Feminist Politics in Neoconservative Russia: An Ethnography of Resistance and Resources 9781529216981

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Feminist Politics in Neoconservative Russia An Ethnography of Resistance and Resources Inna Perheentupa GENDER and SOCIOLOGY

Gender and Sociology series Series editors: Sue Scott, Newcastle University and Stevi Jackson, Centre for Women’s Studies, University of York

Presenting high-quality research from established scholars and early-career researchers, the Gender and Sociology series is aimed at an international audience of academics and students who are interested in gender across the social science disciplines, particularly in sociology.

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Gender and Sociology series Series editors: Sue Scott, Newcastle University and Stevi Jackson, Centre for Women’s Studies, University of York

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FEMINIST POLITICS IN NEOCONSERVATIVE RUSSIA An Ethnography of Resistance and Resources Inna Perheentupa

First published in Great Britain in 2022 by Bristol University Press University of Bristol 1–​9 Old Park Hill Bristol BS2 8BB UK t: +​44 (0)117 374 6645 e: bup-​[email protected] Details of international sales and distribution partners are available at bristoluniversitypress.co.uk © Bristol University Press 2022 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-5292-1696-7 hardcover ISBN 978-1-5292-1697-4 ePub ISBN 978-1-5292-1698-1 ePdf The right of Inna Perheentupa to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of Bristol University Press. Every reasonable effort has been made to obtain permission to reproduce copyrighted material. If, however, anyone knows of an oversight, please contact the publisher. The statements and opinions contained within this publication are solely those of the author and not of the University of Bristol or Bristol University Press. The University of Bristol and Bristol University Press disclaim responsibility for any injury to persons or property resulting from any material published in this publication. Bristol University Press works to counter discrimination on grounds of gender, race, disability, age and sexuality. Cover design by blu inc Front cover image: aniaostudio –​istockphoto.com Bristol University Press uses environmentally responsible print partners Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

Contents List of Abbreviations Acknowledgements Series Editors’ Preface 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

vi vii ix

Introduction: Feminist Resistance in Russia Civic Activism and Feminist Politics in Russia Feminists Repairing the Self and Society Activists Negotiating the Politics of Space Epistemic Resources and Struggles Mediatized Manifestations of Feminism Resources and Their Effect on Feminist Resistance

Appendix: Methodology Notes References Index

1 23 41 70 99 123 148 156 165 167 183

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List of Abbreviations CSM KGB LGBTQ NGO ROC WR

Committee of Soldiers’ Mothers Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti [Committee for State Security] lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer non-​governmental organization Russian Orthodox Church Women of Russia

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Acknowledgements First and foremost, I must thank all the feminists, activists and others who shared their stories and time with me in St Petersburg and Moscow between 2015 and 2018. This work would not have been possible without these individuals, who agreed to meet me and took me to meetings, rehearsals and backstages. I am greatly indebted to all who shared their insights with me. You taught me a lot, and inspired a thought process far beyond the confines of this book. Numerous people helped me get started with this study. In particular, I wish to express my enormous gratitude to Elena Zdravomyslova, Anna Temkina, Ekaterina Borozdina, Irina Iukina, Olga Burmakova and Antti Rautiainen. This book would have not been written without the immense support of my PhD supervisors, Suvi Salmenniemi, Salla Sariola and Mari Toivanen. Through their brilliant questions and encouragement, they helped me to bring together my dissertation and ultimately turn it into this book. Thank you so much. I am also grateful to the department of sociology at the University of Turku, and especially Hannu Ruonavaara, for hosting me for the period of my PhD project, and to Bruce Grant, my host for my visit to New York University, who made my writing retreat a pleasure. I also thank my PhD examiners, Julie Hemment and Eeva Luhtakallio, for their brilliant suggestions to improve my dissertation. In addition, I extend my thanks to Anni Kangas, Daria Krivonos, Laura Kemppainen, Emma Lamberg, Harley Bergroth and Saara Ratilainen for their numerous constructive comments and support, and for sharing the joys and woes of academic life. Likewise, I express my gratitude to Masha Godovannaya, Anna Avdeeva, Pauliina Lukinmaa, Alisa Zhabenko, Julia Gataulina, Vikki Turbine, Laurie Essig, Elisa Pascucci, Kia Andell, Joni Jaakola, Henri Koskinen, Johanna Nurmi, Tatiana Tiainen-​ Qadir, Virve Peteri, Mary Patrick and Airi Leppänen for their support and comments on the various chapters. Julie Hemment, Valerie Sperling and Michele Rivkin-​Fish provided me with invaluable comments during the process of turning the PhD into a book. Their immense expertise on the topics on which I write helped me crystallize my arguments for the book.

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Finally, I thank the anonymous reviewers of this book and the editors of Bristol University Press. The long-​term work required by ethnographic inquiry would have been impossible without stable funding. For this, I am greatly indebted to the Kone Foundation and the Academy of Finland for funding the projects Tracking the Therapeutic: Ethnographies of Wellbeing, Politics and Inequality (Academy of Finland), Therapeutic Knowledge and Selfhood in a Comparative Perspective (Kone Foundation) and Creating Spaces of Justice across the East-​West Divide (Kone Foundation).

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Series Editors’ Preface Inna Perheentupa’s Feminist Politics in Neoconservative Russia makes a welcome addition to the ‘Gender and Sociology’ series, contributing to our ambition to make the series truly international and publish work that potentially decentres Western perspectives and knowledge claims. While this book focuses on Russia, it has much wider relevance given the rise of neoconservative governments and increasing authoritarianism globally, which are often associated with backlash against feminism (indeed the very idea of gender equality). It is essential that we understand the implications of these trends for gender relations and the potential for and limits on resisting them. This is a book on politics, broadly conceived, but which displays a distinctly sociological sensibility in its approach. It takes account of both everyday and overtly political forms of resistance, the social conditions and lived experience that contribute to the making of feminist selves, the social relations through which feminist spaces are created, the interactions within and between feminist groups and differential access to material and epistemic resources. The analysis is set against the backdrop of the transformations that have taken place in Russia since the Soviet era, and especially the dashing of hopes for a more democratic political realm and more expansive civil society. The rise of neoconservative nationalism after the turn of the millennium featured a revival of supposedly ‘traditional’ Russian values and a strong alliance between the government and the Russian Orthodox Church (ROC). This ideology is antipathetic to gender equality and rights for sexual minorities, which were represented as ‘foreign’ ideas that distorted the ‘natural order’. This shift politicized gender and sexuality and stimulated the new forms of feminist activism that are thoroughly documented and analysed in the book. Inna Perheentupa’s insights into the lives and politics of feminist activists are based on extensive ethnographic research that she conducted in St Petersburg and Moscow, involving 42 interviews as well as participation in and observation of feminist gatherings and events. Since much feminist activism takes place online, a space in which some freedom of expression is still possible, she also draws on internet and social media sources. Most of those interviewed were born in the 1980s and 1990s and came to feminist awareness and activism in the 2010s in response to the government’s ix

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neoconservative moves, but some were veterans who had been active in earlier decades, as well as in the new incarnation of feminism. This new feminism is very much a grassroots movement. It has little by way of institutional foundations and is lacking in tangible resources; the foreign funding available to some feminist NGOs in the 1990s, which aimed to promote the development of democracy, is no longer available. Activists are also facing increasing repression, restrictions on public protest, censorship, and government control of mainstream media. Under these conditions they need to be nimble and creative, not only to promote their cause, but also to remain safe. Another limiting factor on Russian feminist activism that Inna Perheentupa identifies is its reactive character. Feminists have constantly had to respond to new legislation and policies that reinforce gender and sexual inequality. These include pronatalist and anti-​abortion policies and the decriminalization of domestic violence. There have also been so called ‘homo propaganda’ laws, severely restricting public discussion of sexual diversity as well as limiting the right of LGBTQ individuals and potentially criminalizing them. A further law, which bans publicly ‘hurting religious feelings’ can readily be mobilized against both feminists and LGBTQ activists. Feminist activism, then, is constrained to be reactive, constantly opposing regressive legislation rather than making progress. The feminism that has arisen in this context, however, is diverse, both in terms of political perspectives and tactics. Inna Perheentupa’s informants identified with a variety of feminisms, including queerfeminism, intersectional feminism, anarcho-​feminism and radical feminism, or saw themselves simply as feminists. They made use of a range of political practices from the courageously confrontational to the more subtle, safer ‘smuggling’ of feminist ideas into the public domain through cultural events such as film screenings and art exhibitions. They also engaged in practices of self-​care and drew on feminism as a therapeutic resource for self-​understanding. There were often major disagreements between groups with differing political stances or tactics, exacerbated, perhaps, by the limited opportunities they had to meet publicly so that much debate and contestation happened online. Inequality in access to epistemic and other intangible resources could also give rise to divisions and hierarchies, sometimes reinforcing and sometimes cutting across political differences and disagreements about tactics. Epistemic resources vary from academic to experiential, creating an uneven and unequal distribution of feminist knowledge. Some based in academia or with media experience or connections are better placed to publicize feminist ideas and actions. Those lacking such resources need to become resourceful, relying on their wits and creativity to create an impact. The forces opposing feminism in Russia have considerable coercive and discursive power. The strategies they use to discredit feminism are all too familiar –​the appeal to ‘traditional’ family values, portraying feminists x

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Series Editors’ Preface

as ‘unnatural’ women and, importantly, damning feminism as a foreign import and a threat to the nation. It is the case that Russian feminists, to varying degrees, borrow from and/​or appropriate imported ideas –​though interpreted and modified in the light of local conditions. To make too much of this, however, would be to deny the local, experiential basis of feminist activism in Russia, its independence from ‘Western’ feminism and its inventiveness. One example of a campaign that was independent of (and anticipated) feminist campaigns elsewhere, was an internet flash mob protest against gendered violence under the hashtag ‘I am not afraid to tell’, which occurred before the similar #MeToo movement spread globally. While the former had begun in Ukraine, it spread quickly to and within Russia. Additionally, Inna Perheentupa provides us with numerous locally specific instances of inventiveness, such as ways of making small creative actions more significant though publicizing them online and sometimes capturing the attention of wider media audiences. Inna Perheentupa makes it clear that she wishes to avoid a romanticized account of Russian feminism. In analysing its achievements, difficulties and the tensions within it, she is not telling a simple story of heroism against overwhelming opposition but is providing a nuanced and complex account of a many-​faceted movement. Yet there is heroism, at the mundane level of the effortful, all-​consuming nature of activists’ commitment to feminist praxis, as well as risks taken in more overtly confrontational styles of protest. Inna Perheentupa is honest in her respect for feminist activists working in such difficult circumstances and throughout the book she highlights their passion and creativity. In concluding she says: ‘feminists are talented in going underground and “talking in code”. They find channels to communicate and exchange ideas and knowledge, and “keep warm during freezing political times” by creating alternative spaces and shelter.’ There are lessons here for feminists everywhere, and especially for those, in the many parts of the world, facing growing authoritarianism. Professor Sue Scott Professor Stevi Jackson February 2022

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Introduction: Feminist Resistance in Russia ‘Who defends us from the defenders of the fatherland?’ enquires a feminist banner held up by an activist with a bruised eye.1 A photograph of this activist, sitting on the stairs of an Orthodox cathedral amidst fellow activists with similar bruises on their faces, was circulating on the Russian web on the Day of the Defender of the Fatherland in 2016, which celebrates Russian armed forces. It was published on social media as part of a protest seeking to bring awareness to the issue of gendered violence in Russia. The question posed by the protest banner was a commentary on how violence permeates Russian society, as the state indirectly allows structural violence while educating defenders in the army. Of course, the feminists performing being female victims of domestic violence had not really been beaten up, as the photograph suggests. Furthermore, although they were performing passivity on the steps of the Orthodox space, they were actually taking an active role as activists to bring attention to an issue that has been key to feminist politics in Russia since the 1990s. However, whereas some of the goals of feminist politics have remained unchanged since the 1990s, the means of activism have altered, due to a conservative backlash, shrinkage of the political space and diminishing resources for independent activism in the 2000s. The feminist action in front the Orthodox cathedral exemplifies the tactics and means used by contemporary feminism in neoconservative and authoritarian Russia. Indeed, the fact that the majority of its audience, myself included, was online rather than live speaks of the essential role of the internet and social media in contemporary feminist mobilizing, as well as how feminism in Russia has become thoroughly mediatized. While other political opportunities have diminished, the internet has allowed the development of new tactics and styles of activism. The action also illustrates spectacular and performative aspects of feminist protest aiming to attract public attention.

