I had planned to go to Russia for the spring ballet season. Then the invasion of Ukraine threw us all into turmoil. Friends encouraged me to persist with my plans. I would be safe as a foreign visitor, and I had a visa, they urged.
I go in the northern hemisphere autumn, searching for how people in Moscow are living with this war. Few will talk to me openly, so I watch and listen for any signs of outrage or despair.
The flight to Moscow is full of tanned couples, and the males seem unperturbed that they are flying into a military mobilisation. Are they sure of avoiding the draft? Do they have sufficient funds to bribe the recruiters? Do they not realise that others are reportedly leaving as fast as they can buy a seat out?
Two decades ago, as a citizen of New Zealand, an ally to the two countries that invaded Iraq on false pretences, I was as irrelevant and powerless as they are today. But at least I could march in demonstrations protected by police. In Russia, protesters are bludgeoned and imprisoned for up to 15 years; not only confined, but severely deprived of basic needs and vulnerable to brutal torture.
On my first night of ballet
