Arctic Dreams
"There's a tradition in Barentsburg: whenever you're on the mainland, you're supposed to hug a tree, because there aren't any of those here," says Barbara Mockstadt, a 30-year-old from Moscow who moved to Barentsburg a year ago.
Crammed between another 23 passengers, she flies in a dark blue Mi-8 helicopter that glides gently through the darkness. A landscape of snow and ice spreads out below them, only dimly visible in the moonlight. Barentsburg, the Russian settlement on Spitsbergen in the Arctic, is home to around 380 people, most of them Ukrainian miners and young urbanites from Russia who work as tour guides for the local tourism company. For Barbara, who works as a museum director, Barentsburg embodies a mix of adventure and homesickness. "Since the outbreak of war, life in Russia has been unthinkable for me," she says. But she doesn't want to be completely without her homeland: "I love my country, the language and the people."
Barentsburg is the ideal compromise for Barbara: a Russian enclave on European soil. The city was founded in 1932 on the orders of Stalin, who was driving the industrialization of the Soviet Union and urgently needed coal. At its height, over a thousand people lived here. Despite the sparse vegetation, the tundra, there were even greenhouses and a farm with dairy cows, pigs and chickens. The production surplus was so great that eggs could be exported to Longyearbyen in Norway. The climate here is extreme: from October to February there is polar night, a period of complete darkness. "During the winter nights, when everything is dark, it feels like we are the last people on earth," Barbara says. In contrast, the sun does not set during the four summer months.
On Spitsbergen, the threat of polar bears is also ever-present; about 300 of these "kings of the Arctic," as they are also called, inhabit the archipelago. Although polar bears normally hunt seals, they occasionally approach human settlements. In Barentsburg, it is therefore strictly forbidden to leave the village without a rifle. Barbara remembers a particularly memorable encounter: "One of the polar bears approached our accommodation at 6 am. We heard the warning through the radio and saw the bear right outside our window." When the polar bear started pressing its paws against the window, Barbara got scared. "I was shocked and fascinated at the same time. You think to yourself, 'Help, this is a real bear!' But he's also so big, so beautiful and so fluffy!" A few minutes later, the haunting was over and the bear moved on.
The helicopter lands and the passengers disembark. They are returning from a sports tournament held every two months between Barentsburg and Longyearbyen, Norway - a long-lasting symbol of Russian-Norwegian friendship. The rotor blades make a deafening noise and swirl the snow through the air. An elderly passenger expresses his thanks to the three pilots and shakes their hands. The Soviet-era coach is already waitin. With a jolt it starts moving and transports the passengers bumpily the last three kilometers to the center of Barentsburg. On the way there, they pass the ruins of the greenhouses and a horde of barking huskies kept in a large kennel at the entrance to the town. In Barentsburg the huskies are bred for tourist sledding. On the village square the bus stops, the passengers disappear in all directions. Lights from the windows of the surrounding prefabricated buildings flicker and curious faces appear to survey the arrivals. In the center, a bust of Lenin towers sternly over Barentsburg. A few steps away, a monument rises with Russian lettering reading "Our goal is communism." An ambitious goal for a settlement that only gets fresh vegetables delivered once a month - if at all. Because of the escalating war, Norway threatened last year to cut off the vital supply route through the Barents Sea completely. Russia reacted indignantly, pointing to the 1920 Spitsbergen Treaty, which bans all military activity in the region but allows the peoples of the 46 signatory states to live and work here.
Despite the hard life in Barentsburg, the sense of community is very strong: Residents greet each other on the street at all times of the day. The flats in the four prefabricated buildings in the village are identically cut and furnished with simple IKEA furniture. Singles have one-room flats, couples like Barbara with her boyfriend or families have one room more - and even a bathtub. In the canteen, the residents come together three times a day to eat simple Russian dishes like borsch or pelmeni, stuffed Russian dumplings. The only shop in the village offers a limited selection of cheap food, which is only delivered by ship from Russia every few months. To keep the flow of money simple, people in Barentsburg pay with a local credit card, jokingly called a "Spitzcoin". The amount is deducted directly from your wages.