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The stunt might also be observed as an example of feminism as a language. This juxtaposition was made by anarcho-​feminist Milka, aged in their early thirties, one of the activists interviewed for this book. In Milka’s view, feminism was exactly the ‘language’ demanded by the political situation in Russia in the 2010s, as conservative forces were evidently dominant in both power and opposition politics, and authoritarian tendencies were growing ever stronger. For Milka, what was special about this ‘language’ was that it was able to speak of violence and its gendered aspects, an issue that is not problematized by any other political ideology. However, it is not only gendered violence that feminist vocabulary renders visible. It is sensitive to a number of other issues not articulated in the dominant politics, such as issues of non-​normativity. Furthermore, while serving as a language itself, feminism also draws elements from other languages and vocabularies, one of which is the language of global therapeutic culture. Indeed, like mediatization, therapeutization of feminism is a global trend, albeit observed in this book from the perspective of local motivations that connect with both Russia’s history and its increasingly authoritarian contemporary context. I suggest that analysis of feminist activism and its evolving tactics in contemporary Russia brings to the fore an intriguing mixture of local elements and motivations converging with global trends, such as feminism blending with media and, via popular culture, with therapeutic understanding of the self. Studying feminism in contemporary Russia is productive for these and other reasons, not only for those engaged with Russia, but for anyone interested in feminist activism and its contemporary manifestations. Feminist activism has seen a resurgence, not only in Russia but throughout Europe and beyond, as a reaction to, among other things, economic crises, austerity, and the rise of the far right (Dean and Aune, 2015). It takes many shapes in the contemporary political climate, sometimes turning to a postfeminist sensibility (Gill, 2007, 2016) and neoliberal feminism (Rottenberg, 2016), two concepts that focus more closely on individuality and self-​actualization than on a collective struggle for emancipation and equality. These forms of feminism tend to obscure social structures that affect how individuals are positioned in networks of power, and whether they are privileged or oppressed based on various intersecting social categories such as gender, sexuality, class, religion and ethnicity. ‘Femonationalism’, a combination of feminism and nationalism, is also on the rise, turning feminism into a tool for ‘othering’ in the name of equal rights, and portraying some cultural contexts as more backward than others (Farris, 2017). A strong anti-​feminist sentiment has also emerged (see, for example, Eriksson, 2013; Szelewa, 2014) in tandem with the rise of populist, nationalist and conservative political movements in several countries in Europe and in the United States, further stimulating feminist activism. 2

Introduction

Also, the Russian government has deployed increasingly conservative and authoritarian politics in the 2000s. This has significantly affected both the overall sphere of independent civic activism, and specifically the country’s non-​male and non-​heterosexual populace. The Russian government initially framed gender as a political question in response to demographic challenges and Russia’s declining birth rate (Rivkin-​Fish, 2005; Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014). In order to push through its conservative ideology, it formed an alliance with the ROC, which has become a visible social actor and an authority in post-​Soviet Russia. The increasingly conservative political orientation was also manifested in the legal sphere in the early 2000s, in the form of bills proposing limited access to abortion, and a series of laws banning public discussion of non-heterosexuality when minors might be present. The Church–​state tandem advocates essentialist gender roles, highlighting motherhood as a key female fulfilment. It is noteworthy that as policies became increasingly conservative in Russia, feminism as an ideology was construed as motivated by self-​interest in relation to the deepening demographic crisis (Rivkin-​ Fish, 2005: 218). Following the release of Pussy Riot’s Punk Prayer in 2012, which attracted international attention to the Russian feminist group, patriarch Kirill, head of the ROC, called feminism a dangerous phenomenon that might destroy the country, offering its women ‘a false sense of liberation’ (Elder, 2013). The members of Pussy Riot were later accused of engaging in hooliganism with the Punk Prayer, and some were arrested. Indeed, the pressure targeted at feminists in the 2010s is vividly observed by Russian feminist scholars, Anna Temkina and Elena Zdravomyslova (2014: 265–​266), who state: ‘Currently, in addition to verbal threats, to which feminists have become accustomed, we face the risk of political and criminal charges. In the context of authoritarian tendencies, this is not pleasant, to put it mildly.’ The neoconservative orientation was accompanied in the 2000s by increasing political authoritarianism. This was manifested in the state instrumentalization of traditional media, especially television (Hutchings and Tolz, 2015b; Roudakova, 2017), and a crackdown in the independent civic sphere, as well as election rigging documented across the country in the early 2010s (Gelman, 2015: 9–​13; Gabowitsch, 2017). However, these changes have invigorated the rise of a new generation of feminists in the 2010s, following a quieter period in feminist activism. And while Pussy Riot remains the best known example of feminist activism in contemporary Russia, the field of feminism is much more diverse, as will be illustrated. The changing political opportunities, as well as limitations on the rights of women and of those identifying with non-​normative gender or sexuality, are the key drivers of this book. The main question explored in this study is: how 3

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is feminist politics conducted in neoconservative and authoritarian Russia, and what forms does it take in this political context? More specifically, I ask: • How do feminist activists make sense of feminism in their lives, and how do they mobilize it to challenge conservative gender norms, meanings and identities in Russia? • How do the activists carve out space for feminism, and what kinds of spatial and temporal dimensions does feminist resistance take? • What resources are the feminists able to deploy for their activism, and what kinds of practices are those resources turned into? ‘Politics’, and what counts as such, is ambiguous in this context, as Russians often view politics as the privilege of a restricted elite. Understanding politics as distant from the everyday struggles of ordinary people often leads Russians to despise the very concept, associating it with corruption, self-​promotion and fraud (Mason, 2016: 14). However, feminism takes a very different approach to politics. Thus, in interrogating politics, it offers an intriguing ‘lens’ –​to quote the activists in this study –​through which to analyse what constitutes being political in the first place. As one prominent feminist, Audre Lorde (1984: 110–​114) has observed, ‘the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house’, suggesting that the oppressed cannot use the tools of their oppressors to fight back, but must instead make their own tools. Taking a cue from this, I suggest that feminist politics and its tools are redefined over and over again in relation to the specific ethico-​moral context, which always plays a key role in how political subjects come to be formed in the first place (Mahmood, 2005: 9). I respond to Johnson and Saarinen’s (2013: 544–​545) proposal that researchers should seek feminist resistance in places that do not, at first sight, appear to be political spaces, since they suggest that feminism is bound to be disguised in the increasingly repressive context of Russia. Since political opportunities have been significantly curtailed over the past decade in Russia, and because feminism itself often challenges the very concept of politics and how it is understood, a broad understanding of both overt and covert forms of politics is adopted (Hollander and Einwohner, 2004). I analyse resistance conducted in both confrontational and more camouflaged ways in the context of activists’ everyday lives. Furthermore, in detailing feminist practices, I draw on Ann Swidler’s (1986) idea of culture as a tool kit and understanding of available tools as being limited by the cultural context, allowing access to some capacities while making others unavailable. In this book, I argue that feminist politics in Russia comprises four key dimensions: reparative politics, the politics of sheltering, the politics of expertise and the politics of appearances. First, reparative politics speaks of the healing texture of feminist resistance, and how it has helped the activists to see the pathology in social structures rather than in themselves. It also speaks 4

Introduction

of the individual and collective dimensions of activism, and how both of these are elemental to feminist everyday resistance, for example in combatting gendered violence. The second dimension, the politics of sheltering, suggests that, whereas activists’ long-​term aim is to expand the feminist space by spreading feminist ideas in society, the more urgent spatial project of feminism is that of creating shelter, privacy and safety for individuals and activists, who express a chronic lack of these. The third dimension, the politics of expertise, highlights the movement’s internal struggles over who and what kind of knowledge legitimize the adoption of a feminist subjectivity, public action and the position of a feminist expert, thus raising the question of whose perspective counts. This question is apposite beyond the Russian context, as more and more feminist knowledge is being produced outside traditional realms of feminism such as universities, for example in the various digital spaces. Finally, the fourth dimension of feminist politics suggests that, as the available political opportunities exist mainly on the internet and in the realms of new media, public feminism is becoming a politics of appearances. This last dimension highlights how some activists play skilfully with the media logic in order to attract the largest audiences possible and are, at times, able to make the movement seem larger than it actually is. However, in response to the politics of overt appearances, a feminist politics of veiling is also appearing. Contrary to the politics of appearances, the latter engages in covert forms of activism, highlighting that lived culture is never simple but always formed of contradictory elements. Accordingly, my aim is not to tell a single coherent story of the Russian feminist movement, nor do I think that would be possible. Rather, I share many, sometimes contradictory, stories covering both loud and visible, and less visible and hidden, dimensions of feminist activism. The overall ‘storyline’, if there is one, speaks of the complexity of resistance and feminist culture, and their connection with scarce resources. Indeed, in addition to resistance, resources are a key thread running through the book. The following encounter with a feminist activist serves as an introduction to the significance of this theme. In the middle of my fieldwork, I ran into an activist whom I had met briefly earlier, but who had not responded to my request to be interviewed for this study. However, based on “observing me and my work” (I had indeed noticed her presence at a couple of events in which I had participated), she now suggested that, in her view, I only spent time with “resourceful feminists”. The concept of a ‘resourceful feminist’ puzzled me greatly, as the activists with whom I had spent most time seemed to have little money, and often avoided using it by creating value in other ways, for example by relying on networks and contacts. However, over time, I came to realize that this notion in many respects goes to the core of feminist activism in Russia, focusing attention on the cultural resources available for activism and the practices for which 5

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those resources can be used. One task for me is thus to answer the riddle of what are the characteristics of a ‘resourceful feminist’. Gender is another central concept and research topic running through the analysis. I understand gender here as referring to the group of meanings that a culture assigns to biological sex differences (Cohn, 1993: 228). Gender is a symbolic system that organizes societies hierarchically by making male–​ female distinctions (Scott, 1986). It not only shapes how individuals in a given culture experience and come to understand themselves, but also interweaves with and shapes other discourses (Cohn, 1993: 228). For example, Valerie Sperling (2015) has detailed how gender has been deployed as a key political tool by both the Russian government and the opposition in the 2000s. This has been done by producing plausible political subjectivity as masculine, and ridiculing rivals by marking them as feminine. Formal politics has thus become coded with gender and imagined as a ‘distinct masculine endeavour’ (Gal and Kligman, 2000: 3). I suggest that studying feminist activism in Russia not only brings many new and valuable insights into both Western social movement theory and feminist theory, but also places the idea of the Western hegemony of feminism under a critical gaze (see, for example, Wiedlack, 2016; Solovey, 2020). In illustrating the richness of contemporary Russian feminism and its historical roots, my aim is to highlight how feminism and activism take different paths, depending on the location, which can only be understood when observed in dialogue with local historical and political factors. Thus, the purpose of this book is to highlight the unique traits of feminism in Russia, while acknowledging that, in an era of globalism and internet feminism, influence flows two ways –​from non-​Western countries to others, and vice versa. By challenging ‘Western bias’ in studying activism, the book is of relevance both to those engaged with Russia, including scholars, experts and enthusiasts, and to feminists, activists and social movement scholars around the world. In this book I build on three bodies of scholarship. First, I contribute to contemporary understanding of feminist activism by offering a rich ethnographic account of how activism was conducted in the increasingly authoritarian and neoconservative political context of Russia in the 2010s. In the empirical chapters I reveal the immense dynamism of feminist praxis in relation to power, and show how activists adapted to the increasingly repressive context. This is highly relevant to scholars and activists around the world, as many Western countries, too, are confronting a conservative and populist backlash. The detailed ethnographic account of how feminist activism mobilizes and its key tactics and tensions is the book’s central contribution to Russia studies, as no other book maps the re-​emergence of the feminist movement in the 2010s in such depth. The few existing studies on this topic include Valerie Sperling’s (2015) analysis of feminist groups and initiatives in the early 2010s, and their responses to increasingly conservative policies and the patriarchal 6

Introduction

condition. Like Sperling, others have also analysed feminist activism in Russia, although mainly from the perspective of the Pussy Riot case and its aftermath, as well as focusing on internet activism (Bernstein, 2013; Sperling, 2014; Gapova, 2015; Jonson, 2016; Wiedlack, 2016; Kondakov, 2017; Solovey, 2018). I broaden the perspective by elucidating the manifold nature of feminist activism and illuminating some of its key internal struggles, about which little is as yet known (however, see Senkova, 2018; Kondakov and Zhaivoronok, 2019). I also uncover contemporary feminist mobilization in dialogue with earlier feminist mobilizations in Russia. A wealth of research has been conducted on the Russian women’s movement and feminist politics in the 1990s and early 2000s (Posadskaya, 1994; Zdravomyslova, 1996; Sperling, 1999; Kay, 2000; Caiazza, 2002; McIntosh Sundstrom, 2002; Henderson, 2003; Hemment, 2007; Salmenniemi, 2008). These studies illustrate how the earlier movement engaged with feminist politics in a context of increasing political opportunity and economic resources. In this study the next generation of feminists and their activism are analysed within a very different opportunity structure, with significantly less access to economic resources and fewer political allies. I also build on studies of politics and resistance in contemporary Russia. I do this by speaking of the under-​studied topic of gender in the context of contemporary activism, and also by revealing the complexity of resistance in Russia, and how it employs both loud outcries and hidden gestures. Furthermore, I argue that it is impossible to study resistance in authoritarian and conservative Russia without analysing spatial aspects. I aim to render visible the highly peculiar texture of activism, which often mimics power, thus illustrating the ambivalent relationship between resistance and power. Finally, I contribute to social movement scholarship, and studies of resistance in general, by demonstrating the central role played by resources at every stage of activism, in both internal and external struggles of movements. Thus, the study is not only aligned with previous research on the centrality of resources for social movements (McCarthy and Zald, 1977; Edwards, 2007), but also enables novel insights into social movements’ functioning in resource-​scarce and repressive political contexts, by illustrating the centrality of resources to all dimensions of feminist politics. In addition, I reveal some key power relations within the movement connected with resources, and differences in activists’ access to them. However, although feminism may be consuming, the study also speaks of it as an immense therapeutic resource for the activists engaged in it.

Producing the research with feminist ethnography The research material for this book was produced ethnographically in feminist communities in St Petersburg and Moscow. In this book I draw mainly 7

FEMINIST POLITICS IN NEOCONSERVATIVE RUSSIA

on 42 semi-​structured thematic interviews, with altogether 44 activists, observations of various feminist events and gatherings, as well as internet and social media materials, and reflection on the research process documented in the researcher’s field diary. Most of the material was collected during my stay in Russia during autumn 2015. This fieldwork was complemented with numerous follow-​up visits in 2016, 2017 and 2018 when, among other things, I collaborated with some of the activists and took part in feminist festivals and meetings. I also participated in the organization of a few feminist events. With numerous preparatory and follow-​up visits, the overall time spent onsite grew to four months. This long-​term approach, with the possibility of returning to re-​interrogate issues, was pivotal to the success of the data collection. Were it not for the regular follow-​up visits, the material would not have taken shape as it did. Furthermore, the later visits played a decisive role in deepening my understanding of the key phenomena about which I was writing. After the intensive onsite fieldwork, the ethnography shifted online, with observations made between 2015 and 2019. This seemed natural, as the majority of feminist actions were shared on feminist social media sites. Indeed, the analysis also draws on feminist actions that I was only able to observe online, since some had taken place before or after the actual fieldwork period. I was not familiar with the feminist movement in Russia when I started this research, though I had lived in Russia and studied self-​help groups in St Petersburg in my previous ethnographic research. Thus, it was a pleasure to notice that many feminist actions, meetings and events were organized in the two cities during the period of the fieldwork. The first feminist interviewees were recruited via common acquaintances. Following the first interviews, new interviewees were found either through contacting them online, or with the help of those activists whom I had already interviewed, as many of them helped me to organize new meetings with activists. A typical week during my fieldwork comprised following feminist discussions on the internet, meeting and interviewing approximately two to four activists, and taking part in between one and three feminist events, which ranged from theatre rehearsals to feminist discussions, informal get-​ togethers, festivals, self-​defence classes and demonstrations. At first sight, feminist activism appeared to be agile, spontaneous and often instigated by a few key people, who mostly acted alone or in small groups of activists who had the time and motivation to participate at a specific time. Furthermore, typical of feminist events and meetings was the fact that the venues were very often announced at the last minute, and feminist events were sometimes also cancelled at the last minute. This ad hoc nature was also typical of the interviews, as people were ready to meet me at very short notice. The focus of this book is on understanding how the activists made sense of feminism and how feminist resistance was manifested in their everyday lives. For these purposes, I considered ethnography to be the most suitable 8

