Between the Dates in the History Books

MOSCOW — I was in my mid-20s the first time I reported from a war zone. Over the following decade, I would get almost used to — or, like many war correspondents, addicted to — the sudden sense of immersion, the immense vividness of sound, the slowing down of time and then the head-spinning intake of the air of peace on the way out. But that first time I was struck by the way people get used to living in war, sleeping through blasts, cooking on an open fire on the sidewalk and constantly bickering about things that don’t matter.
On my way out of the Balkans that first time, I stopped in Warsaw to see a friend and shared this observation with her. “All my childhood I pestered my mother to tell me about life during the war,” she said, meaning, as always in this part of the world, World War II. “When she finally gave in, she said, ‘I took the tram to work every day.’ ”

I have since written about several wars and revolutions, contemporary and historical, and in each case I have tried to describe or imagine what happens between the dates in the history books, like the ones that mark the beginning and end of a conflict. How scary was it to take the tram every day? How normal did it feel? Did it seem like the war would never end?
Right now, I am living between the dates, both as a journalist and a participant this time. A year ago, the Russian protest movement began. I was sure then, and I am sure now, that it will ultimately bring about the end of Vladimir Putin’s reign. But we are not there yet: History making is much slower than history writing.
This past Saturday, thousands of Muscovites went to a protest in front of the headquarters of the secret police. The demonstration had originally been planned as a march, but the city authorities denied organizers a permit. Tens of thousands of colorful leaflets went to waste, as did the deal with a marching band that had agreed to brave the freezing cold. It is illegal to call on anyone to join a banned protest. Thousands of people simply tweeted “I am going” — and went.
“I’m scared,” said my girlfriend.
“Don’t go,” I suggested.
“But everyone is scared,” she said.
We dressed as warmly as we could and left the house. It felt scary. We waited for a friend in a pedestrian underpass; she was running late, and I got frustrated. That felt very normal. We bought white chrysanthemums — laying flowers at the monument to victims of political repression had become the focal point of the protest — and this felt slightly festive.
We walked for 10 minutes and ran into a few people we knew: They were already walking back from the protest. “Be careful there,” they said.
There were about 2,000 people in Lubyanka Square. The mood was subdued, devoid of the anticipation I had felt at previous protests. Most people spent 10 or 20 minutes there. We just laid our flowers and left. People kept arriving even as the short-lived winter sun was setting. We walked to a café to warm up. It felt rather uneventful.
When it was almost dark and most people had left the square, the police rounded up the rest – about a hundred in all.
There will be many more days like this, cold and scary and a little bit boring all at the same time. I wonder if this is how we will ultimately remember this period between the beginning of the protest movement last year and Putin’s fall.

---

Masha Gessen is a journalist in Moscow. Her next book, “Words Will Break Cement: The Passion of Pussy Riot,” will be published in March.