‘If I’m going to be arrested, then let it be for something that matters’ Why photojournalists in Russia continue documenting the country’s shifting realities, despite the risks

Capturing the unvarnished, inconvenient sides of life in Russia was challenging even before the full-scale war against Ukraine — and over the past three years, it’s only grown more dangerous. Yet, despite the risks, some photojournalists refuse to give up, convinced that their work has never been more important. Meduza spoke with photographers still working in Russia about how they document what the state prefers to hide, protect their safety and mental health, and hold on to their capacity for empathy.

The names of the people interviewed have been changed for their safely.

Alexandra

Perm

I built my career at a well-known Moscow media outlet, starting as a junior photographer and eventually reaching a point where a publishing house released a book of my work.

When the [full-scale] war began, I knew it would be a catastrophe that changed everything — and that’s exactly what happened. The closure of [opposition] media outlets hit me hard — first one, then another. It felt like the ground was crumbling beneath my feet. Mentally, I was shaken; there was nothing familiar, secure, or meaningful left.

After the war started, I tried to leave Russia several times, but various circumstances kept me here. That’s when I thought: if I know how to photograph, then I need to keep photographing. It’s my job, and, as [political scientist] Ekaterina [Schulmann] advises, I’ve continued my professional work.

I have a colleague who focuses on writing, and we were already used to collaborating. She invited me to one shoot, then another — and gradually, we began creating stories that reflected this new reality. For example, we went to a military garrison and put together a report.

I used to work on lighter, more pleasant topics, but since the [full-scale war began], it’s been funerals, grieving people with gray hair and empty eyes. I never wanted to work on the [front lines] — I believe it’s important to document what’s happening not at the edges, but inside. I’m drawn to human stories and the tectonic shifts taking place [in society].

It’s scary to work. My colleagues have had their homes searched, and some of my friends face criminal charges. You constantly [feel] the cold breath of the state, though I haven’t personally felt its grip yet. I work anonymously and do everything I can to stay under the radar. But as a freelance photographer, I don’t have a safety net — no newsroom to call for help, no one to send me a lawyer if something goes wrong.

Every six months or so, there’s another major shock: first, the war began; then mobilization; then something else. This creates a constant undercurrent of fear — except when I’m working. When I’m taking photos, I get so absorbed in the process that I forget about [the fear].

I’m so tired of being afraid — of them showing up with a search warrant, of them finding some excuse to come after me. It’s a good thing I’m not in Moscow, where facial recognition cameras can track you. That technology hasn’t reached my city yet, and I hope it doesn’t anytime soon. Here, I feel a bit safer.

Even though we’re outlawed in Russia, we continue to deliver exclusive reporting and analysis from inside the country. 

Our journalists on the ground take risks to keep you informed about changes in Russia during its full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Support Meduza’s work today.

Sofia

Moscow

I’ve had chances to leave; I was even offered a job [abroad], but I’m not considering it. Yes, these are terrible times, but that makes [staying in Russia] all the more important. We chose this profession — photojournalism — to document what matters. I feel my work is needed here and that it’s incredibly important. Especially now, with so many talented photographers having left, I feel a responsibility to stay and capture this moment in time.

My work changes every month. The space for freedom is shrinking to unimaginable levels, and the pressure on independent media keeps growing. Fellow journalists are being jailed on fabricated charges, and their trials are later closed [to the press]. There are more and more bans — essentially, martial law is in effect. I have to weigh whether it’s worth pulling out my camera or if someone might report me. Still, I feel the more important stories I cover, the better my work becomes. My earlier photos didn’t have the same edge.

In 2022, before the mobilization, people seemed to think everything would end quickly; it was as if the air stood still. Then came a sense that Russians were tired of news [about the war] and just wanted it to end. These days, it seems to me that people are trying to escape into their private lives. They’ve come to see the war as an unpleasant part of reality and try not to think about what’s happening on the front lines. Honestly, I don’t see widespread support for the war. From what I’ve observed, only a very small part [of society] actively supports it.

In Moscow, for example, you’ll see posters urging people to join the war effort for an absurd five million rubles [$46,300]. Technically, the posters are there — the task is completed — but it feels more like a formality than actual propaganda. One poster, for instance, is wedged between two kiosks with barely a meter of space between them.

I feel like I could be thrown in jail at any moment for anything — my sense of safety is, if not at zero, then very close to it. My main precaution is keeping my photos stored in at least two different locations and on two separate devices, so I don’t lose my years-long archive. Another rule is not to break the law. Unfortunately, I’ve had to stop working with several outlets that have been labeled “undesirable organizations.” I try to avoid violating Russian law, even if I completely disagree with it. My third rule is to avoid doing anything I’d be ashamed of later. If I’m going to be arrested, then let it at least be for something that matters.

There are some things I simply can’t stop doing. I can’t stop calling the war a war, and I can’t stop documenting the reality I see. If they throw me in prison for photographing [Russian opposition figure Alexey] Navalny’s funeral, then so be it — I’ll just have to go to prison.

Andrey

Krasnoyarsk

I work as a photographer and photo editor for an independent media outlet. After the [full-scale] war began, almost our entire editorial team left. There used to be plenty of assignments — now there are significantly fewer. Before 2022, we were shooting several times a month; now it’s maybe once a quarter. There are a few reasons for this. First, many journalists started working remotely, by phone, so there are far fewer people to go on field assignments with. Second, the topics have changed: many are now considered dangerous, and sending a photographer is risky.

