Directed by Patric Chiha, A Russian Winter offers a necessary portrait of the post-2022 lives of Russians who chose exile. In the wake of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, Russian identity has often been flattened into a single political narrative, leaving little space for those who reject the regime, or for the difficult, uncertain process of rebuilding a life elsewhere.

Nationality has rarely felt so heavy; yet in the conversations captured here, that burden is gently laid aside, replaced by something more humane: recognition.

Istanbul, Tbilisi, and Paris, where the protagonists temporarily settle, become little more than transit hubs. With no plan for tomorrow or next year, they live lightly, ready to leave at any moment. The long-familiar feeling that ‘tomorrow will never come’ presents even before the war, now deepens into an endless wait, amplifying their insecurity and quiet despair.

Some leave for the sake of human rights. Others cannot bear to watch people die. In essence, they are all in a state of panic, a fear so pervasive that every shadow demands suspicion. That fear follows them, across borders, into new countries. 

In their hushed, halting voices, we are finally able to revisit events at their pace. These are voices we once overlooked in our urgency to stand with Ukraine, now recorded and given space to be heard. In our anger, we judged without seeing the absurdities emerging alongside the outbreak of war: men with no real training hastily conscripted, briefly drilled, and sent to the front, where many quickly fell. How many were fed into battle this way, convinced by a cause, treated as expendable? What becomes clear is that countless families were torn apart by political fractures they never chose. And those who fled in search of justice and freedom found themselves becoming exiles too.

When political beliefs divide a family, even blood ties can feel fragile. There is nothing they can do – return is no longer an option. Grandmothers slowly forget them, and they, in turn, begin to forget Russia. Occasional video calls become their most precious connection: a brief chance to speak with someone who knows them without introduction, a fleeting moment to be remembered.

To be Russian, in certain corners of the world, can feel like a collective stigma – sometimes even a sin. You may be unwelcome everywhere. “As Russians… we have to do something to make up for what we allowed to happen.” Their nationality carries a kind of liability, an invisible debt they must repay through good deeds, just to earn the trust and credit others receive freely. “We are Russian… so we owe a lot to people. Almost everyone.”

In the final scene, Margarita sits on the stairs. She is thin, as light as everything she owns, stored away in a rented locker. And yet her steps are heavy, weighed down by the real burden she carries. She, like so many others, has nowhere left to fit in.

Rating:

Written by Jane Wei

Featured image courtesy of Aurora Films

_{View of the Arts is an online publication dedicated to film, music, and the arts, with a strong focus on the Asian entertainment industry. As we continue to grow, we aim to deepen our coverage of Asian music while remaining committed to exploring and celebrating creativity across the global arts landscape.}