Dispatch from Moscow: Between Memory and War

A Polish journalist’s journey through memory, war, and the Russian psyche.

Maciej Wiśniowski is a veteran Polish journalist whose career spans over four decades. Known for his uncompromising voice and intellectual integrity, he has faced repression in Poland for his critical stance on the country’s foreign policy and for refusing to adopt the mainstream, often aggressive, anti-Russian narrative that has dominated Polish media and politics—especially since 2014. As one of the very few Polish journalists deeply familiar with Russia—having lived in the Soviet Union, reported widely from across the post-Soviet space, and been married to a Russian woman—Wiśniowski brings rare insight and honesty to his work. This is his report from Moscow, where he traveled in May 2025 to observe and reflect on the 80th anniversary of the Soviet Union’s victory over Nazi Germany.

In this dispatch, Wiśniowski offers a firsthand account of his arrival in Moscow, including a tense and revealing experience at the Russian border. He reflects on the atmosphere of the city during the large-scale, multi-day Victory Day celebrations—an experience marked by an overwhelming presence of symbols, imagery, and commemorative installations. For an outsider, the sheer scale of it all might feel intimidating or excessive, but within Russia, it serves as a vivid expression of collective memory and emotional connection to the Great Patriotic War. Wiśniowski also examines the internal contradictions of Russian society during wartime: the blend of resilience and cynicism, grassroots solidarity and official corruption, genuine patriotism and performative propaganda. Through conversations with war correspondents, local journalists, and friends, he presents a nuanced, often uncomfortable portrait of a country that sees itself besieged—both physically and historically—and is grappling with a war that, for many, has become part of the everyday fabric of life.

---

“Wiśniowski?!” I hear someone call out behind me. A young officer is holding a piece of paper and calling out the name in a raised voice, trying to find its owner—even though I’d already passed all the checkpoints, cleared customs and immigration with the rest of the passengers and was headed toward the metro station.

“That’s me,” I reply.

“May I have a moment of your time?” he asks. “I’d like to have a quick word. And may I see your passport, please?”

“Of course,” I say, and follow my guide as we retrace our steps across the Russian border at Vnukovo Airport. We stop in front of a small door, where a crowd of immigrants from Central Asian countries is gathered.

“Please wait behind that tape,” he says, pointing. So I wait. After about 40 minutes, I’m called over to sit in front of another young officer—a captain I think.

“What’s the purpose of your visit to Russia?”

“To attend the celebrations for the 80th anniversary of the victory over fascism.”

“Do you have any friends in Ukraine?”

“Plenty.”

“Are you in contact with them?”

“Rarely.”

“Then please wait behind the door.”

And so it goes—six times. Three hours. Two different rooms. Three conversations with border control officers, and another three—probably with security service agents. They asked to see my phone and scanned my contact list, expertly picking out every Ukrainian number, including people who, to put it mildly, aren’t exactly fans of Russia these days. Question after question after question…

“When did you return from the U.S.?”

“I’ve never been there.”

“You’re an officer of Polish intelligence.” (And that one wasn’t a question.)

“No.”

“Who are you meeting in Moscow?”

I answer. I give names—friends, my ex-wife, fellow journalists. One of them, a writer, blogger, and popular journalist, catches the interest of one of the three men interrogating me.

“Oh, I know him! He writes good books.”

After three hours, they finally let me into the territory of the Russian Federation. I’m free to let all my friends know all is good. Whew…

It is my first encounter with Moscow after quite some time. I’m trying to gather some initial impressions but the weird interrogation I was subjected to is still occupying my mind. I’m departing do my hotel around 3 a.m. What I notice is that the city may have its fair share of problems, but one thing it certainly doesn’t lack is electricity. Moscow uses power lavishly, almost with a sense of theatrical pride—“Look, we can afford this.” Offices that clearly aren’t operating at that hour are brightly lit. So are entire sleeping residential blocks, billboards and political posters, streets, squares, monuments. This illuminated display stretches unbroken for the full 60 kilometers between the airport and the hotel. The city can afford this glow. And to be fair, electricity isn’t particularly expensive here.

Russia had been preparing for the grand commemoration of the 80th anniversary of Nazi Germany’s unconditional surrender for quite some time. But the celebrations come at an extremely unfavorable moment for the country: it’s embroiled in a war dragging on for over three years, isolated in the Western world while at home it’s struggling under sanctions and internal tensions. A segment of the power structure has lost its grip on the privileges and income streams—both legal and, more often, illegal—that the war has disrupted.