Introduction

research method. Ethnography as a research method is a sophisticated tool for in-​depth research on everyday action in a specific community. According to American anthropologist, Clifford Geertz (1973), ethnographic research aims to produce a thick description, its purpose being to understand the research topic in a nuanced way. In practice, the thickness is guaranteed by drawing from various research materials, which support each other. Ethnography also allows appreciation of the complexity of lived realities. Rather than looking for absolute ideas and truth, ethnographic inquiry concentrates on the multivocal, and at times contradictory, ideas of ‘truth’ in the community in question (Hakala and Hynninen, 2007: 211). Moreover, this ethnography has been thoroughly informed by a feminist sensibility. Among other things, this means that I am engaged in the feminist understanding of knowledge as always situated and produced from a certain position (Haraway, 1988). This also refers to an understanding that my own knowledge, as well as the knowledge of those studied, can only be partial based on our varying positions (Nagar, 2014: 12–​13). My analytical focus is on the activists’ feminist agency, and how they made sense of their activism, depending on their positions. I am also interested in the question of ‘in whose interest?’ (Skeggs, 2001: 437). Thus, my curiosity is oriented towards all hierarchies and power relations produced within and outside the feminist movement. This means that while critically observing broader hierarchies between non-​feminists and feminists, and Western and non-​Western forms of feminism, I also illustrate hierarchies and tensions among the feminists. By discussing the friction in the movement, I want to avoid ‘romanticizing’ the movement, and rather to highlight the ambivalences that are there always too (Ortner, 1995: 180). The feminist research approach also entails reflections on my own position, and has regularly made me turn a critical gaze on my own potential bias or prejudice. I am a White, middle-​class Finnish woman, and my own position and privilege may increase my blindness to certain issues. Yet I suggest that my position, as someone from a neighbouring country not yet embedded in all the local feminist practices, norms and struggles, has also allowed me many insights (for a more detailed description, see Appendix), as I did not take the feminist practices and struggles as self-​evident. In order to keep track of my own insights and possible blindspots, I kept a field diary throughout the research process. Key to my research approach were analysing feminist struggles and practices from different angles, and interviewing differently positioned feminists in order not to emphasize any one form of feminism. It was essential for me not to take sides, nor to prefer one form of feminism over another, but rather to try to understand different perspectives on it, and where these sprang from. I argue that the strength of this ethnography lies in its rootedness to certain places and spaces. Indeed, conducting ethnography always necessitates 9

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a decision to locate one’s research somewhere, rather than trying to be everywhere at once. Moscow and St Petersburg were chosen for the fieldwork, as they were more likely than smaller Russian cities to host regular feminist activities and alternative sub-​cultures. As cities they are, of course, in many ways peculiar compared with the rest of the country. St Petersburg has often been described as the ‘Western capital’ of Russia, as it accommodates an especially liberal and open cultural spirit. On the other hand, Moscow, as the administrative capital, has been characterized as more official and less liberal because it hosts the premises of power. The two cities represent urban Russia, while many other forms of feminism in smaller cities remain undiscovered. Indeed, during my onsite observations I met various visiting activists from the regions, who told me what it was like to engage in feminism in the regions, and how feminism and activism in some cases had to be conducted completely anonymously. My discussions with these feminists suggest that there is much yet to be discovered in the context of feminism in Russia, for which this book is only a starting point.

Introduction to the feminist activists interviewed The main criterion for choosing interviewees for this study was that they identified as feminists or were otherwise well-​connected with the feminist sphere and would have valuable insights into the movement. Most of the interviewees identified as feminists, with the exception of three interviewees. Of the individuals not identifying as feminists two identified as men. They insisted that as men, they were not allowed by the female activists to call themselves feminists. Although they were still very well-​connected with feminist groups, took part in organizing feminist events and participated in some feminist debates. One female interviewee also noted that she was not a feminist but was active in an artists’ collective that also conducted projects with an approach that appeared very feminist. Indeed, her own artworks might well be interpreted as conveying a feminist message. Furthermore, feminism meant various things to the activists who identified as such. Based on the activists’ own identifications, among them were anarcho-​ feminists (4), intersectional feminists (3), queerfeminists (8), radical feminists (6), LGBT activists supporting feminist ideas (5), eco feminists (1), trans-​ feminists (1), leftist feminists (1) and cyber-​feminists (1). Some indicated that they identified as belonging to more than one category, while others stated that they did not want to label themselves further, identifying simply as feminists (14). In this book, I note where the activists identified with a particular school of feminism, and where I do not specify, they often simply identified as feminists without additional labels. As Finn Mackay (2015) points out, definitions of different feminisms are often complex and difficult to specify. This is also the case with the 10

Introduction

identifications here. Based on the interviews, the activists often understood labels such as queerfeminism, intersectional feminism and radical feminism differently, and highlighted different aspects as central to these schools of thought. Furthermore, the activists’ self-​identification sometimes contrasted starkly with how other activists would define them. For example, some activists were defined as radical feminists by others, whereas they themselves would identify as queerfeminists, anarcho-​feminists or intersectional feminists. In addition, not all identified as activists, but rather as just feminists, feminist researchers (4) or artists (9). Nevertheless, I define them as activists based on the fact that they participated in feminist public action, whether by producing or translating texts, organizing or taking an active part in events and discussions, or producing feminist art. I understand the concept of activism much like Flacks (2004), who views activists as people whose identities and daily lives are strongly structured by their commitment, in this case feminism. The activists identified as women (32), men (3) and genderqueer (5), and some did not want to identify themselves in any way in relation to gender. A considerable number identified as non-​heterosexuals. The majority had been born in the 1980s and 1990s and had become politicized during the 2010s. However, I also interviewed five veteran feminists who had already been active in the women’s movement and other counter-​cultural movements in the 1990s. At the time of the interviews, most of the veteran feminists were still active in the contemporary feminist scene in one way or another. The veterans interviewed had been born in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. In addition to being artists and researchers, the activists interviewed worked in various other professions, such as consultancy, journalism and social advocacy, for non-​governmental organizations (NGOs), as directors, PR managers, philosophers, teachers, lawyers, translators, sales managers, photographers and freelancers, or were unemployed. While most were situated in St Petersburg or Moscow during the interviews, many had been raised in other smaller cities and regions around Russia. Most had a higher education degree. In order to protect the feminist activists interviewed, all the names of the interviewees have been anonymized. I use the pronouns ‘he’, ‘she’ or ‘they’ in this book based on the interviewees’ own preferences in referring to themselves. The activism observed for this study was largely project-​based. The fact that very few of the activists interviewed operated as a part of registered NGOs reflected the strict contemporary Russian NGO laws, which define NGOs receiving foreign funding as foreign agents, subjecting them to increased surveillance. Only two of the activists interviewed represented a feminist NGO, and both discussed how their organizations were uncertain of what the future would bring. The new legislation had increased the organizations’ bureaucracy and blurred their future prospects. These interviewees wanted 11

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their feminist activism to be clearly separated from their official positions in their organizations. Moreover, while I had originally planned to interview representatives of more institutionalized forms of feminism (for example, members of the gender faction of the Iabloko party), I soon decided to focus instead on the younger generation of activists, who seemed to take a very different and more agile approach to feminist issues than representatives of feminism within official party structures. The goals of activism voiced by the feminists were diverse. In the interviews, most of the activists highlighted mainly external goals, such as influencing people’s overall perceptions and understanding of feminist issues, including sexism, misogyny, gender, patriarchal structures, heteronormativity and gendered violence. Some groups focused their work mainly on issues around gendered violence, both to increase awareness of the issue and to support those who had experienced it. Other groups and individuals interviewed focused on dismantling the norms of binary gender and the associated heterosexuality. Various other goals were mentioned, such as achieving equal pay and working conditions, changing social values by spreading knowledge and offering education, transforming gender and parenting roles (both motherhood and fatherhood) and improving the lives of transgender individuals. Some groups stated that uniting the fragmented feminist movement was their goal, thereby focusing on the movement’s internal rather than external goals. The most profound ideological division among feminists during the period analysed appeared between radical and queer feminist approaches. However, it is important to stress that the groups and divisions, such as the queer/​ radical split referred to in the interviews, were in reality shifting and volatile. Despite these discursive divisions, individual activists often drew on different schools of thought, sometimes in contradictory ways, and identifying as radical or queer stood for partially different things for different individuals. The core question dividing the movement during the period of this study was the issue of sex work/​prostitution and how it should be approached. For those identifying along the lines of anarcho-​queer, it was typical to talk about sex work as a choice, concentrating on the agency and subjectivity of the sex workers rather than their alleged patriarchal ‘oppression’. The queerfeminist approach to sex work often contained the idea that the ‘Swedish model’ of criminalizing customers of commercial sex would not work in Russia, because solving the challenges around sex work was much more complex (for a fuller discussion, see Kondakov and Zhaivoronok, 2019). For the radical feminists, on the other hand, prostitution (not sex work, as it was highlighted that prostitution was not a choice for everyone) was always about oppression and patriarchal exploitation, just like pornography, although the latter was observed much less during the course of my fieldwork. Many of those marked as radical feminists by others, and in some cases identifying as 12

Introduction

such themselves, advocated the Swedish model of criminalizing the act of buying sex in Russia. The other key struggle deterring some activists from cooperating with or facing some other groups was that of ethnic or religious appropriation. In a similar vein to those dealing with the theme of sex work/​ prostitution, these struggles often seemed to centre around the issue of agency and letting those discussed speak and choose for themselves. This was also a very common and timely debate in other countries during the production of the research material, connected with intersectional feminist analysis and thinking. However, for those identifying as radical in this configuration, the focus was mainly on dismantling different forms of patriarchal oppression which, in their view, left some individuals with no choice. Despite their differences, the activists also shared many features, such as their broader political orientation, as many took a critical stance in relation to the current political regime. Most of them had also taken part in the ‘For Fair Elections’ mass protests in 2011–​2013 and can be thus seen as representing different parts of the non-​systemic Russian opposition. In this book, I address the field formed by various feminist groups as a social movement. However, it is necessary to point out that the movement was by nature a spill-​over movement (Meyer and Whittier, 1994), in the sense that it spilled over into different parts of the Russian leftist non-​ systemic opposition. In addition to being loosely situated in the realm of different parts of the opposition, various feminist individuals and groups were also situated in the counter-​cultural project and spaces of art, drawing inspiration from punk, anarchism and Riot grrrl. This is also why the field has sometimes been addressed as a formation of various feminist movements in the plural (see, for example, Solovey, 2020). Nevertheless, I consider it fruitful to address the feminists as a movement, as the groups, even if at times distant from each other, were working on the feminist discourse in dialogue with each other, sometimes in collective agreement, and at times struggling over the issues described. Perhaps the movement can for this reason best be described as a loose networked movement, a typical form of mobilization in Russia during the internet age (Bode and Makarychev, 2013). Following this, it was clear that the main task of the movement was that of producing knowledge in order to make feminist ideas available in the Russian society. The emphasis on epistemic practices is also why I discuss them in various chapters of this book from different perspectives. This book focuses on feminist alliances that were predominant during the production of the research material, thus analysing their interactions with leftist, anarchist and LGBT movements. However, it must be noted that at the time of the research, the latter was somewhat scattered. The often connected letters LGBTQ should not be viewed as forming a united community as such. Some influential LGBT communities were conducting valuable work to make the lives of lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and in some cases transgender 13

FEMINIST POLITICS IN NEOCONSERVATIVE RUSSIA

people, easier in Russia. My interviewees included representatives of these communities. However, the transgender individuals interviewed for this book, representing the letter T, also partially problematized the assumption that the LGBT community could represent them, and they thus identified rather with the transgender community or certain schools of feminism. Furthermore, those identifying as queerfeminists were connected mainly with the anarcho-​queer scene, and not the LGBT movement. Therefore, for clarity, I usually separate the ‘Q’ from the other letters, and refer to LGBT when speaking of the LGBT movement, while using the short version LGBT/​Q when referring to the wider, more diverse group of feminists who identify with one of these letters. Finally, I have omitted the letter ‘I’, as the issue of intersexuality was not politicized in the context of this research.

Theoretical road map of the book In tracing how feminist politics is conducted in contemporary Russia, I draw theoretically on studies of social movements and resistance, as well as theorizations of cultural practice and relational space. These broad theories are deployed in this book because they allow an appreciation of the various individual and collective, as well as covert and overt forms taken by feminist resistance. Furthermore, they allow analysis of feminist politics in Russia from its own premises, rather than assuming anything based on feminist activism or tradition elsewhere. Thus, the theoretical tools deployed enable a critical approach to the Western hegemony of feminism and studies of activism, and challenge the ‘Western bias’. In the remainder of this chapter, I first introduce the broad theoretical framework of the book, that of overt and covert resistance. After discussing the various forms that resistance may take, I present the spatial and temporal theoretical tools deployed in this book. I then discuss culture as a tool kit that offers activists certain tools for action.

