Notes — Rina Repina

I know what it means to be part of a polarised society where you live — and navigate your life — constantly looking for confirmation that you have not crossed a not-so-imaginary line between your inner “us” and “others.”
If the “others” are in a position of power over “us,” first, there is an inner exile. In its smallest daily manifestations, a sense of self seeks reassurance that you still belong to something that goes beyond the scope of that authority — and that it is too short-sighted to see the obvious signs of this quiet resistance.
Who defines what treason is?

Over a decade ago, in 2014 or so, I remember a tiny independent theatre somewhere in the historic parts of Moscow.

If you walk away up the hill, from the window, you can see the bell towers of Kremlin churches and the shiny dome of the white Cathedral of Christ the Saviour: a 19th-century Neo-Byzantine edifice blown up during the Soviet era (for a while, its foundation was used as an open-air swimming pool) and rebuilt in the 1990s, in the early years of the “new Russia.”

Was the theatre in a basement? Possibly. Some of the best things were staged underground.

It was about the fall of Constantinople, the last days of the Byzantine capital, to be more exact. The name was “150 reasons not to protect your homeland.”

One day, everything around you can suddenly disappear: loved ones, the values you grew up with, great cities, world empires. Disappear, to become something completely different...
150 reasons not to defend the homeland, 150 reasons not to unite in a moment of danger, 150 reasons to work for the enemy.

In the audience, I remember seeing people with whom I shared university corridors. Almost nodding to each other — as if that was the only place to be, at this particular time and place, be it 1453 or 2014.

When I dive into my Instagram feed, the conversation I see, in another language, among other people, feels vaguely familiar.

Exile in the everyday

Further reading