And the fight against this class seems, frankly, hopeless. Hardly a week goes by without Russian media reporting on the arrest of yet another high-ranking official. And that’s only half the story. The other half is worse: growing evidence that corruption reaches deep into the Ministry of Defense itself—into the hands of those literally profiting from the blood of soldiers. That’s something people won’t forgive.

The anniversary program spanned nearly every facet of public life. New war-themed feature films were released, alongside documentaries. Thousands of previously classified documents were made public—including ones that, during the Soviet era, were deliberately kept locked away. These files provide evidence of the enthusiastic collaboration of Latvians, Lithuanians, and Ukrainians with the Nazis—their participation in the most brutal war crimes and atrocities, in genocide.

Back then, the Soviet Union had its reasons for exercising restraint: it wasn’t in its interest to highlight the fact that parts of the so-called “great family of Soviet republics” had fought side-by-side with the Nazis, killing their own fellow citizens, taking part in the Holocaust, murdering Soviet POWs and civilians. Now, that mercy has run out. Today, they are being reminded—bluntly—in response to the glorification of their SS-men, their open Russophobia, and their simmering hatred. In this information war, no prisoners are taken.

It is in this context that the Russian state now faces a daunting challenge: to once again assert the narrative of the Soviet people’s great victory in what, more than any other war in their history, is remembered here as a just war. The belief that the Red Army liberated the peoples of Europe and saved them from annihilation remains widespread.

Moscow is decked out in hundreds of thousands of posters, banners, flags, and replicas of archival photographs. The media won’t let anyone forget the anniversary—there are interviews, discussions, documentaries, and reports everywhere. Naturally, the dominant theme is the story of a victorious war, of well-earned pride in that triumph. But it’s not just a one-dimensional propaganda narrative. There’s room for reflection, too—for acknowledging the war’s filth, its dehumanizing force, the personal cost paid by anyone, even those fighting for the most righteous of causes, in a war of total destruction.

“Look how few people there are,” my Russian friend, a university professor, says as we finally reach Gorky Park on May 9. And he’s right. Compared to what I saw here 15 or 20 years ago, the crowds have thinned.

This used to be a meeting place for war veterans. I came here every year in the ’80s and was always struck by the raw emotional energy that filled the air. This was where veterans would gather, drink, reminisce, cry. They’d share memories of those years, honor the fallen, and relive the past. Passersby would give them flowers—spontaneously, sincerely. Today, those old men are gone. What remains are stalls where young people dressed in Red Army uniforms sing wartime songs and encourage the crowd to join in—or ask kids to guess the titles. Elsewhere, children can draw pictures of soldiers from that era, try on vintage uniforms tailored to child sizes, sample field kitchen rations, or join in a trivia game. Just your average Sunday entertainment.

Naturally, the way Russia tells the story of the Great Patriotic War is beginning to change. The direct participants of that immense and unspeakably bloody conflict are almost entirely gone. Those who are still alive are either nearing 100 or have already passed that milestone. Minister Belousov recently stated that there are only around 7,000 veterans left in all of Russia. Now, even those who were raised on the memory of that war—those who grew up with parents and grandparents who lived through it—are beginning to pass on. Their stories, rooted in lived experience, were a powerful force in shaping identity and values. They were credible because they were real.

When this generation—the 50- to 70-year-olds—disappears, all that will remain are people for whom the war is just history. No more personal connection than to the 1612 war or the Napoleonic campaigns. So the storytelling has to evolve. And it is: through special effects, video games, online quizzes, dedicated social media pages, redesigned poster art. The old way—the minimalist dramatic films so rich in unspoken meaning, so persuasive because they featured actors who had survived that war themselves—is gone. Films like The Cranes Are Flying, Father of a Soldier, They Fought for Their Country, Belorussky Station… there were many, and each one was a masterpiece.

Today, Russia is engaged in a fierce and desperate battle over the memory of its own history. And it’s winning that battle—at home. But in the West, it’s losing. The determination of Western propaganda to rewrite the historical narrative—to pin the blame for World War II on the USSR, to cast Nazi Germany as defenders of Western values—is relentless. And it’s working. Before long, that version of events may well become the dominant one.

As I leave Gorky Park, I feel I’m witnessing the slow fading of an era. It’s slipping away with each passing generation for whom the Great Patriotic War was part of lived experience. From now on, it will exist only in the pages of history. Still important, yes—still a vital component of Russian identity—but no longer living memory.

Let’s be clear about one thing: Russians will not let anyone strip them of the memory of that war. Regardless of their political views, opinions about Putin, the war in Ukraine, their worldview or religion—it doesn’t matter. This memory is part of who they are. Any attempt to force a reckoning, to imagine some grand apology down the line, is pure fantasy.

The war in Ukraine, seen from the Moscow perspective, feels different now. The last time I was here, it seemed more present—more of a reference point for understanding the country’s political and social landscape.

