In Moscow, a perpetual party to distract from the war in Ukraine
It was a summer of celebration for Moscow residents. In one of the city's perfectly manicured parks, a wave pool bubbled and invited people to surf. Along a shaded boulevard, Muscovites played paddleboarding, tennis, pétanque, and croquet.
Fourteen stages have been set up outdoors, including one that floats on a body of water, and feature operas, plays, and even clowns on unicycles. The rides never stop spinning. All activities are free (except the surfing lesson), and sunscreen and water are even provided on sunny days, as well as raincoats and blankets on gloomy days.
All these activities are part of the “Summer in Moscow” festival, which has been running for several months [from June 1 to September 14], a striking symbol of the vast financial resources deployed by the Moscow government [the executive body of the city of Moscow] to transform the Russian capital into a gigantic amusement park, and thus prevent Muscovites from thinking about the war raging in Ukraine.
“It’s impossible to escape it and not want to participate,” admits Nina L. Khrushcheva, a Russian-American academic who divides her time between Moscow and New York.
The invasion of Ukraine, which the Kremlin is determined to continue despite diplomatic pressure from the United States, has sent tens of thousands of Russians to their deaths , battered the country's economy and further isolated Russia from the West.
But for the majority of Russians, life has never been better.
In Moscow, with its 13 million inhabitants, colossal investments over the past decade have made it one of the most modern metropolises in the world. Events like “Summer in Moscow” are designed to showcase these achievements and push war back as far as possible, even as Russia continues to bombard Kyiv with missiles and drones and continues its conquest of Ukraine.
In July, according to a survey by the Levada Center, an independent Russian polling institute, 57 percent of respondents said they were satisfied with their lives. This is the highest figure since 1993, when such polls began, two years after the fall of the Soviet Union.
Yet this romance between the government and the Russians won't last forever, assures Nina L. Khrushcheva. There are already signs of this. The government's budget is starting to run dry. The war's fierce supporters, encouraged by the Kremlin, she says, are increasingly dissatisfied that most Russians are losing interest in it. "This summer could well mark a turning point," she believes.
For the moment, at least in Moscow, all is well in the best of all possible worlds.
In the city's immaculate arteries, the recently renovated pedestrian streets, in the shade of freshly planted new trees, government-sponsored markets flourish: you can buy scented candles, furniture, or toys, all made in Russia . In the ultramodern commuter trains or the new electric buses, screens constantly advertise exciting new activities.
A surreal oasis—a veritable forest of palm, olive, and bamboo trees surrounding a tropical waterfall—has sprung up next to Red Square. The city hall announced that 53 million flowers were planted this year, and every bridge in the city center is adorned with vibrant colors.
“I have never been so in love with my city,” says Oleg Torbosov, a Muscovite who works in real estate, in a social media post.
He describes a walk in central Moscow: “I didn't see a single homeless person, not a single beggar, not a single weird guy,” he says.
“People were beautiful, well-dressed, confident. They were smiling. I felt completely safe.”
In the city, there is little or no reminder of the war, and when it does, it's easy to turn away. Sure, there are recruitment centers in metro stations and advertisements offering up to $65,000 [€55,440] to join the army, but for many Russians, war remains a task delegated to the poorest.
This indifference greatly annoys the regime's most belligerent members. "Are we really at war?" Vladimir Solovyov, the face of Kremlin propaganda, indignantly asked in one of his broadcasts in August. "When you see all these people going out on Friday nights, it's hard to believe," he fumed.
Mikhail Bocharov, an economist who participated in anti-Kremlin protests but now supports the Russian military, also disapproves of such “wartime celebrations.”
“People are raising money” and “knitting socks” for the soldiers,” he tells me as he takes his son to one of the attractions on Moscow’s Tsvetnoy Boulevard. “People in Donetsk no longer have access to clean water,” he adds.
“And here it’s a perpetual party,” Bocharov continues. “It’s pure schizophrenia. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”
For Alexander Usoltsev, a tour guide, the reason the Moscow city government is investing so much money in leisure activities is to help residents cope with the stress of "anxiety-inducing news."
“It's normal to want to calm them down and show them that everything is okay.”
In a large exhibition, just across the street from the Kremlin, the message is clear: life is beautiful and the future looks bright.
The exhibition traces the transformation of the capital under the mandate of Mayor Sergei Sobyanin, with concrete examples and interactions.
In a video installation, we find ourselves immersed in the New York subway: it's dirty and damp, populated by strange people and foreigners with sinister faces. Then, another installation transports us to a Moscow subway station, spotlessly clean, without a piece of paper lying around, where the atmosphere is serene and relaxed. It's even possible to pay for your ticket at the turnstiles by showing your face to the camera.
The city's transformation reflects a desire to demonstrate the power of an authoritarian government with a municipal budget of nearly $70 billion. Today's Moscow bears little resemblance to the gloomy capital of the Soviet Union in the 1980s.
Over the past two years, the metro lines have been extended by 160 kilometers, with four new stations scheduled to open in September and two additional lines under construction. Moscow's streets and buildings are immaculate and well-lit, with the exception of the Kremlin, apparently for fear of Ukrainian drones. European tourists have been partly replaced by visitors from the Middle East, China, and South Asia. They flock to the city's restaurants, where the service is impeccable and the food often remarkable.
Despite sanctions and other war-related restrictions, giant shopping malls and boutiques are brimming with Italian leather bags, the finest French wines, and other luxury items. Russian brands have replaced Western companies that have left the country and offer products and services of often comparable quality.
Government offices, where you previously had to queue for hours to meet a foul-mouthed and often corrupt official, have been transformed into comfortable reception areas. Where you're offered a free cappuccino if you wait more than fifteen minutes. Civil servants are generally friendly, and if you're not, you can give them a bad rating on the screen installed on each desk.
You can open a bank account on your phone or get a digital SIM card in less than a minute. More than 1,500 government services are available online. Your groceries can be delivered within fifteen minutes, often by migrants from Central Asia who crisscross the city on electric bicycles.
But not everyone in Russia has access to the easy Moscow life. Many Russians struggle to make ends meet.
Military spending has caused inflation to spiral, prompting the Central Bank to raise interest rates. Budget debt is rising, and the country's cash reserves are estimated to be depleted within two years.
But when you walk around the city, these troubles seem far away.
“There were painful separations: many of my friends had to leave ,” says Olga, a long-time Muscovite who preferred not to give her last name for fear of reprisals. “But I am glad I stayed in this beautiful and pleasant city that is today’s Moscow.”
