Moscow Living
The Russian writer Mikhail Bulgakov wrote in "The Master and Margarita": "The housing issue has spoiled them." Decades later, the question of where and how to live remains at the centre of Russian society — and of individual lives.
The Russian writer Mikhail Bulgakov wrote in "The Master and Margarita": "The housing issue has spoiled them." In 2017, the issue of housing is still at the centre of society in Russia. The current developments in Moscow are a reflection of the problems that have shaped the relationship between people and living space for a century. Even on the 100th anniversary of the October Revolution, issues such as property and privacy are still moving the country.
After the Second World War, many families in urban areas lived in barracks. Due to the rural exodus, the so-called "Kommunalkas" were more crowded than ever before. When Nikita Khrushchev became party leader in March 1953 after Stalin's death, he built large apartment buildings everywhere. A speech at a Moscow building congress at the end of 1954 changed building policy not only in Russia but in the entire Eastern Bloc. Khrushchev paved the way from magnificent Stalin buildings to uniform, simple apartment buildings. It was the beginning of the thaw period and an economic upswing that would last at least until the end of the 1950s.
In Moscow, thousands of these prefabricated buildings from the Khrushchev era are now being demolished. Mayor Sergei Sobyanin made the decision to take the historic project into his own hands. The gigantic demolition programme is one of the largest in history and is expected to cost over 3.5 billion roubles — around 51 million euros. But the plans do not meet with popular approval everywhere. In mid-May more than 20,000 Muscovites flocked to a demonstration. Many people are afraid of being pushed to the MKAD ring road for the benefit of the construction industry. While the low ceilings and narrow rooms are anathema to many residents, for other Russians the "Khrushchevka" are part of their own identity.
Those who assess the housing issue in Moscow only on the basis of the demolition programme only grasp a fraction of its diversity. In the past, the question was answered by socialist housing, in whose decisions the individual had no say. The close coexistence of people from different milieus in communal housing was a great burden that still has an impact on Russian culture today. It was only the prefabricated housing commissioned by Khrushchev that enabled the Soviet citizen to find retreat and a breath of freedom. In modern Russia, the individual finally has the opportunity to answer the housing question — but as under capitalism, it is above all a question of money. There are people who, despite adverse circumstances, have found their own answer to the agonising housing question.
Juri
Juri lives in an earthen hut on the edge of the M8 between Moscow and Yaroslavl. He used to work as a lawyer in the capital, today he is famous as a "Russian hobbit". The man with felted blond dreadlocks, long red beard and pink woolly cap waits at the highway with a broad grin. Next to him sits a fat rabbit with white fur and red eyes. Thanks to a solar panel on the roof there is not only electricity in the self-built hut, but also a wood-burning stove with banya. He regularly receives free food from friends — or from one of his 25,000 YouTube subscribers. "I lived in Moscow for ten years, finished university, lived in a rented apartment and worked in an office," he explains. "After that I became increasingly lazy." What bothered him most was the fact that, despite his education, he had hardly any money at the end of the month. At some point he lost his motivation: "I had less and less money and I didn't want to earn any more either."
Finally, he decided to become homeless to break the social corset of obligations. His earth hut is chaotic, yet furnished with love: hundreds of books, colourful drawings, portraits of Russian writers, statues of Greek philosophers, oriental carpets, incense sticks, ceramic cups and a bell with which he calls his rabbit into the hut at late evening. Although at first glance Juri lives like a hermit, he is anything but isolated from society. Stickers with the inscription "Nawalny 2018" are everywhere. For Juri, the Russian opposition politician Alexei Nawalny is the only man who can stand up against Putin. On his YouTube channel he advises on how demonstrators should behave after an arrest. When Putin was to be accompanied by an escort on the M8, several police officers visited Juri and called on him to remove the large Nawalny lettering facing the highway. "Even to catch bandits, fewer armed men pass by," Juri commented sarcastically. Now he hopes for political change: "Nawalny is a symbol for change."
Sergey
Sergei lives on an old boat on the banks of the Moskva. He bought it many years ago as a rusty metal barge in Yaroslavl, brought it across the Volga to Moscow and thus fulfilled a childhood dream. Together with his friend Dmitri, he invested the equivalent of around 12,000 euros to get the boat in shape. Today he sits on the sun deck with a relaxed expression on his face, smokes cigarettes and raves about the future. "We want to go to the Crimea on the Black Sea next year. Our plan is to rent a mooring and make round trips. We've put so much into this boat. It would be nice if one day it would pay off," Sergei says with a childlike brightness.
He loves to look deep into the glass: "I can easily drink one or two litres of vodka alone in the evening, no problem at all." The boat makes a cosy impression: two spacious sleeping cabins, fluffy sofas, a large kitchen and high windows that flood the interior with light. It is much better on the Moskva than in the noisy city, says Sergei. He loves the fiery red sunsets, the chirping of the locusts and the fresh air while fishing. But Sergey is not only a romantic, but also a patriot. The Russian national flag flutters in the wind at full mast. "Vladimir Vladimirovich is a good guy," he praises the president. Nevertheless, social cohesion was better in the past. "The bright years of communism," he recalls. "I say this because my childhood was very vibrant. The pioneer camps, for example. Today, children just sit in front of computers." But he could not bring back the past: "We live the way we live. And I believe that Vladimir and I are doing well on the boat."