"Barentsburg is like a spaceship: there is everything you need to survive, but you can't leave here," says Vitaly, the general practitioner at the hospital. The huge building looks empty. "We don't have a single inpatient," he explains, pushing up his glasses. The 32-year-old only recently moved here from St. Petersburg, when complete darkness had reigned in Barentsburg for weeks. "At night I dreamt longingly of the sun. It was surreal." Besides Vitaly, only his supervisor from Tajikistan, a dentist and two nurses work at the hospital. The hospital is closed on weekends. "If you have to die, please wait until Monday," is a popular joke among the people of Barentsburg. But Vitaly and his colleagues have a big responsibility. The nearest major hospital is on the Norwegian mainland, two and a half hours away by plane. "We can't just send patients to another doctor, we have to make the diagnosis ourselves - and it has to be correct."
"Barentsburg is like a spaceship: there is everything you need, but no escape.”
Vitaly has a contract for two years. What comes after that, he doesn't know. "The situation in my home country makes it hard to think about the future." Vitaly addresses a taboo subject that is treated in Barentsburg like Lord Voldemort's name in Harry Potter: the war in Ukraine is better known here as "the current situation". Why do people keep quiet about it? "Everybody has different roots. We have 380 different views on this subject here," Vitaly explains cautiously. There is a knock at the door of Vitaly's office and the helicopter pilot Marat pokes his head in. The two talk, and the topic of politics immediately recedes into the background. In the morning Marat was still flying his helicopter in uniform, now he is here as a patient in casual clothes. Life in Barentsburg is a bit like a sitcom: due to the small population, people often see each other several times a day. Sometimes the chance encounters seem scripted. Secrets such as hidden love affairs do not exist here, everything gets around immediately. Many people don't even lock their flat doors. In the evening, people arrange to meet for sports, cinema or sauna via the local Telegram group, and at the weekend they go hiking together.
Of course, no one came to the Arctic for the conviviality. For the miners, for example, Barentsburg is one thing above all: lucrative. And a stable home, far away from the war in eastern Ukraine that has been going on for years. "Barentsburg is a safe haven in this raging world," says Alexander Yatsunenko from Luhansk - a flashpoint of the conflict. The 45-year-old miner has just finished his shift at the coal mine. His good-natured face is blackened by coal dust. He is lanky and has short, grey hair. When he speaks, he stutters slightly, but that only makes him more likeable. He has a clear stance on the conflict in his homeland: "We are all Russians. There is nothing to separate."
On the walls of the wooden corridor leading out of the shaft are faded posters from the Soviet era depicting the miners as great heroes. Alexander turns off the torch attached to his red helmet and brings the equipment into the office. He hastily drinks a glass of water. "My work feels meaningful. I'm doing the right thing for the right people." Coal mining is in his blood: even his father and grandfather were miners. Alexander came to Barentsburg five years ago. His experience is valued here, and his salary is up to three times higher than in Ukraine. He likes life in the remote mining town; he appreciates the friendliness of the people and the tranquillity of the Arctic. "The first summer I went out to sea with some friends to watch white whales. I will never forget that."
Paradoxically, coal production in Barentsburg is completely uneconomical: just 120,000 tons of coal are brought to light each year. More than twice that amount would have to be mined to make a profit. A quarter of this coal is used to supply the settlement with electricity and heat alone. Mining in the Arctic permafrost is difficult: the deeper you dig, the colder it gets. The miners use a mine train to travel up to 500 meters below sea level. A trip can take up to two and a half hours. In the past, there have been repeated accidents. Nevertheless, Russia is holding on to this strategically important outpost. Under the meter-thick Arctic ice layers around the North Pole, 20 to 30 percent of the world's oil reserves and up to 47 trillion cubic meters of natural gas are suspected, as well as rich deposits of mineral resources such as gold or platinum. The research center in Barentsburg is keeping a close eye on how the climate is changing, because the international battle for the Arctic has long since begun. In about 20 years, the first ice-free summer could open up access to these enormously valuable resources. By then, however, the coal will have long since been exploited. What will happen to Barentsburg then?