Tracing feminist resistance in Russia In order to trace the multiple forms of resistance in which feminists engage, I adopt a broad understanding of the term. Despite great variation, what I consider common to all resistance is action of some kind, whether verbal, cognitive or physical, as well as the intentionality of the individual engaging in resistance (Hollander and Einwohner, 2004: 538). Another element common to all forms of resistance investigated here is a sense of opposition, of being counter to or subversive towards something (Hollander and Einwohner, 2004). Researchers focusing on resistance have observed that understanding politics only along the lines of open contention and revolt leaves many of the more 14

Introduction

subtle forms of non-​compliance unobserved (Scott, 1990; Mahmood, 2005; Baaz et al, 2017). They suggest a broader approach to politics that also takes account of hidden forms of resistance (de Certeau, 1988; Scott, 1989, 1990), as well as local specifics and contexts that dictate what constitutes resistance in the first place (Mahmood, 2005). ‘Everyday resistance’, a concept coined by James Scott (1989), refers to covert and hidden forms of resistance in the context of mundane life. Everyday resistance tends to be quiet, dispersed, disguised or apparently invisible. For example, it may take the form of passive non-​compliance, subtle sabotage or evasion. The hidden nature of everyday resistance may refer to hiding either the act of resistance itself or the intention for it, depending on the context and the political limitations. What is key is that resistance is hidden in various ways because it is conducted by subordinated groups and the non-​privileged in authoritarian contexts where open revolt might have severe consequences that the individuals cannot risk. Thus, although everyday resistance is intentional, it tends to go unnoticed by its targets and observers (Scott, 1990: 40). In Russia, covert resistance is motivated by various factors, not least by increasingly repressive legislation and a hostile attitude towards political groups independent of the state. An example of camouflaged resistance is that of feminist critique moving increasingly into the sphere of art, a realm of action that is still relatively unregulated. In moving from more traditional spaces of resistance into that of art, resistance statements tend to turn from loud claims into more delicate artistic expressions that must be sought ‘between the lines’. Covert forms of resistance also tend to be more popular among activists in more vulnerable political positions, such as individuals identifying as LGBTQ. This is because current legislation in Russia bans public discussion of issues of non-​heterosexuality in the presence of under-​age individuals, thus indirectly criminalizing those who identify with one of these letters. Furthermore, when tracing resistance, sensitivity to context is needed, as practices of resistance are formed in relation to the ethico-​moral context in which they take place (Mahmood, 2005). Indeed, as Mahmood (2005) highlights, it may be impossible to recognize acts of resistance if detached from their context, as the political conditions in which they take place give them their meaning. Thus, omitting the context would mean losing the essence of the political subjectivity itself, as it is always construed in relation to a particular moral and ethical order (Mahmood, 2005: 32–​35). However, while analysing how context affects practices, I argue that many forms of feminist resistance in contemporary Russia may also speak of related phenomena in other contexts, especially with similarly authoritarian tendencies. One such dimension highlighted by this study is how resistance has various therapeutic dimensions in tandem with political dimensions. Indeed, the two are often profoundly entangled in contemporary feminism, as I will show in Chapter 3. 15

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A core form of everyday resistance which may be both covert and overt is that of resisting disciplinary and normalizing power by engaging in alternative self-​making. This kind of resistance is about refusing to participate in self-​ disciplinary practices which suggest that subjects should comply with certain social norms (Lilja and Vinthagen, 2014: 122). Foucauldian technologies of the self, which allow the embodiment of an alternative moral order (such as that of feminism), are thus understood here as a way of resisting and engaging in ‘counter-​conduct’ (McNay, 1992; Lilja and Vinthagen, 2014: 122). For example, central to such counter-​conduct is how activists refuse to comply with certain gender norms, and instead engage in undoing those norms in their everyday practices (Butler, 1990; Rossi, 2015). However, when conducted in relation to specific discourses and disciplinary power, the act of refraining from action altogether may similarly count as resistance. As Saba Mahmood (2005: 15) has observed, ‘agentival capacity is entailed not only in those acts that resist norms, but likewise in the multiple ways in which one inhabits norms’. Furthermore, while engaging with alternative self-​making as resistance, individuals may simultaneously strengthen some forms of power, for example when they align with neoliberal and postfeminist ideas of the atomized self and with local cultural practices connected with gender norms. As I shall show in Chapter 3, resistance is rarely untainted by forms of power, even when mobilizing to resist them. Alongside the covert and hidden everyday forms, feminist resistance takes many loud and confrontational forms. The loud forms of resistance that Hollander and Einwohner (2004: 544–​545) call ‘overt resistance’ are those recognized as resistance by all parties –​the resisters and their targets, as well as observers. These open forms of resistance often aim at social recognition (Hollander and Einwohner, 2004: 540). Social movement scholarship is instructive for analysing overt resistance, as it traces contentious forms of politics that usually aim to openly confront their opponents, whether the state, global actors or other interest groups (Della Porta and Diani, 2006: 20–​22; Edwards, 2014: 24). Social movements are formed in order to politicize issues and bring those issues to public discussion and contestation. However, political opportunities must exist in order for social movements such as the feminist movement to emerge and be able to politicize issues in public. ‘Political opportunity structure’ (Tarrow, 1998; Tarrow and Tilly, 2009) refers to possibilities for and limitations on political action. The concept relates to characteristics of a regime and its institutions that enable or foreclose collective action, and also acknowledges changes in them (Tarrow and Tilly, 2009: 440). In Russia, several laws, regulations and policies currently limit the political opportunities available for independent civic activism. Also, social actors independent of the state, such as feminist groups, usually lack economic resources, and lack of funding limits their opportunities to engage 16

Introduction

in certain forms of activism. However, as these groups function mainly unofficially, they have been able to act more agilely than if they had been NGOs. Organizations receiving foreign funding are labelled foreign agents and risk legal punishment, so all NGOs operating in Russia that engage in political activity are in an increasingly precarious position, both economically and in terms of their future prospects. Furthermore, traditional media, in the form of the main television channels, are government controlled, significantly diminishing the types of political opportunities that Della Porta and Diani (2006: 219–​220) call ‘discursive’, as the media are a key realm allowing both expression and formation of opinions. The more autonomous and plural a country’s media structure, the greater the discursive opportunities for activists and social movements (Della Porta and Diani, 2006: 220). Although discursive opportunities in Russia have diminished owing to the state’s increasing instrumentalization of traditional media following the relatively liberal 1990s, new opportunities have emerged as a result of the growth in internet spaces and new media outlets, which are still much less regulated by the state. Indeed, it has been suggested that in the 2000s, digital spaces have pluralized the ‘monologic structure’ of Russian political discourse by enabling the formation of new kinds of political subjectivities and loosely tied networked movements, such as the feminist movement (Bode and Makarychev, 2013; Nikiporets-​Takigava and Paina, 2016). Finally, when analysing resistance in relation to power, it is necessary to bear in mind that the two have a peculiar relationship and are mutually constitutive (Hollander and Einwohner, 2004). In other words, the various forms of resistance are shaped by existing power relations, and resistance also creates new power relations (Hollander and Einwohner, 2004: 549). Disciplinary power is thus contested not only in relation to conservative and dominant political discourses, but also in relation to discourses seeking to become the norm among resisting groups themselves (Lilja and Vinthagen, 2014: 114). Accordingly, this book aims to illustrate the more complex dynamics of feminist resistance by highlighting some of its internal power dynamics and struggles, as well as the fact that resistance not only produces power but also more resistance. My aim is thus not to fall into the simplifying dichotomy of powerful and powerless, as there are always multiple systems of hierarchy. Furthermore, as I shall highlight, the same individuals and activists may appear simultaneously powerful and powerless within different systems (Hollander and Einwohner, 2004: 550; Mahmood, 2005: 15).

Discovering spatialities and temporalities Space offers a valuable theoretical and methodological ‘lens’ through which to study resistance and social movement relations. Indeed, the relationship between social movements and space is two-​dimensional: spatial aspects 17

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affect social movements, but social movements also themselves mould space (Martin and Miller, 2003; Daphi, 2014: 171). I understand space as being formed in social relations (Harvey, 1996; Martin and Miller, 2003; Massey, 2005). The concept of relational space holds that space is not merely a container, but rather a constant process, a meeting point and a multiplicity (Massey, 1991, 2005: 55). This means not only that space is conceptualized in terms of social relations, but also that relations themselves can only fully be recognized by thinking spatially (Massey, 2005: 39). Relational space can be discovered through various spatial dimensions, such as place, scale, networks, socio-​spatial positionality and mobility (Martin and Miller, 2003; Leitner et al, 2008). Place as a physical manifestation of space is pivotal for social movements, especially for the feminist movement with its constant shortage of spaces of their own. Scale refers to the simultaneous interplay of multiple scales in space, as the local, national and transnational may coexist in varying configurations. The idea of simultaneously present spatial scales enables investigation of whether resistance is locally confined or widespread (Hollander and Einwohner, 2004: 536). This concept aids interrogation of how the activists comprehend the movement, in local, national or transnational terms or, as in the case of the feminist narratives, in all of them but with different emphases. Networks refer to the way that movements are networked across space. Networking may occur through physical interaction as well as through virtual and social media space, as was often the case for the feminists interviewed. Movements’ networks are crucial, among other things, for sharing different forms of insight and knowledge. Socio-​spatial situationality, on the other hand, enables one to look at the varying positions deployed by different individuals, and thus allows one to zoom in to the sometimes unequal relations between differently positioned activists (Leitner et al, 2008: 162–​164). Finally, the spatial aspect of mobility refers to the fact that some individuals and groups are more mobile and move across space more effortlessly than others (Skeggs, 2004; Leitner et al, 2008). However, mobility can also be conceptualized as a mental category, as ‘one can be highly mobile from a fixed position via connections’ (Skeggs, 2004: 49). Thus, good networks and connectivity provide some individuals with a sense of mobility even when they are not physically moving (Skeggs, 2004). A key characteristic of relational space is its constant negotiation, which also makes it political in nature (Massey, 2005: 179). Spatial politics arose in the context of the feminist movement studied when the activists were negotiating spatial axes such as invisible/​visible, private/​public, closed/​ open and safe/​unsafe. All of these spatial aspects tended to be present in the feminist spaces at the same time, although different activists highlighted different aspects. Some aimed to make feminist space open rather than exclusive, whereas closing it in order to produce safety and privacy appeared more urgent to others. 18

Introduction

As this discussion reveals, the concept of relational space connects closely with temporality. Indeed, when analysing relational space, time and space should not be separated but observed together and in relation to each other as ‘space-​time’ (Massey, 2005: 55). Michel de Certeau (1988) has conceptualized everyday resistance in relation to space-​time, which is useful when tracing feminist resistance in spatial and temporal terms. De Certeau distinguishes between strategy and tactic in examining power relations in space-​time. These concepts are distinguished in order to highlight their different positions in relation to space, time and power. In de Certeau’s duality, ‘the strategy postulates a place that can be delimited as its own and serve as the base from which relations with an exteriority composed of targets or threats can be managed’ (de Certeau, 1988: 34). Strategy thus entails the idea of a physical place of its own, with borders that can be governed and controlled (see also Sederholm, 2002: 79). In contrast to strategy, tactic has no place of its own, but only the time at hand. It is thus constantly on the alert to take over the space of strategy, even if only temporarily, to ‘manipulate events, in order to spin them into possibilities’ (de Certeau, 1988: xix). Tactic operates by grasping opportunities ‘under the gaze of the enemy’. It is thus invisible, present nowhere; yet at the same time this very nature allows it to seize the moment when it appears. In the case of the feminists, this means that although they are ‘stuck’ in the territory of the powerful, by using time and inventiveness they are able to take over the space of the other for their own purposes, even if only temporarily. Space thus enables the subaltern –​the tactic –​to make do, turning it temporarily into something other than what the strategy suggests (de Certeau, 1988: 32–​37). In Chapter 4, I analyse feminists’ spatial tactics with the help of de Certeau’s spatio-​temporal conceptualization. Furthermore, in Chapter 5, I look at how activists themselves, with the help of temporalities, sometimes construe an understanding suggesting that some forms of feminism are ‘primitive’ (belonging to the past), while the forms and feminist perspectives that they themselves take and advocate are signified as up-​to-​date. I argue that the activists are able to do this based on their particular socio-​spatial positionality, networks and mobility.

Mapping feminist culture In detailing feminist political culture, I draw from Ann Swidler (1986), according to whom culture, rather than being something internal to individuals and only value-​based, affects individual action and practices from the ‘outside’ as much as from the ‘inside’ (Swidler, 1995: 31). From this perspective, the cultural context in which individuals are embedded has a causal effect on their action, as it can only offer certain tools and capacities to individuals who, based on these available capacities, construe certain 19

FEMINIST POLITICS IN NEOCONSERVATIVE RUSSIA

lines of action (Swidler, 1986: 277). That is not to say that they are ‘passive dopes’, since they are active in construing lines of action from the existing options (Swidler, 1986). Furthermore, culture is always complex, not least because the capacities of different agents within it vary considerably based on their backgrounds and the resources to which they have access. While the feminist activists studied here have access to various resources, most are intangible in the form of skills and know-​how, rather than tangible such as money (Edwards, 2014: 44). While I touch on the question of the movement’s culture by discovering feminist processes of meaning making and resisting practices throughout the book, Chapters 5 and 6 focus on analysing culture by drawing on the Swidlerian idea of culture as a tool kit comprising certain available habits, skills and styles. In these chapters I thus trace the tool kit by identifying feminist practices and what these practices may speak of regarding the ‘outside’ cultural effect, for example how institutions, contexts and available resources affect the practices deployed (Swidler, 1995: 32). In Chapter 5 I chart feminist political culture by mapping feminist epistemic practices, which is achieved by drawing on the concept of cognitive praxis (Eyerman and Jamison, 1991). This concept suggests that social movement knowledge is always shaped socially and should thus be traced in communications and interactions between the individuals and groups who come together to form it. Rather than being comprehended in terms of particular interest groups, social movements are understood as cognitive territories and conceptual spaces filled with dynamic interactions between different interest groups. However, as pinpointed by Eyerman and Jamison (1991: 62), the actors themselves are often unaware of certain dimensions of the social movement’s cognitive praxis, which must be identified by actually looking for them. In Chapter 5 I elaborate on feminist culture in terms of the knowledge resources available for the feminist epistemic work in a political context of information regulation. I also discuss the key role played by academic institutions in giving feminist practices a special flavour and thus affecting feminist practices from the ‘outside’, while also illustrating the rise of alternative forms of non-​elite feminisms beyond the reach of academic cultural influence. While my focus in Chapter 5 is on internal movement practices, in Chapter 6 I concentrate on the movement’s public practices and lines of action in turbulent political times. Public feminist lines of action are scrutinized in dialogue with Swidler’s (1986: 273) idea that patterns of action are likely to change during unsettled periods, such as that in Russia in the 2010s resulting from various changes in the structure of political opportunity. Indeed, when some forms of action have been forbidden, the activists have been forced to look for new styles and patterns of action. The lines of action

20

Introduction

analysed here refer to the ‘chains of action’ typical of a cultural context, rather than to specific instances of action. As Swidler (1986) points out: People do not build lines of action from scratch, choosing actions one at a time as efficient means to given ends. Instead, they construct chains of action beginning with at least some pre-​fabricated links. Culture influences action through the shape and organization of those links, not by determining the ends to which they are put. (Swidler, 1986: 277) As part of the lines of action traced, I discover what kinds of emotions are publicly displayed (Goodwin and Jasper, 2004; Jasper, 2014). In interrogating emotions in feminist lines of action, I treat them as socially construed styles of action (Goodwin et al, 2001). The latter chapters of this book thus help me concretize not only the changing practices of feminism, but also how these relate to the activists’ varying access to cultural resources. Indeed, my suggestion is that differences in access to cultural resources among the activists play a key role in forming the feminist culture and its central struggles. They also reveal how elite ownership of this particular cultural domain is actively challenged, and suggest that differently situated activists draw on partially very different cultural tool kits, as the more immediate contexts in which they take action tend to vary, while they also share the broader context of political authoritarianism and repression.