Tanja
Tanja lives in a five-storey prefabricated building from the Khrushchev era, which is to be demolished in two to three years. The young woman with short haircut and green strands of hair dreams of a life in Europe. "There are human rights, a strong economy, social guarantees and tolerance. In Russia everything goes in the opposite direction," she says with an open-hearted smile. A light brown house cat fluffs itself on the bed. Tanja compares her apartment to a wall cupboard because of its compact size. But although she shares 28 square metres with her partner, she feels comfortable.
She works as a copywriter for an advertising agency and makes a good living. Although the Russians are better off economically than in the 1990s, social developments are giving her a stomachache. "The average consumer watches television, that is, state propaganda," she explains. She also takes a critical view of the large-scale demolition programme. Although she is in favour of renovating dilapidated buildings, politics is failing in communication. An activist from her circle of acquaintances who had organised petitions against the demolition programme was stabbed to death one night on his way home. The background to the incident is still unclear, but she does not want to rule out a connection to cold-blooded developers. "The demolition programme is for rednecks who want more square metres," she complains. Tanja paints a bleak picture for the future: "We are slowly turning into a second North Korea." When we leave her front door, she jokingly says: "Hopefully FSB won't knock on my door after this interview."
Andrej
Andrej lives in an enigmatic house that was built in 1917 shortly before the October Revolution. The entrance door to the artist's apartment is always open. When we enter in the afternoon, he is still lying on the lower floor of his loft bed. "We just woke up," he says. He is sitting on the edge of the bed with his upper body naked and smoking a cigarette. Tribal tattoos and ink stains adorn his muscular arms. He takes a can of condensed milk from the round wooden table and eats it with a spoon. Anyone who joins Andrej travels into a world of magic. There are all kinds of fascinating and disturbing things to discover: scary installations with gas masks, religious symbols, drawings of fantasy creatures, figures inspired by socialist realism, splashes of paint on the walls, plasticine on the doors, a dusty piano, an antique oak cabinet, records, books, cigarette butts and notepads with macabre poems. Here Andrej lives and works, somewhere between genius and madness.
The house, which was never finished, should have been demolished in the 1990s. However, the building is a listed monument: the Russian painter Yevgeny Lansere had a studio there from 1934 to 1946. The building is located in the centre of Moscow. The "Lubyanka" metro station, the site of the former KGB headquarters, is only a few minutes' walk away. Through Andrej, young designers and students live in artist collectives. The rent for an apartment with seven rooms is 140,000 roubles — around 2,000 euros. According to a legend, the Beatles gave a secret concert for Leonid Brezhnev in the basement in the 1960s. Andrej is happy and hopes to live in the house for a long time to come. "It's as if an old childhood dream is coming true here."
Anna and Artemi
Anna and Artemi live in one of the "Seven Sisters" in Moscow, built by order of Stalin between 1948 and 1954. The confectioner-style high-rise complex is located on Kudrinskaya Square opposite Barrikadnaya Metro station. "These seven skyscrapers have become a symbol of the city, if not of the country," says Anna. "This was a demonstration of power in the post-war period." Anna works for a renowned state choir. "The house is in a very comfortable place, right in the centre of town." She shares the two-room apartment with her friend Artemi, the CEO of a well-known marketing company. "It's only a ten-minute walk to the Kremlin," he says. Books, oil paintings and an icon stand on a wooden piano. The style of the apartment seems to be out of time — a touch of Biedermeier in the remains of the Soviet Union.
"This is a good location because it is a historic building," says Anna. "The house will always be expensive and remain an effective investment." Anna and Artemi are happy not to live in a prefabricated building. They consider themselves cosmopolitans and do not want to recognise an economic crisis in Russia. "For example, many Italians are currently moving to Russia because it's very difficult to find a job there." In the long run, both could imagine living on an island. "We lack the sun," Artemi says. "We see ourselves as people who are not bound to one place. Today we are in Portugal, tomorrow in Moscow and the day after in New York."
Uljana
Uljana lives in a house that was built in 1951 at the end of the Stalin era. Her one-room apartment is bright and friendly. Although the house is not from the Khrushchev era, it was subsequently included in the Moscow city demolition programme. But Uljana and her husband are strictly against the demolition. "We don't want to move out, we're doing very well here," she explains. They bought the apartment in November 2015 for five million roubles — at the exchange rate at the time about 71,500 euros. "The city administration promised us that the house would definitely not be demolished." It was only after a vote by the residents a few weeks ago that the house was subsequently included in the programme. Uljana and her husband are convinced that the vote was taken by unfair means. "There is a woman in the administration who apparently has a financial interest in the programme. She rang all the grandmothers in the house and actively persuaded them to vote for the demolition."
Since her husband is a music teacher, acoustic and electric guitars decorate the walls. Unplastered brickwork gives the room a warm atmosphere. A light wooden floor, seat cushions, a high ceiling and sliding doors radiate a pleasant lightness. The property could be of interest to developers: it's just a five-minute walk to the metro, 15 minutes to the city centre and there are lush parks. Uljana does not understand what her "Stalinka" has to do with the Khrushchev demolition programme. "I guess the floor of an old woman's house is broken. That's no reason to demolish the whole house. Let's help the old woman," she explains militantly. Now Uljana wants to organise a class action suit together with her neighbours and take it to court. Whether the action will be successful remains uncertain — but her hope has not been dashed.