We consider any topic related to the war dangerous. Once, I was asked to do a photo shoot at a factory making military winter coats. At first, I agreed, but then I called the journalist and found out he’d already gone there — and shortly after, the police started looking for him. I thought, “Why risk going there?” So I declined.

As a photo editor, I’ve realized the result is often better if I commission an illustration for a piece about, say, a court case or generate an image myself, rather than sending someone to take photos. Besides, I don’t think photographs are particularly necessary for sensitive topics right now.

At first, I thought about leaving [the country]. What kept me here was my child — he’s attending a great school, and I didn’t want to take him out of that environment. The country is changing, but in the circles of mentally stable people I interact with, the war isn’t very noticeable. If you avoid reading too much news, you can almost stop thinking about it entirely.

At the start of the war, I participated in a photography exhibition. Even then, it was clear that much of what was once allowed was now impossible. For example, the text about me for the exhibit had the names of the foreign media outlets [I’ve worked with] removed, and the publication I currently work for wasn’t mentioned either.

One of my photos was seemingly innocuous — it didn’t show anything [that the Russian authorities could consider illegal] — but I still explained [the context] to the curator, just in case. In the end, the photo wasn’t included. These days, curators are overly cautious. You go to any exhibit now, and everything feels toothless and overly careful.

I’ve come to terms with [this new reality] because everything has its price. I’ve decided I want to stay in the country as long as possible, which means I have to follow certain rules. I don’t feel overwhelming fear for my safety because I take precautions — mainly by staying anonymous [in my work] and avoiding places where things might go wrong. Fear is a destructive and unpleasant emotion, and I’d rather not feel it.

Alisa

Moscow

I didn’t leave Russia after the [full-scale] war began because it’s important for me to witness what’s happening in the place where I’ve spent most of my life. I want to see how people are changing, how the atmosphere is shifting. The hardest part is maintaining empathy and preserving my sense of self. It’s essential to stay engaged with reality, even when it’s unpleasant, incomprehensible, and stirs up difficult emotions. It’s important to tell the stories of what’s happening to people here — what they’re thinking and how they’re changing — as much as that’s possible.

At the start of the war, of course, I thought about leaving — I even bought tickets — but two days later, I returned them. There have been moments when I’ve felt exhausted, like I had no strength left, when work felt overwhelming. Mentally, it’s tough — you feel like you don’t belong here or anywhere else. Even so, I still see meaning in telling the stories of people’s lives here. I don’t know what would have to change for that [feeling] to disappear, and I hold onto it. Beyond that, I feel deeply connected to Russia, and I love it despite everything that’s happening here.

I’m tired of the endless arguments over who understands the situation in the country better. Some people who’ve left claim they have a clearer perspective from the outside, that you need distance to see the full picture. Apparently, we’ve got blinders on, and now they’ll tell us how things actually are. Meanwhile, people [still in Russia] argue that it’s not as bad as it seems, that they’re not literally living under the barrel of a gun. The gap between us just keeps growing.

I’m also tired of being asked, “Why are you still in Russia?” I have colleagues working in places where things are even worse, like Syria and Gaza, and [they say] no one has ever asked them why they’re there. This is reality! If you have the chance to interact with it, explore it, and share your understanding with others, that’s good.

It’s becoming harder to talk about what’s happening inside the country — people are afraid to speak to journalists, whether they’re from [state media] or independent outlets. Many find it hard to open up [to journalists], and I get that. You don’t trust anyone except those closest to you. People living in frontline areas try to stay out of the spotlight. But some — people who’ve already lost something — are so angry they’re willing to say everything they think.

In my work, I see how tired people are of the war — no one is enthusiastic about it. In rural areas, the consequences of the conflict are felt more deeply. Many have husbands or sons at the front; some have lost loved ones. In villages, it’s every other family. At the same time, I’ve met many people [in these regions] who simultaneously support the regime and want the war to end as quickly as possible. It’s strange — they believe in the war for the sake of peace and think Putin will bring it to an end. That logic seems to work for them. [The strategy] of uniting against a common enemy is effective: [basically], “Let’s mobilize and support the leader so the war ends faster, and then we’ll deal with the problems in our villages later.” People are putting their personal needs aside because “the country is in crisis,” “all the money is going to the front,” and “we need to support our poor boys.”

But in frontline regions, the mood is different. Not everyone supports what’s happening, and not everyone understands why it can’t end sooner. There’s also resentment toward other Russians — people there think, “They’re living their normal lives while we’re suffering and getting shelled!” Naturally, these people rely more on the state and the army — who else can they turn to when they’re losing their homes and loved ones? Their anger often comes out in slogans like, “[Putin], hurry up!” Of course, there are those among them who are against [Russia’s war on Ukraine], but unfortunately, they’re fewer in number.

I’ve stopped thinking about the danger I’m in — otherwise, I wouldn’t survive. Of course, I’m cautious: I have a lawyer, and I don’t keep my documents at home — that’s basic stuff. But [I don’t want] to sit around in a constant state of paranoia, especially since I already have PTSD, which I’ve been dealing with for years. It stems from past arrests and searches I went through. With everything happening to journalists now, combined with the state of the country and the endless news cycle, my PTSD has gotten so much worse. I struggle to sleep, have nightmares, and wake up automatically at six in the morning. I just want to sleep and eat normally, and live a full life.