"Tourism will determine the future of Barentsburg," Ildar Neverov is certain. The 42-year-old Muscovite has been the director of Arktikugol, the Russian operator of the coal mine in Barentsburg, since last year. He is thus also something like the mayor of the village. Elegantly dressed, he sits at the huge meeting table in his office, his gaze stern. The company is state-owned: A portrait of Putin hangs on the wall, next to it is the Russian flag. But Ildar doesn't seem to care about politics. For him, Barentsburg is an exciting challenge: "I could be sitting in a fancy office in Moscow, but Barentsburg is one of the craziest places in the world. The northernmost coal mine in the world. The northernmost port in the world. The northernmost swimming pool in the world. There are only superlatives here!" he says, his eyes shining. His big dream is for Tom Cruise to shoot the new part of Mission Impossible in Barentsburg. He wants to make his little village world-famous.
If only there were not the boycott of the tourism organizations in Longyearbyen, Norway. Since the beginning of the conflict, they have advised against visiting the tours to Barentsburg offered by the Russians. The Norwegians argue that a visit directly finances the war in Ukraine. In the Russian community, it is rather believed that the Norwegian companies want to gain an economic advantage under the guise of politics: In fact, the Russians themselves run a hostel in Longyearbyen and offer tours, which makes them direct competitors of the Norwegians. According to a survey conducted shortly after the war began, a majority of the Norwegian population on Spitsbergen is in favor of the boycott.
“It's not the end of Barentsburg, just a difficult period.”
In Barentsburg, this leads to absurd situations: A tailor shop makes sweaters from cotton. These are sold in a modern souvenir store that is open five days a week - but there are hardly any tourists, and you can't pay with a foreign credit card at the moment. And even for Russians it is almost impossible to travel to Barentsburg. Whereas weekly charter flights from Moscow used to exist, today, due to the airspace being closed to Russian planes, one has to take the long way by bus via Saint Petersburg, Estonia and Finland - if a visa is granted at all.
"We have hired many new people to work in tourism. If no guests come again this year because of the sanctions, it will be a frustrating season for all of us," Illdar explains. But the flow of money from Moscow seems assured, whether tourism generates profits or not. "It's not the end of Barentsburg, just a difficult period. The same foreign policy tensions existed when the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan. It will pass."
Barbara is less relaxed than her boss about the current situation: "The people in Barentsburg live in a parallel world. Being far away from Russia, she says, it's even easier to ignore the war." The mint-green museum is the most beautiful building in all of Barentsburg, Barbara's personal kingdom in the Arctic. Where the consulate once pulled the diplomatic strings, fossils and gripping stories from the past now greet the few visitors, such as the almost complete destruction of Barentsburg by the German Kriegsmarine in 1943. "When I arrived in Barentsburg, it was like another planet for me. Everything is in one place, everything is so close. For me, it's a kind of social experiment," Barbara says of her first impressions. In this seclusion, she experiences a strange duality: "Sometimes I feel very isolated. But there is also a great freedom. The ocean, the mountains. Here I feel my body, my breath much more."
Barbara started her career in Barentsburg as a tour guide. But soon her ambition got the better of her and she started organising events at the museum. Ildar recognised her talent and offered her the museum management. "That was a wow moment for me. Here it's like this: if you have an idea, you just go to the director and you get the chance to implement it." At the same time, Barbara appreciates the sense of community. "In a very short time I have made many friends. We regularly celebrate small parties together in the museum with music, go hiking or do yoga in the gym." Nevertheless, the topic of war always hovers over the relationships like a sword of Damocles: "Every conversation is like a walk through a minefield. You have to proceed cautiously and find out how the others feel about the war, even with close friends I sometimes hardly talk about it." Those who have made their opposition to the war clear have already migrated. What remains is a close-knit community living in fragile harmony. No one can afford disputes - they would endanger cohesion.
"Every conversation is like a walk through a minefield.”
Three months after my departure from Barentsburg, I receive a message from Barbara via Telegram. She informs me that she will not renew her contract in June. Instead of staying in the Arctic, she plans to join a friend at a surf camp on Kamchatka, a remote peninsula in eastern Russia. "I'm tired," she writes. "Journalists kept coming, and we had to make a good mine of the bad game. My bosses' attitude toward the war and the feeling of lack of freedom exhausted me."