Structure of the book I start by discussing the background and setting out the basis and motivations for the mobilization of the feminist movement in Russia in the 2010s. In Chapter 2 I introduce the development of the sphere of civic activism in Russia and present the history of both gender and feminist politics in this specific locale. I also illuminate the neoconservative and authoritarian turn in formal politics and how it engaged increasingly with gender norms in the 2000s as a consequence of demographic and political developments in the country. These are of relevance to those unfamiliar with the context, as well as those wishing to refresh their memory on these topics. The empirical analysis is divided into four parts, enabling me to chart feminist politics from four angles. These should be of relevance both to global readers interested in feminist resistance and activism, and to those engaged with Russia as activists, scholars and experts. In the first empirical chapter, Chapter 3, I provide an introduction to the lives and politicization of the feminist activists studied. I also look at core forms of feminism in the activists’ everyday lives, and at changes and continuities in relation to earlier

21

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activism around gender in Russia. As feminist activism is discussed in dialogue with local tradition, it is relevant not only to individuals studying activism in Russia keen to understand some of the changes, but also to a wider audience seeking to understand how both local and global ingredients play decisive roles in how feminist activism takes shape. In this chapter it is suggested that although feminism is produced in the conservative discourse as a ‘foreign import’, it should rather be viewed as profoundly local as a result of its unique historical path in Russia. The chapter is relevant to scholars of resistance and gender, as it illustrates how therapeutic and political come together in feminist activism. Novel insights are offered into how postfeminist elements also exist in feminist activism in a non-​Western and authoritarian context. Having examined feminism as a therapeutic resource in Chapter 3, in the three empirical chapters that follow I help the reader appreciate ways in which limited resources produce specific kinds of feminist activism. These issues are of relevance to scholars around the world seeking to understand the workings of social movements in resource-​scarce and challenging environments, particularly as many countries are exhibiting increasingly conservative and authoritarian tendencies. In Chapter 4 I interrogate spatio-​ temporal aspects of feminist resistance. I illustrate how activism conducted by those who are subaltern has profoundly spatial dimensions in a context of increasing authoritarianism. Three key spatial metaphors of feminism used by the activists are introduced, and their wider implications explored. In building on earlier work around space and its political dimensions in Russia, I observe that space cannot be detached from discovering resistance in such challenging contexts of activism. In Chapter 5 the movement’s internal struggles for the few existing –​ especially epistemic –​resources for action are uncovered. In discussing social movements’ resources, I introduce the novel angle of their constant lack, and thus a persistent focus on them. I uncover struggles over epistemic resources within the Russian feminist movement, and suggest that such tendencies resonate in the broader global feminist context. Furthermore, by illustrating the atomization of feminist groups, in this chapter I speak of the wider atomization of independent political groups in Russia. In Chapter 6 I analyse the intensively mediatized tactics deployed by the activists to reach out to new audiences in Russia and to expand feminist public discourses. The chapter is highly relevant to all researchers of feminism and activism, as it shows some potential extremes of activism when squeezed into a very small space in a repressive and conservative context. At the same time, those engaged with Russia will gain a fresh understanding of emergent forms of activism in an online environment. Finally, in Chapter 7 I draw together the main arguments of this book, and envisage some future prospects for feminist activism and resistance in Russia and beyond. 22

2

Civic Activism and Feminist Politics in Russia Certain local and political developments led to the revival of feminism in Russia in the 2010s. Before turning to uncover feminist activism as manifested by the activists interviewed for this book, I shall lay the ground for the analysis by discussing the development of civic activism in Russia, and presenting the history of gender and feminist politics in Soviet and post-​Soviet Russia. I shall also uncover some of the social factors that have led to the neoconservative political turn and the politicization of issues concerning gender and sexuality in the 2000s. These background details will help readers better understand the cultural practices and logic behind contemporary feminist activism in Russia. The Russian civic sphere went through significant and rapid changes during the last century, many of which still affect how activists operate today. The development of civic activism in Soviet and post-​Soviet Russia can be roughly divided into four distinct phases relevant to readers of this book: the Soviet repression of civic activism, the glasnost and perestroika phase of increasing political opportunities in the 1980s, the building of civic infrastructure in post-​Soviet Russia with the help of foreign funding in the 1990s, and increasing limitations on independent civic activism in the 2000s. This section briefly introduces these four phases and discusses some of their characteristics. It then examines some more recent trends in civic activism in Russia that resonate with the feminist activism examined in this book. Almost immediately after its formation, the Soviet Union started to restrict independent social activity and gradually monopolized all political functions (Evans, 2006: 30; Iukina, 2014: 41). Independent civic activism was no longer tolerated, and all available forms of civic activism were orchestrated by the state. The new state-​marshalled infrastructure of civic organizations had already emerged by the mid-​1920s (Evans, 2006: 33), and by the 1930s, all pre-​existing independent organizations had been swallowed up into the official system and operated under Soviet organizations such as the youth 23

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organization Komsomol and the official Soviet women’s organization (Buckley, 1992; Posadskaya, 1994: 8). This state repression of all independent civic initiatives, whether political, cultural, social or religious, continued until the very final years of the Soviet Union (Dzhibladzhe, 2005: 72; Iukina, 2014: 41). However, the changing political climate in the 1950s following Iosif Stalin’s death contributed to a gradual liberalization of the public atmosphere, which enabled the formation of an independent dissident movement. As the dissidents were unable to confront the repressive state openly, they engaged in everyday hidden resistance and thus operated ‘underground’ (see, for example, Zdravomyslova, 2011). While the first dissident groups usually took cultural forms and gathered, among other things, around forbidden counter-​cultural elements such as dissident art and Western cultural imports like punk and rock (Evans, 2006: 42), the dissident movement had become more explicitly politicized by the end of the 1950s (Evans, 2006: 43; Greene, 2009: 59). Maintaining the underground press and disseminating Soviet self-​ publications (samizdat), in order to spread knowledge that was not officially allowed in the Soviet Union, was a key task in which the movement engaged. Whereas the dissenter groups had initially gathered around private kitchen tables, the samizdats extended the reach of the dissidenters’ ideas, ‘passing the same thoughts from one end of the country to the other’ (Greene, 2009: 69). However, official control of the dissident movement increased rapidly after 1979, and many publications and organizations were eliminated during the early 1980s (Dzhibladzhe, 2005: 175–​176). Furthermore, as Yurchak (2006) has observed, looking at the Soviet underground only through the binary of power/​resistance oversimplifies some of the underground dynamics. He suggests that not all underground action was considered political or conducted in opposition to the Soviet state. Rather than resistance or politics, underground socializing was for many about refraining from politics altogether in order to foster their own alternative lifestyles. Those ‘underground’ were thus situated as if inside and outside the system at the same time (Yurchak, 2006: 132). This resonates with some of the feminist spaces studied in this book, as they too are about socializing, and are not always first and foremost about resistance. Nevertheless, I shall argue that in authoritarian contexts, such spaces always carry a political aspect too, and thus cannot be altogether detached from studying resistance. A significant transformation of the sphere of civic activism took place in the latter half of the 1980s, enabled by the political era of glasnost and perestroika. This released the civic sphere from state orchestration, allowing the formation of independent civic groups for the first time in decades. The new politics was launched in response to growing public frustration that had been stimulated, among other things, by the dissident movement 24

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of earlier decades (Dzhibladzhe, 2005; Henry, 2010: 38). The popularity of civic activism grew exponentially, and within only a few months, hundreds of new movements and organizations were formed. Within three years, a network of thousands of independent organizations had appeared (Dzhibladzhe, 2005: 176). Many of these rapidly took on political tasks, while others concentrated on more concrete efforts to support citizens’ everyday conditions, many of which also targeted support for women (Zravomyslova, 2005: 205). The demise of the Soviet Union in 1991 gave rise to the third phase of civic activism: institutionalization. The new, politically liberated situation allowed and called for more civic activism, as many issues previously taken care of by the state were now left in the hands of the citizens themselves, who suffered from increasing everyday social challenges with which various organizations strove to help them. In response to the social challenges of the profoundly new political conditions, a civic infrastructure was gradually built (Brygalina and Temkina, 2004). The 1990s were a time of rapid development, growth and professionalization for many civic organizations and actors. It has been estimated that there were half a million civic organizations in the country, and the civic sector also became a significant employer of an estimated two million Russian citizens (Dzhibladzhe, 2005: 179). With regard to human rights groups and organizations, for example, the environmental movement expanded as thousands of green groups were formed (Henry, 2006: 211). Various civic actors also received considerable foreign funding, as international organizations sought to support the development of democracy in post-​Soviet Russia (Henderson, 2003; Salmenniemi, 2005; Hemment, 2007). This economic support stimulated the civic sphere, giving it structure and efficiency. For example, the funding had significant effects on the professionalization of the civic sphere, although it did not treat all actors and organizations equally, as some groups were luckier with funding than others (Salmenniemi, 2005: 192). Furthermore, although the goal of many Western agencies was to facilitate small grassroots initiatives, they often supported groups with heavy organizational infrastructures and bureaucracy that connected poorly with the concrete and practical lives of the community. Thus, their aim of producing democracy often ended up paradoxically supporting an elite (Henderson, 2003: 10). An additional challenge of foreign funding was that it was not permanent. Funding decreased significantly at the beginning of the 2000s, as the focus of international power dynamics turned to other parts of the world and international funders withdrew from Russia (Hemment, 2012: 242). This then gave way to the fourth phase of the development of the civic sphere in Russia, which entailed increasing state control of independent activities, together with growing pressure for cooperation between state and civic organizations by the former, in order to increase regulation and control 25

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of civic activity (Brygalina and Temkina, 2004: 219). However, the civic organizations largely refused to accept the idea of becoming a resource for those in power, as most considered themselves to be independent powers providing resources for the whole of society (Dzhibladzhe, 2005: 182). Many of these organizations had started to take on increasingly political tasks. For example, as early as the 1990s they had been monitoring and defending human rights issues, boosted by the fact that the political leadership was relatively weak at that time. In the 2000s, these organizations became significant watchdogs over those in power, and actively participated in legislative work in their fields of expertise (Dzhibladzhe, 2005: 180–​182). The civic sphere in the 2000s was divided between pro-​and anti-​regime civic groups and organizations, as the Soviet legacy of state-​orchestrated civic activities was restored by the government (Hemment, 2015). For example, in 2005, a Public Chamber was established to facilitate relations between authorities and civic groups which, among other things, gave grants to officially registered pro-​regime organizations (Hemment, 2012: 243). Under this new state policy, which actively stimulated pro-​regime civic activism, the youth were a central governmental target in order to engage young people in patriotic education (Hemment, 2015: 7). In addition to actively stimulating the pro-​regime civic sphere, in the 2000s the state also increasingly started to police and limit the work of independent organizations, many of which faced aggressive state repression. Furthermore, since 2005, the state has established numerous new measures to curb protests. The first limitations were met with moderate, though open and organized, resistance. The Russian non-​systemic opposition first organized a series of protests under the name of ‘Dissenters’ Marches’. A few years later, protesters also mobilized to defend their constitutional right to protest in the form of ‘Strategy 31 protests’, referring to Article 31 of the Russian constitution which grants all citizens the right to freedom of assembly (see, for example, Lyytikäinen, 2016; Gabowitsch, 2017). However, it was the widely documented rigging of Duma elections in 2011 that gave rise to the first mass demonstrations against the government. Having witnessed electoral fraud first-​hand at the polling stations in 2011, election observers around the country, some of them government supporters, were ready to manoeuvre a political turnaround (Gabowitsch, 2017: 89). Online social networks played a decisive role in what followed, as people were able to read and share vivid accounts of pressure straight from the polling stations on social media (Gabowitsch, 2017). Following widespread social media documentation of electoral fraud, the ensuing protests brought together various social groups with very differing demands under the shared protest slogan ‘For Fair Elections’(Gabowitsch, 2017). The elections thus boosted the mass protest movement, which took over the streets around Russia from December 2011. Three months later, in March 2012, Putin’s return to the presidency provoked 26

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further protest. The March of Millions in Moscow on 6 May, the day before his inauguration, attracted thousands of participants from across the country. About 650 protesters were arrested, some of whom faced harsh sentences (Gabowitsch, 2017). In response, the government introduced new limitations on demonstrating, such as high fines for unauthorized demonstrations. As a consequence of these fines and detentions, among other things, both the wave of protest and collective hope for change gradually waned. The mass protests of 2011–​2013 had major consequences for the development of civic activism, as severe legislative changes were made to curtail independent civic activism, and especially the work of NGOs unsympathetic to the government. In 2012 the government introduced a new law limiting the work of NGOs: the foreign agent law requires all non-​profit organizations that receive foreign donations and engage in ‘political activity’ to register officially as foreign agents. In 2015, the foreign agent law was supplemented by the undesirable organizations law, which allows prosecutors to declare organizations that receive foreign funding to be ‘undesirable’ and close them down. According to this law, undesirable organizations may also be subject to high fines, and their employees liable to imprisonment. The mass protests also led to significant changes in how the Russian polity is managed (Robertson, 2011: 7), strengthening the authoritarian style of governance already deployed in the early 2000s, when ‘democracy was not eliminated completely, but served as a smokescreen for the project of authoritarian regime building’ (Gelman, 2015: 13). This amounts to an absence of political competition, with power in the hands of a small and powerful elite (Robertson, 2011: 7–1​ 5; Gelman, 2015: 14, 72). The president has strengthened his role in decision making at all levels and in relation to the regional leaders. Indeed, this top-​down policy change explains how those with very different grievances throughout the country were able to unite under the slogan ‘For Fair Elections’, as President Putin is seen as being able to influence even mundane issues and concerns at the local and regional levels far from Moscow (Gabowitsch, 2017: 47–​55). As a consequence of the political elite tightening its grip on formal politics and controlling who has access to it, the gap between official and oppositional, let alone grassroots, politics has widened. Currently, the politics conducted outside official chambers of governmental politics is executed by a fragmented, non-​systemic opposition, which is relatively small yet diverse, and is formed of various groups, including political parties, social movements and activist initiatives (Gabowitsch, 2017: 129). As many social organizations find it difficult to influence state officials and find allies among the political elites, or to participate in policy making (Henry, 2010: 33), they are increasingly forced to seek different routes and tactics to influence and transform the social situation. 27