“You know what?” a Russian war correspondent tells me (he travels to the front regularly, every few weeks): “it’s hell out there. I’ve been under fire so many times, shaking with fear for my life. The smell of death, the wounded, the dying in the trenches, sleep like an animal. But when I come back here, after a few weeks, I start to—well, ‘miss’ is the wrong word—long for the clarity. Not the war or the death. But the simplicity. Out there, everything is black and white: our guys here, the enemy there. There’s no room for nuance. And if something happens to you, your people have your back. They’ll drag you out of the shelling if they can, get you to a hospital where the doctors work miracles. I don’t carry a weapon, but I’m just as much a target for drones as anyone—maybe even more so, since I’m a journalist.”

He pauses, then goes on. “I come back here, and I’m sucked into this swamp of petty intrigue, backstabbing, grudges, and power games. Suddenly it matters who I pissed off, who might try to get back at me, who it’s safe to talk to and what it’s safe to say. And the worst part? These people don’t give a damn about the war. Or the guys dying out there. What they care about is money. The next thousand rubles they can pocket—while loudly boasting about how much they’ve done for the front. Not long ago, on my show, I said what I really thought about one of those top media patriots. I said he’s got a mouth full of freshly-minted patriotic fervor, but also mansions abroad and zero doubt he’ll flee and change his tune again if the tide turns. That bastard got me fired from one agency, and now he’s trying to get me at my new job too. The management is backing me—for now. We’ll see how long that lasts. And don’t mention his name! If he finds out someone’s writing about him abroad, he’ll literally ruin me.”

So I won’t write his name. Though it’s a well-known one in Russia.

The war in Ukraine, in my view, has become a part of everyday Russian life. Of course, it’s constantly present in the media—official reports, upbeat propaganda messaging—but it’s not hard to find raw footage online that shows the war as it really is. And I’ve heard more than once about the persistent resentment toward the bureaucrats in the rear—often corrupt, calculating, and greedy.

“If it weren’t for the support of ordinary people, things would be bad,” another journalist tells me. “Don’t look at Moscow—it’s a world of its own. Come visit us,” he says, naming a city about three hours from the capital. “Talk to the guys who’ve come back from the front, or are home on leave. They’ll tell you the truth, even though you’re Polish—which makes you an enemy. On the other side, we often hear Polish being spoken, you know.”

Later, when I ask him whether he feels hatred toward the people shooting at them, he says that’s not how it is. Sure, you have to kill so they don’t kill you—but there’s no hatred for the people themselves.

“This is a civil war, I swear to you,” he tells me. “Not long ago, one of our soldiers took a Ukrainian prisoner. But the guy was wounded and started to bleed out. So the prisoner picked him up, carried him on his back for ten kilometers just to surrender. I’m not trying to romanticize this war, but it’s not like what they show on our TV. One day this will end, and we’ll have to live side by side again.”

And he’s right—many times I’ve heard on talk shows that Ukrainians should be wiped off the map, that Ukraine has no right to exist, and other extreme rhetoric. The people saying these things scan the room with fearless eyes and speak in grand declarations—because for them, there’s no price to pay.

During my previous visit, one of my contacts told me that on the Donetsk front, neither side was taking prisoners. Too much pain, too many wounds. One side can’t forget the shelling of civilian areas in 2014; the other blames them for starting a conflict that could ultimately lead to the collapse of the Ukraine they once knew.

Now, I’m hearing a different story.

As I’ve already written, the war in Ukraine has become normalized. But at the same time, there’s a growing sense that once again Russia is standing alone—or more precisely, that the entire world is standing against Russia. And that this war is an existential struggle for the country. Every day, a thousand people sign up at recruitment centers. Sure, it’s about the money. But there’s also something deeply Russian about the way the nation tends to rally around its leader in times of danger.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of questions for Putin. Really unpleasant ones,” says Roman—director, actor, screenwriter. Then he pauses. “But if I met him… I don’t know if I’d actually ask them. You know, he sees more than we do, he’s closer to God.” With that, he glides effortlessly from the secular to the sacred, hinting at the idea that Russia’s leader carries something divine. When I point it out, he smiles:

“Yeah, we sacralize our leaders pretty easily. That’s just how we are. So sure, at home we can say whatever we want about him. But if it came to meeting him face to face, I wouldn’t have the nerve.”

There’s nothing you—those who so easily move the pieces on the Russian and global chessboard from your armchair—can do about it. Russia is simply different. Different from your assumptions, your expectations or your contempt. And that’s why it’s so hard to predict how any of this will end. The easiest answer is: peace. But what kind of peace? No one knows.