not regard them as equally evil and must consider their role in what is happening individually, but we must also realise that the system as a sum of individuals is far more frightening than it is in itself. Without these individuals, the system simply could not exist, yet it's the system is what made them into what they are by abusing their passivity and beliefs.

It's not a product of any particular ideology but rather a general human flaw that is exploited in the same way by institutions, religions, and ideologies through their propaganda. People who are "good" become "evil" when the justification of that evil becomes routine, when that evil becomes "banal"7, hidden behind a façade of mediocrity and ordinariness. The people who commit it are not necessarily villains in the classic sense—they may be good husbands or wives, loving friends; they may genuinely believe they are just doing their duty, they are just being good. Their level of passivity can also differ. Most don't get involved at all, humbly nod, and prefer to avoid politics in any form. Are they good or evil? The answer would be subjective and laden with the personal and emotional. Evil feeds on them, proliferates in their passivity, disinterest, apathy as in a fertile ground, while all that time they do nothing and just want to be good and live a normal, stable, simple life, trying to protect their little world and distance themselves from reality.

When a set of beliefs, a doctrine, is presented to them from the top, it's easier to accept it and then follow it than to develop their own. But it is this conformism and refusal of independent moral judgement, this readiness to be a cog in the machine without thinking about the consequences of one's actions that, compounded over the years, can lead to historical tragedies. This is an evil that is committed not by malice, but by inertia, by the habit of obedience, by the personal belief of being good. People tend to justify their actions by good intentions, external factors, higher values, or worse, patriotism—a word that's being perverted and has no real meaning any more besides "blindly and proudly serve your country". Doing something they believe is "good", people feel they obtain a "moral licence" for less ethical actions in the future. They tend to explain negative actions by external factors, and positive ones by internal, but for others they do exactly the opposite—good deeds are blamed on circumstances and bad deeds on personal qualities. They may sincerely believe in their goodness but ignore, rationalise, or refuse to accept the negative consequences.

No external circumstances remove our personal moral responsibility for our actions. The capacity for moral choice is among the things that make us human, and we should not give it up, even in the face of the most ordinary manifestations of evil. Ignoring those choices, making them unconsciously, we risk getting manipulated a little at a time, eventually doing things that are totally against our values and conscience.

Perhaps balloons in the sky aren't there to distract you; perhaps they aren't really balloons; perhaps they're just the first step. Ignoring them, you risk not recognising yourself, your friends or your relatives in a few years, and the result might not please you.

Goodness isn't given; goodness is earned. Being good is neither a default state nor a habit; being good is work, the most human and the most difficult work of all.

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Oh, and before you go, I have a growing catalogue of literary and speculative fiction. It’s my primary endeavour so I would be happy if you check it out, too.

Beams of appreciation,
Virtual hugs,
Vanya