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This diminishing of opportunities to interact in any way with power holders at the federal level, together with increasing political limitations in the civic sphere, have channelled civic activism towards other spheres. For example, the artistic realm has increasingly accommodated protest and resistance. Perhaps the best-​known art activist group, Voina (in English, ‘War’) presents itself as a diverse community encompassing a variety of other social groups, including feminists, LGBTQ and political dissidents, united under the manifesto of ‘for anti-​authoritarian activism’ (Johnson, 2013: 599). Voina’s activism has been based on open-​ended provocation of the authorities through the media. Its most famous work, a male organ painted on one of St Petersburg’s bridges, is an illuminating example of counter-​cultural protest in the internet age (Johnson, 2013). Following Voina, activists and groups such as Pussy Riot (some of its members having been part of Voina) and Pëtr Pavlenskii have conducted similar types of artistic protest stunts based on both public bodily performances and the use of internet and social media to spread the word. Indeed, the key sphere still offering space for both individual and collective civic action is the digital and social media realm. Internet-​based activism has enabled activists to come together more spontaneously for momentary protests around various causes, and to make alternative values and counter-​cultures available. It has also allowed the formation of loose networked movements that do not demand lengthy time commitments (Bode and Makarychev, 2013; Gabowitsch, 2016). Digital flash mobs and copycat movements are examples of flexible forms of online activism. For example, copycat movements start with an idea for an activity, which is first implemented locally but is then taken up by others in other locales who may have no connection with the originators (Gabowitsch, 2016: 3–​4). Furthermore, concentrating only on the regime–​opposition dichotomy obscures some of the key dynamics and trends in contemporary activism in Russia (Clément, 2015; Evans, 2018; Erpyleva, 2019). Indeed, the vast proportion of current activism is only indirectly connected with the power–​ opposition dynamic. According to Clément (2015), local grassroots activism has increased since 2005 in the Russian regions. Local grassroots movements tend to mobilize around very concrete everyday grievances of a practical rather than confrontational nature (Evans, 2018: 6–​7). Another characteristic of local movements is that the individuals who participate in them tend to have no previous activist experience, and are often somewhat suspicious of activism prior to taking action themselves (Clément, 2015: 212). They are often citizens who do not even dream of making the political system any more democratic (Evans, 2018). Many such local grassroots movements and projects have mobilized around issues concerning the use of space. For example, urban and regional social movements have been particularly active in protecting areas such as forests 28

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and parks, and public buildings such as churches. Indeed, people coming together based on a common concern about a local site or building has been typical of protests in the 2010s, revealing the intimate relationships that citizens form with particular physical places in the context of their everyday living environments. These protests have often been connected with issues of privatization, commercial construction or conflicts over ownership (Enigbokan, 2016). Therefore, urban development has also become politicized around the question of who ultimately owns the city (Enigbokan, 2016: 16). Two forms of activism are connected with this urban trend for activism: do-​it-​yourself (DIY) activism (delai sam), and urban art activism taking place in counter-​cultural spaces. Both of these also resonate with the tactics and approaches of feminist activism traced in this book. Indeed, all the previously mentioned trends –​resistance shifting to the sphere of art, making use of opportunities introduced by new media and internet, and urban and local ingredients –​play key roles in contemporary feminist activism.

Politics of gender and feminism in Russia The contemporary feminist politics investigated in this book is regarded as being on a continuum with the activism conducted by the women’s movement in Russia in the 1990s, but it also draws elements from earlier women’s activism, as well as echoing some of the gender politics of the Soviet and post-​Soviet years. In order to contextualize the roots of the contemporary feminist movement, I shall first discuss some of the main characteristics and developments of Soviet gender politics, before examining key characteristics of post-​Soviet feminist politics.

Soviet gender politics and the ‘woman question’ The Russian feminist movement that emerged in the latter half of the 19th century played a significant role in the social changes of the early 20th century that would ultimately lead to the socialist revolution. The rise of the ‘woman question’, as discussion of gender relations was framed in the 19th century, was connected with the process of modernization. It included issues of women’s education, labour and personal freedom as an integral part of the overall democratization process of the time (Iukina, 2014: 32). Changes in the political atmosphere also allowed upper-​class women gradually to start to take part in discussing women’s social position and rights (Aivazova, 1994: 156–​157; Salmenniemi, 2014: 294). The first women’s political organization, the Women’s Equal Rights Union, was established in 1905 to seek to gain full civil rights for women, including suffrage (Iukina, 2014: 38). Following this, one of the largest women’s public 29

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gatherings took place in 1908, when over a thousand participants came together for the opening session of the first All-​Russian Women’s Congress. As a result of the Congress and the pioneering women participating in it, the ‘woman question’ became, at least in theory, a key aspect of early Soviet policy (Rutsaild, 2008; see also Stites, 1978: 233). The Bolshevik Revolution in 1917 significantly transformed gender relations. Following the revolution, women were guaranteed not only political rights, but full employment, education and abortion rights, and the right to a fault-​free divorce (see for example Ashwin, 2000: 7; Iukina, 2014: 41–​42). Furthermore, during the early Soviet years, highly subversive ideas were put forward, such as abolishing the family institution, which was viewed as a key oppressor of women and was understood to represent the bourgeois lifestyle (Rotkirch, 2014). The central committee of the Communist Party granted permission for the formation of women’s departments in order to promote women’s emancipation (Engel and Posadskaya-​Vanderbeck, 1998: 6; Iukina, 2014: 41). However, the progressive first years of Soviet gender politics were soon followed by a return to a normative gender order. The ‘woman question’ was silenced by Iosif Stalin who, on coming to power in the 1930s, declared it solved and reintroduced the idea of the family as the core social unit in Soviet society. The Party’s women’s departments were closed down (Posadskaya, 1994: 8). Consequently, after their brief period of ideological liberation, Soviet women were forced back into a gender contract under which they both took part in the labour force as actively as men, and bore the main parental responsibility in the realm of the family (see, for example, Rotkirch, 2004). Indeed, work was not only women’s right, but a key obligation in relation to bearing the main responsibility for the family. In order for women to be able to combine waged and reproductive work, the Soviet system provided them with various forms of social support (Ashwin, 2000; Rotkirch, 2004). After the Stalin era, in the 1950s the ‘woman question’ was slowly reopened for discussion following a slight political liberalization (Salmenniemi, 2014). This was motivated, on the state’s side, by concern about a demographic decline (Salmenniemi, 2014: 299–​300). Women again became organized in the form of the officially sponsored Committee of Soviet Women (Waters, 1993: 288). Furthermore, following the politicization of the underground dissident movement, an independent women’s dissident group known as ‘Maria’ was formed in the latter half of the 1970s. Like other dissenter groups, it introduced its own samizdat, Woman and Russia, which was the first independent feminist publication in the Soviet Union. From its first issue, Woman and Russia addressed issues of interest to women of different ages and backgrounds, and dealt with themes such as discrimination against women in politics, the appalling conditions of maternity hospitals and violence against 30

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women, all of which were issues that did not officially exist in the Soviet Union (Mamonova, 1984: xiii). The publication also discussed sexism within the dissident movement itself (Mamonova, 1984: xiv; Komaromi, 2012: 86–​ 87). Although the group’s approach to womanhood was essentialist, it also acknowledged lesbian relationships in its publication, thus creating space for ‘some of the earliest first-​person expressions of sexual otherness in Soviet Russia’ (Essig, 1999: 57). However, the Committee for State Security (KGB) reacted fiercely to the feminist samizdat, and soon took radical measures. The Maria group was threatened with imprisonment if it would not stop publishing the paper (Mamonova, 1984: xv; Waters, 1993: 287), and as a result of increasing pressure on the group, some of its members fled Russia in the 1980s, and publishing ceased in 1982 (Mamonova, 1984). The political changes introduced by perestroika and glasnost in the late 1980s finally allowed the emergence of open critique of Soviet gender politics. The new political era and reorganization of politics introduced by Mikhail Gorbachëv had two immediate consequences for women’s political activity. First, the number of women within the official political structures was drastically reduced, as the quota system of electing representatives to soviets was dismantled (Buckley, 1992). Simultaneously, however, independent women’s groups were, for the first time in Soviet Russia, able to organize without receiving orders from above. They were able to publicly voice their political views because state orchestration was being dismantled (Buckley, 1992: 54). Although it became evident that women faced discrimination in the official political system, the independent women’s groups were able to politicize the manifold problems faced by women in Soviet society. For example, the emergent women’s movement pointed out that the ‘woman question’ had indeed never been solved in the Soviet Union and that ‘the patriarchal system of gender relations’ was still being reproduced at all societal levels (Waters, 1993: 289).1 Glasnost also enabled knowledge of Soviet women’s lives to be gathered and published for the first time (Rimashevskaia, 1992: 118). However, the findings did not please those who had become used to hearing only about Soviet achievements. Natal’ia Rimashevskaia and her colleagues, Anastasia Posadskaya and Natalya Zakharova, drafted recommendations on the status of Soviet women for the Council of Ministers. An article entitled ‘How do we solve the woman question?’ was later published in Kommunist in 1989, discussing how a profound political change was needed in order to make women’s lives more bearable (Rimashevskaia, 1992: 119–​120). The group was later rewarded for its insightful work and in 1990 was able to found a centre called The Moscow Centre for Gender Studies for producing knowledge on women’s lives (Waters, 1993: 289). The Centre’s aims were to develop women’s perspectives on academic, political, business 31

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and administrative matters, and to influence government policy by giving policymakers insights into the gender dimensions of their work (Waters, 1993: 289). It covered various research topics, such as the woman question and perestroika, the evolution of gender relations, and women and labour, as well as investigating social, economic and demographic reasons for the feminization of poverty. In terms of producing knowledge, it also offered education (Rimashevskaia, 1992: 121). Indeed, the work of early feminist activists and organizations such as the Moscow Centre for Gender Studies in many ways paved the way for the emergence of feminist politics in the 1990s (Brygalina and Temkina, 2004: 211), as examined next.

Feminist politics in post-​Soviet Russia Feminist politics received increased support and was also greatly needed in the 1990s following the demise of the Soviet Union. Although I use feminist politics as a way to discuss the actions of the proliferating and manifold women’s movement of the 1990s, it must be noted that many groups and organizations at that time did not in fact identify themselves as feminists. The term did not have the same resonance in the 1990s, as it had been heavily vilified in the Soviet Union as a ‘bourgeois concept’ (Sperling, 1999: 64). While the goals and tactics of the women’s organizations, groups and initiatives active in the 1990s varied greatly, their work can be roughly divided into grassroots work to ease women’s everyday lives, political and legislative work to improve women’s social status, and epistemic work to gain insights and gather knowledge in relation to women’s lives and gender equality. Many women’s organizations and grassroots initiatives were established in the early 1990s in order to relieve the weakening social position of women (Posadskaya, 1994; Sperling, 1999: 15–​18; Henderson, 2003: 95). These kinds of grassroots initiatives were urgently needed as a consequence of the rapid dismantling of Soviet support structures such as childcare services, which had enabled Soviet women to combine full-​time work and parenting. Furthermore, unemployment had a female face, as Russian women went from having one of the highest labour-​force participation rates worldwide to being the least employable workforce in post-​Soviet Russia (Ashwin, 2012). Affordable daycare, once widely available, became a rarity as factories cut such ‘luxuries’ out of their budgets (Sperling, 1999: 443–​444). These were among the key struggles with which grassroots women’s groups aimed to help individual women. The inequality and weakening of women’s positions in formal politics in the 1990s has been widely documented, yet women’s organizations were able to engage in policy work to influence policymakers. Indeed, lobbying of decision makers at both local and federal levels played a pivotal role in the feminist project of the early 1990s. This work was facilitated by the fact that 32

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some legislators in the Duma were sympathetic to the cause of the women’s groups, and thus allowed them access to formal chambers of power (Caiazza, 2002: 93; McIntosh Sundstrom, 2002: 218). Some lobbying conducted by women’s groups in the early 1990s was successful. For example, lobbying against discriminatory restrictions on women’s participation in certain occupations resulted in the Duma’s decision to freeze the article in question (McIntosh Sundstrom, 2002: 212). Also, the previously mentioned Moscow Centre for Gender Studies was able to comment on legislation relatively effectively. For example, it was successful in getting guidelines for legislating equal rights and opportunities through the Duma (Caiazza, 2002: 77–​79). In 1993, a women’s political bloc gained support and seats in parliament. Women of Russia (WR) was formed to increase women’s representation in political decision making and to protect women’s social position, which was worsening rapidly. WR managed to advance several of its policy priorities, including writing a new Family Code (Caiazza, 2002: 156). Typically for feminist politics of the time, the party leaders defined their roles in essentialist ways. They highlighted femininity because WR found that this kind of tactic, as well as building on consensus, made sense in a country with traditional ideas about women’s roles (Caiazza, 2002: 2). However, the bloc’s success was short-​lived: it lost the elections in 1995, which was a loss for the women’s movement more broadly, as it now had fewer allies in the chambers of power. Indeed, the political dialogue and lobbying in which independent women’s groups had been able to engage in the early 1990s had decreased at the federal level by the middle of the decade. The political parties were disconnected from the women’s movement, and the possibilities for NGOs to influence politics were restricted by a government system that allowed NGOs only a minimal input (McIntosh Sundstrom, 2002: 220). There were also changes to government policy committees, so the women’s groups’ few allies no longer held key positions (McIntosh Sundstrom, 2002). Thus, political work and lobbying continued to take place mainly at the local and provincial levels, where it was still easier to reach the policymakers (McIntosh Sundstrom, 2002: 220–​221; Salmenniemi, 2005: 195–​198). Diminishing opportunities to influence formal politics undoubtedly resulted in greater emphasis on feminist politics in other realms, such as within academic institutions. Indeed, feminist politics of the 1990s was characteristically epistemic and academic in nature (Posadskaya, 1994; Salmenniemi, 2008; Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014). Feminist research was produced in various centres for gender studies, many of which operated partly as independent NGOs and partly within university structures (see, for example, Salmenniemi, 2005). Gender studies centres in cities such as St Petersburg, Samara, Moscow and Tver produced knowledge about women, their lives and realities. 33

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However, feminist epistemic and theoretical work was also conducted in the universities, where gender scholars were busy domesticating feminist theory and terminology. As Russian gender scholars Anna Temkina and Elena Zdravomyslova (2014: 257) have observed, ‘the gender perspective was totally novel for the Russian academy, so everything had to be done from scratch. … Research in this new field required a lot of skill and knowledge and, of course, active collaboration with the international research community’. Academic feminists not only produced new knowledge, but also aimed to disseminate it beyond the academy to wider publics (Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014: 257). On the other hand, feminist activists outside the academy engaged in practices of self-​education to raise feminist consciousness (see, for example, McIntosh Sundstrom, 2002). Feminism was thus very much an epistemic project, at the core of which was knowledge production, within and outside academia. Another characteristic of women’s NGOs was that they received funding almost entirely from abroad (Henderson, 2003). Women’s activism was the field most eagerly supported by foreign donors, who considered women’s role key in promoting democracy in the country. Foreign support was a further factor that enabled institutionalization of the women’s movement (Kay, 2000; Hemment, 2007; Salmenniemi, 2008). This allowed the professionalization of some women’s organizations that received funding, as they were able to conduct their tasks more effectively and pay for staff. The centres for gender studies were among the lucky ones that were supported and received considerable funding from abroad, and thus worked in close connection with their international partners. For example, the institutionalization of the Moscow Centre for Gender Studies is illustrated in the fact that its staff grew from five employees in 1990 to 15 in 1996 (Racioppi and O’Sullivan See, 1997: 129). Intensive international cooperation to promote democracy also greatly shaped women’s activism, as foreign donors were able to mould the agendas of the organizations they supported (see, for example, Henderson, 2003; Hemment, 2007). Thus, alongside the obvious benefits brought by funding, there was a more ambivalent side to this close international cooperation, which has been heavily criticized in retrospect. Much of the critique echoes what has been written in the context of the global development literature, relating to importing concepts such as democracy from elsewhere, rather than producing something based on local needs and premises (Henderson, 2003; Hemment, 2007: 140–​141). Furthermore, what was especially problematic in the case of the women’s movement was that the funding divided the movement into two, between those receiving funding and those without resources and support. It has also been observed that, over time, the groups receiving foreign funding actually became more closely connected with their international partners than with their local partners and constituencies, 34

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the women whom they were supposed to support (Henderson, 2003: 10; Salmenniemi, 2008: 34–​35). Thus, feminist politics in the 1990s had a somewhat elitist flavour, as foreign funding contributed to reinforcing a ‘new civic elite’, rather than fostering the development of a broad-​based civil society (Henderson, 2003: 175; Sperling, 2006: 163–​164). In addition, the movement was initially formed mainly of middle-​class women, enabling resource accumulation by those who already had resources, rather than spreading resources to women in the weakest social positions (Salmenniemi, 2008: 52). This suggests that, rather than creating equality, the movement ultimately intensified inequalities between women. These inequalities between different groups as well as individual women were no doubt partially responsible for the fact that the women’s movement was described as fragmented, and was blamed by the activists themselves for lacking solidarity (Sperling, 2006: 175). As international funding decreased significantly following the turn of the millennium, independent women’s activity in Russia gradually declined. New opportunities did appear, such as increasing cooperation with and support from local and federal authorities on specific projects (Brygalina and Temkina, 2004: 220), but while some were willing to grasp such opportunities, others were not. Thus, many active women’s organizations and groups of the 1990s gradually ceased to exist. Whereas in the 1990s gender studies had been somewhat fashionable, the government now perceived them as ‘politicized’ and a threat to ‘authentic Russian discourse’ (Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014). Accordingly, the community of gender researchers gradually grew weaker and more fragmented, as gender issues no longer had political resonance. Many of the independent centres for gender studies founded across the country closed down as they had neither the resources nor political support to continue with their work. Paradoxically, this happened at exactly the same time as gender became politicized, as discussed in the next section (Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014: 261–​262). This is also the reason why there are so few local epistemic resources available for the contemporary movement, as the libraries and information produced by the gender studies centres no longer exist and thus are not available for the new generation of activists. Looking back, it has been suggested that some of the most successful women’s organizations of the 1990s were those dealing with gendered violence and military politics. One such group was the Committee of Soldiers’ Mothers (CSM) (Caiazza, 2002: 143), which successfully shifted public opinion on the conflict in Chechnya, military reform and the Russian system of military obligation. The Committee’s success in bringing public attention to the cause of mothers who had lost their sons to war has been traced back to its ability to make strategic use of essentialist female roles and motherhood (Caiazza, 2002: 142–​143). Another successful strand of 35

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the women’s movement was the crisis centre movement (Johnson, 2009; Johnson and Saarinen, 2013). Women’s organizations working around issues of gendered and sexual violence seized the post-​Soviet opportunity to establish dozens of crisis centres across Russia, building coalitions to make political claims about the need to respond to all forms of violence. Activists across Russia engaged in persuading the police at least to accept statements of sexual assault and were successful not only in achieving some policy change, but also in building a much needed network of physical shelters (Johnson, 2004: 232–​233; Johnson and Saarinen, 2013). Finally, in addition to the women’s movement, an LGBT movement also emerged in the 1990s, with the formation of the Moscow Association of Sexual Minorities (Essig, 1999). Political liberalization meant that, for the first time, non-​heterosexuals were able to politicize their identities in public. Indeed, many expected the first public acts for the rights of non-​ heterosexuals to spark a movement. However, despite a promising start, post-​Soviet Russia did not see the emergence of a mass LGBT movement. Both class and gender issues arose, dividing what ‘quickly became a male-​ dominated movement’ (Essig, 1999: 66–​90).

The neoconservative turn in formal politics Why did official politics increasingly start to politicize gender norms and ‘sexualise politics’ in the 2000s (Sperling, 2015: 2)? A key reason for this turn towards conservative policies focusing on traditional gender roles was a significant decline in the birth rate in Russia, framed as a ‘demographic crisis’ in order to highlight its urgency and stimulate action (Rivkin-​Fish, 2005; Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014: 262). The Russian government had spent most of the 1990s looking for a political ideology, and ultimately found it in the 2000s in ‘neoconservatism’ (Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014; Sperling, 2015), which offered a strategy for tackling issues such as the demographic challenge by cultivating traditional values and gender roles. The conservative turn has been traced back to around 2005, when the first new policies were introduced to support families in their childbearing efforts (Borozdina et al, 2016). The new policy measures were publicly justified by arguments that they are in the ‘national interest’ to increase the population and its health (Stella and Nartova, 2015: 32). However, as this section will show, they do not target all groups equally, but have particularly affected the lives of women and non-​ heterosexuals (Wilkinson, 2014; Temkina, 2015: 1531). By the end of the 2000s, the new conservative policies had also invigorated resistance among citizens and activists, who increasingly contested and criticized them in public (Rivkin-​Fish, 2013; Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014; Sperling, 2015). Indeed, as has been suggested by Valerie Sperling (2015: 48), the 36

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Russian government was able to launch its sexist policies and conservative ideology during the first decade of the new millennium largely owing to the absence of a strong women’s movement, while the conservative political turn ultimately stimulated the rise of the new generation of feminists studied here. The conservative political ideology has entailed increasingly nationalist political rhetoric and has been marked by a return to ‘traditional’ Russianness and values as distinct from both Soviet and Western values. In the conservative political discourse, Western values such as equality are posited as a distortion of the ‘natural’ order of things, and thus as foreign and deviant (Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014: 265; Wilkinson, 2014). This also means that feminism is produced in the conservative political discourse as a foreign –​ that is, Western –​import. Indeed, Western liberalism is framed as having gone too far, especially regarding human and LGBTQ rights. The Russian concept of ‘Gayropa’ brings to the fore the idea of the two (Europe and non-​ normative sexualities) produced as belonging together in the conservative political discourse. In order to legitimize its conservative politics and confirm its new moral ground of ‘traditional’ Russianness as something distinct from Western morals, the government has strengthened its alliance with the ROC (Hutchings and Tolz, 2015a; Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014: 298–​302). In its newly empowered position as a key government ally, the ROC has participated vociferously in building the national moral community, and has publicly condemned those who lead an ‘immoral life’. Patriarch Kirill, head of the ROC, has not only supported homophobic attitudes in public, but has also drawn attention to the false liberty promoted by feminism, which ‘poses a threat to the Russian nation’ (see, for example, Elder, 2013). Furthermore, nationalist and religious activists have taken loud action to push through increasingly conservative legislation defending religious values, often by suggesting cutting back on gender equality (Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014: 262–​263). Political struggles concerning gender and sexuality have also entered the legal sphere. For example, conservative lawmakers and civic organizations blocked a law on gender equality in 2012, suggesting that it was a threat to Russian society and its demographic security (Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014: 262–​263). Furthermore, limiting women’s access to abortion has been promoted aggressively by the ROC and religious activists. Various bills have been introduced in the 2000s to limit abortion. The Ministry of Public Health introduced the first restrictions in 2003 and 2007, limiting the social criteria for second-​trimester abortion. These policies were publicly reasoned as efforts to relieve the demographic crisis and were met with little resistance (Rivkin-​Fish, 2017: 1734). However, when the new abortion bill returned to a Duma hearing in 2011, it caused loud opposition, as it would have significantly limited access to abortion. The 37

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draft was motivated by traditional morals and proposed, among other things, that any abortion for married women must be approved by the husband. Most of the severest suggestions were not passed. However, the new law now restricts free access to abortion by establishing a mandatory ‘week of silence’ between visiting the doctor and terminating the pregnancy in order to create space for the woman’s moral contemplation –​and possible persuasion –​prior to the abortion (for more detail see, for example, Stella and Nartova, 2015). In addition to abortion rights, issues of non-​heterosexuality have also entered the legal sphere. A group of laws best known as the ‘homo propaganda’ laws were first launched at a local level around Russia, but in 2013 were supplemented by a federal law banning ‘homo propaganda’ throughout the country. Like many contemporary Russian laws, this is highly ambivalent and has wide-​ranging effects. The term ‘propaganda’ is vaguely defined, and the scope of available punishments for breaking it is broad (Wilkinson, 2014: 336; Stella and Nartova, 2015: 29). The law clearly bans public discussion of LGBTQ issues in the presence of minors, and simultaneously limits the human rights of those identifying with any of the denoted groups, thus criminalizing the LGBTQ community (Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014). Moreover, the law’s ambivalence makes it more challenging to deal with the complex problems of paedophilia, violence and the vulnerability of children, since homosexuality is often used as a synonym for paedophilia (Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014: 263–​264). The propaganda legislation was facilitated by increasingly homophobic public rhetoric throughout the 2000s, which had become somewhat of a norm by the mid-​2000s (Stella, 2013; Persson, 2014: 257). Indeed, many view the propaganda legislation as one of the most striking manifestations of state-​ sponsored homophobia, as well as the traditionalism and moral regulation of contemporary Russia, since homophobia has become shorthand for traditional values (Wilkinson, 2014: 365). Homophobic rhetoric has not only been deployed by those in power, but also by the Russian opposition as an instrument to strip political rivals of their credibility and increase its own political legitimacy (Sperling, 2015). In the context of the neoconservative discourse, plausible political subjectivity has thereby become coded as ‘masculine’, referring to hegemonic and thus ‘traditional’ masculinity (Connell and Messerschmidt, 2005). Accordingly, femininity has also been deployed as a political tool to suggest weakness in the case of male politicians, carrying a hint of homosexuality in order to ridicule political rivals (Riabov and Riabova, 2014: 28; Gapova, 2015; Sperling, 2015). This conservative and profoundly gendered casting of those with and without political credibility reveals how women and femininity are unvalued in the formal political realm.

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Furthermore, the government has recycled the ideological figure of the ‘real man’ (muzhik) in order to guide Russian men to traditional hegemonic masculinity (Riabov and Riabova, 2014: 26; Gapova, 2016: 36). This project has introduced the proper male figure who is able to protect his family, and also the nation when necessary. President Vladimir Putin himself has been identified as embodying the ideal muzhik, encouraging others to follow (Sperling, 2015). This ideological male figure can perhaps be better understood in historical retrospect, and in relation to the discourse of the Soviet system having distorted gender roles and Soviet men having grown weak in relation to ‘overly emancipated women’ (Rotkirch, 2000; Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2013). The political launch of the ‘real man’ can thus be seen as a way of replacing the figure of the ‘weak’ Soviet man with the virile and masculine muzhik. At the same time as hegemonic, ‘traditional’ masculinity is deployed as a political and ideological tool, men are strikingly absent in the new family policies that aim to stimulate birth rates. As under the Soviet Union, women have remained the central target of family policies. During his second term as president, Putin introduced the ‘mother capital’, a considerable financial payment to women who give birth to two or more children. The words ‘men’ and ‘fathers’ were absent from the introduction of the new policy, suggesting that the balancing act between work and family is an exclusively female task (Rotkirch et al, 2007: 352, 356). The maternity capital programme highlights the return of a paternalistic Russian family policy with an increasingly interventionist state role (Borozdina et al, 2016: 72). Social developments in response to these conservative policies and legislation have been ambivalent. For example, despite its aim to silence those identifying with the letters LGBTQ, the ‘homo propaganda’ law has in fact stimulated activism, actually making the movement more publicly visible and increasing people’s will to support the rights of the non-​heterosexual populace (Lapina, 2013). The post-​election protests that started in 2011 also had a stimulating effect on both feminist and LGBT activism, as representatives of both groups joined the protest, uniting their forces with others (Sperling, 2015). The most visible feminist expression of this momentum was that of Pussy Riot. This group, and its Punk Prayer performed in 2012, excited public debate about gender issues in Russia and abroad. Following the publication of the Punk Prayer video, two members of Pussy Riot were sentenced to two years in prison. Perhaps more than any other protest event during this period, the Pussy Riot protest established limits to what could be considered political, as their protest was decisively depoliticized by the power holders (Bernstein, 2013: 230; Kondakov, 2017). This affair clearly illuminates the backlash against liberal gender politics and feminism in Russia (Hemment, 2015: 193). While the group’s members were celebrated in the West, their protest received an ambivalent reception in Russia, as many activists and 39

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opposition members also condemned its action. Tellingly, even the feminists interviewed for this book often criticized the group, highlighting that the contemporary feminist sphere is itself very divided. Finally, in addition to legislation and policies limiting the lives of women and LGBTQ, one further conservative law deserves to be mentioned, because it confused the feminist activists interviewed for this study. Under this law, which bans hurting religious feelings, Russian citizens are not allowed to offend the feelings of religious believers publicly, and if they do, they may be sentenced to prison. Policies and legislative changes operating with ideas of essentialist gender roles and the strengthening of ‘traditional’ values have continued since the intensive period of fieldwork for this study. A dramatic example of this was the decriminalization of simple battery (poboi) in 2017, which was historically the main avenue for prosecuting cases of gender-​based violence in the country (Semukhina, 2020). The legislative change was made despite the fact that domestic violence crimes have multiplied in Russia over the past 20 years (Semukhina, 2020: 15). This legislative change, which removes charges against those using violence on their family members and penalizes them only with small fines, was introduced as a way to ‘protect the traditional family’ (see, for example, Walker, 2017). This is the highly ambivalent and challenging political context in which the feminist activists interviewed for this book were operating. While the conservative rhetoric is dominant in formal politics and goes beyond official authorities to include parts of civil society, other liberal democratic and leftist discourses and values are also promoted in public by various opposition and civic groups (Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014: 265), of which the feminist movement is an example. In the following empirical chapters, I unpack how the feminists challenge the neoconservative forces in society.

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3

Feminists Repairing the Self and Society Everyone in the large theatre hall is silent, but one can hear quiet sobbing in the dimly lit space. Attention is focused on the person on the stage, the female performer. When the play dealing with the performer’s sexual harassment is over, the audience members –​some 50 people –​want to talk it through. One rises to ‘vyskazyvat’’, speak her mind, and tells the performer that “it was my story you just told”. Indeed, many seem to relate to the performance and its story, something they have not witnessed being voiced in public before. The air is dense, not only with questions but also with emotions ranging from woe to the joy of identification. The discussion following the play takes longer than the play itself, as there is so much to share. Such feminist gatherings, which were numerous, are at the core of what I mean by reparative politics –​the first key dimension of feminist politics in Russia. Reparative politics illustrates how feminist activism is profoundly personal, drawing on individual, often painful, experiences and work on oneself. However, it is also collective, because such experiences, often dealing with gendered violence, are in fact very common. Therefore the activists come together in order to eliminate what they refer to as ‘the culture of violence’, and to bring about simultaneous personal and social change. And while reparative politics is not only about gendered violence and eliminating it, violence is a theme to which the activists returned time and time again. Indeed, the issue of violence was timely during the material production for this book, as domestic violence in the form of simple battery was removed from the criminal code in 2017, which stimulated further activism around gendered violence. In this chapter I introduce the premises of feminist activism in Russia in the 2010s: what had brought the activists to feminism, how they made sense of it, and what forms it took in their everyday lives. In construing an understanding of the activism’s core ingredients, I draw on the narratives of activists such as Milka, Sonia, Katia and others, whose paths to feminism differed somewhat, but also had similar elements, even though some of 41

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them had never met. I interrogate these individuals’ narratives of feminist awakenings and everyday life in dialogue with my ethnographic observation of the collective forms taken by feminist activism. My aim is to illustrate, among other things, that feminism had been a great therapeutic resource for the activists, and had played a key role in their taking public agency, albeit on their own terms. In this chapter I thus aim to reveal the healing texture of activism, and how it is fundamental to feminist resistance. I introduce four typical ways of narrating one’s feminist awakening, how these connect with everyday dimensions of activism, and their political and therapeutic implications. In some cases, single activists can be seen as narrating a blend of different awakening stories. I show how the feminist activists’ resistance was based on counter-​narratives and conduct. These took off from acts of alternative self-​making (Lilja and Vinthagen, 2014) as they construed alternatives to the highly conservative gender identities and norms on offer in Russian public discourse. However, as I shall suggest, reparative politics amounts to more than just alternative self-​making. It grows into a collective political project of transforming not only the activists’ selves but society at large, even if only an inch at a time. I also interrogate the presence of postfeminism (Gill, 2007, 2016; McRobbie, 2009) in the context of feminist activism in authoritarian Russia. Postfeminism is understood here as a logic which, while at first sight feminism-​friendly, also has elements that can be considered anti-​feminist, as it subtly invites women to monitor themselves and each other, rather than aiming for structural change through political action (Gill, 2007; McRobbie, 2009). Thus, it is closely connected with the neoliberal logic of self-​governance, as it blurs structural factors behind individual feelings of injury. Gill returned to the concept of postfeminism in 2016, observing how it still has relevance in the newly emergent context of feminism around the world, and how feminist identifications, too, may include postfeminist elements (Gill, 2016: 612–​613). Indeed, the highly mediatized contemporary context of activism, which draws from therapeutic culture, cannot altogether evade neoliberal ideas of the gendered and individualized self. By interrogating the activists’ narratives in dialogue with my observation, I illustrate the simultaneous presence of both neoliberal individualizing and more collective and political elements in feminism. Interrogating the presence of postfeminist elements in feminist activism also enables me to illustrate some of the complexities in resistance, and how it tends also to carry elements of power (Lilja and Vinthagen, 2014). In observing different aspects of contemporary feminist activism, I draw methodologically on Eve Sedgwick’s concepts of paranoid and reparative readings. Both readings are ways to queer knowledge by looking at the world in a new way to reveal the gaps and silences in normative knowledge (Vänskä, 2011). According to Sedgwick (2003) the typical way of interpreting reality 42

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through queer lenses is that of paranoia, but this often leaves little space for hopeful and open-​ended solutions and practices. Sedgwick thus suggests reparative acts and positions as analytical tools that allow more hopeful and open-​ended outcomes. Inspired by Sedgwick, I analyse the feminist narratives and my observations reparatively, meaning that I search for collective and political moments in them, to avoid surrendering to the dominance of the postfeminist and neoliberal logic. However, as Sedgwick herself points out, more paranoid elements are always there, standing here for individualizing aspects of feminism that tend to overlook structural change. In this chapter I thus contribute to understanding how neoliberal blends of feminism are visible in contemporary activism in Russia. In this chapter I begin the work of de-​Westernizing feminism by observing how global elements, such as the postfeminist logic and therapeutic culture disseminated by media and popular culture, affect feminist activism, but at the same time are reorganized by local logic and history. In order to highlight local factors in connection with activism, I discuss my findings in dialogue with earlier research on feminist mobilization in the 1990s and early 2000s in Russia, and bring to the fore some similarities and changes in relation to historical feminist practices in Russia. I proceed by first analysing the activists’ narratives of feminist alternative self-​making, and how feminism often began with an emphasis on this work. I then look at collective and social dimensions of the feminist narratives and action. I explore how the activists came together to push back the ‘culture of violence’, and how they radically challenged conservative politics. Finally, I look at what kind of tradition is challenged and activated when speaking of feminist tradition.

Working on the patriarchal self A dominant way in which the activists narrated their feminist awakenings was first to narrate everyday life, and then to narrate a crack in it –​a sudden realization that one was living a strange life planned by someone else. The crack had often been prompted by something they had read or discussed, which had pushed them to take a fresh look at their lives. In feminist artist Martha’s case, for example, getting married very young had opened her eyes to the conservative and highly heteronormative script according to which she was living without consciously choosing it over another lifestyle. Indeed, Martha, now in her late twenties, told how she had found herself mimicking a life similar to that of her parents, which she had witnessed in the small city from which she originated before moving to St Petersburg. Looking back, she now recalled how she had had very stereotypical ideas of how one should act as a woman in a heteronormative marriage, “even though no one demanded it from me, no one asked me to do that! It just appeared 43

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that I had it in my head what a woman should … and I started to wonder why I had all that in me, and why all this is taking place!” Indeed, Martha observed that her fiancé had had much less normative ideas of marriage, which had also helped her realize her own patriarchal ideas. Martha and the other activists often made sense of this new feminist view on their normative lives through the metaphors of a lens or optics. These metaphors, suggesting completely new ways of seeing, helped them to render visible the gendered hierarchies and norms in which they had been immersed, but from which they were now estranged. For example, Milka, an anarcho-​feminist in their early thirties whose awakening story will be addressed later, repeatedly used the word ‘optics’ to describe how, since becoming a feminist around 2012, they observed things from a completely new angle: ‘It all took place at the same time as I developed a type of feminist optics, saw that everything had another side to it –​and I saw the oppression. … Developing this optics, and reflecting on my own personal experience, I drew some aspects that helped me to work on my feminist self-​knowledge and to cultivate it. … If I talk about my personal history, it is a history of personal oppression. Russian patriarchal society, my very own patriarchal family.’ (Milka) The feminist ‘optics’ thus enabled the activists to discuss different relations in society, including those in which they were themselves engaged. This often meant discussing their family affairs and, through these, their private patriarchal experiences. Many of the activists expressed how, viewed through the feminist optics, their childhood realities now appeared profoundly problematic. For Sonia, a queerfeminist in her early thirties, her feminist awakening was intimately connected with the patriarchal condition of her childhood family. When asked what kinds of moments had been important on her path to becoming a feminist, she responded: “I, like many people in this society, had a very traumatizing childhood family experience. A strict father, and an extremely authoritarian family.” Similar childhood stories were voiced by many others. As a result of having been exposed to hierarchical relations in childhood, the activists felt that they had been carrying the patriarchy within them. In talking about this, they often referred to how they had internalized misogyny and started to downplay themselves and femininity early on in their lives. These feminist narratives of the profoundly patriarchal condition suggest that the first step in becoming a feminist was to relinquish the patriarchal self. Thus, feminist activism actually began as a project of self-​transformation, in which letting go of misogyny was achieved by working on the self and transforming one’s thinking (McNay, 1992: 49; Foucault, 1998). The narratives reveal 44

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that the feminist self towards which they were working undertook moral contemplation and engaged publicly in agency and responsibility. Take, for example, the case of radical feminist Anna, in her thirties. When asked how she made sense of feminism, she responded: ‘It is, substantially, the politics of my life, which is connected with the fact that, for me, it is necessary to also talk about myself, in a way defend my position in society continuously –​I mean, not appear in isolation –​and at the same time do what I want, and not pretend to be someone I am not, in whom I already wasted a lot of time in my life. I am now 30 and am starting to be … in some kind of harmony with myself, having beaten my internalized misogyny, my own homophobia, many things … xenophobia.’ (Anna) Anna’s comment highlights being vocal about one’s feminism and taking an active public role, but also avoiding self-​loathing and associated misogyny and homophobia. In fact, this extract suggests that feminism had enabled Anna to abandon a self she had truly never been. Such narratives illustrate how alternative self-​making formed the basis for feminist resistance (Lilja and Vinthagen, 2014: 122). In this self-​making, it was important not only how the feminist self was narrated, but also how non-​feminist others were narrated to highlight what one was not. For example, Sonia observed that most people followed the “manual”: “They try to find themselves somewhere, and that is the easiest way to look for oneself. Look at the manual, this is the way you have to live –​and then live like that.” Sonia thus highlighted that rather than living by the book, feminism was about constant moral reflection. Whereas the non-​feminist self had taken normative and patriarchal ideas as given, the new feminist self engaged in active contemplation of what was right or wrong, and how to live one’s life in a morally sustainable way, vocally disagreeing and taking action when necessary. The activists’ new vocal stance seems to connect with how social media encourages individuals to publicly express their minds in the form of posts, as it rewards an outspoken subjectivity. Varia, a radical feminist in her twenties, confirmed this in commenting on non-​feminists who only followed governmental media. She suggested that access to independent media outlets and the internet is pivotal in enabling access to alternative information and thus work on the feminist outspoken self: “They [most people] watch Channel One and the Russian governmental news. There is no discussion … you get the feeling that people have just one picture of the world in their heads, and they do not even know that there could be something else, that there are options.” Another element fundamental to the activists’ alternative self-​making was connected with their choice of looks. Indeed, many of the activists to whom 45

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I spoke highlighted the necessity of mastering narrow beauty norms and the ‘art of femininity’ (Adamson and Salmenniemi, 2018) in contemporary Russia, yet they still actively contributed to undoing the norms through their own everyday appearance. Some expressed their resistance in their appearance, with short hair coloured bright green or pink, sometimes shaved on one side. This choice of looks had both individual and collective implications, with some markers suggesting identification with specific counter-​cultures, highlighting, for instance, identification with anarchist, leftist or artistic groups, or counter-​cultural projects such as punk or Riot Grrrl. However, some activists also chose to express femininity in their looks, but had a feminist explanation for doing so. For example, Sonia connected hiding one’s feminine looks with internalized misogyny, and accordingly articulated her choice to express her femininity as a political gesture against this: ‘I thought about the stereotypes in my head when I became a feminist. And for some time, I tried to neutralize my femininity. And now I think that it is not right and have changed my mind. Because if we go on with the idea that a woman should not look like something, we still go on with the idea of women should this and that [referring to the idea of denying women certain things based on their gender].’ (Sonia) Sonia’s adoption of a feminine appearance can be interpreted as subversive, as its aim was to resist misogyny. This compliance with normative feminine appearance supports Saba Mahmood’s (2005: 22) important point, made in the context of resistance, that the binary framework of complying/​resisting should actually be abandoned as it blurs the variety of ways in which norms are inhabited and experienced. In maintaining her feminine looks, Sonia inhabited the norm, but thereby consciously turned it into feminist politics against the everyday condition of misogyny in society. Furthermore, in some cases, rather than resisting misogyny, the activists refrained altogether from understanding their gender in binary terms. They did this, for example, by narrating their identity as liquid and slippery (skol’zkii) rather than solid: ‘For me, the point is that I am a biological woman, and because of that, I have encountered different forms of discrimination. That is why I became a feminist. But from a social point of view, I remain a queer subject, because I have a very slippery, unstable identity, not only in terms of sexuality, but more broadly.’ (Milka) ‘A “queer” activist –​not even activist, a “queer” person –​because any categorization brings certain restrictions, and I found myself in between 46

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so many things and so many fields that it’s really hard to define myself, because I have to say “I am …”, and then say “but I’m not …”.’ (Dina) These narratives of identifying as constantly being in between resisted the normative order through the act of not defining the self in any way. Rather, they avoided any definition that would anchor the narrator in normalizing systems such as the heterosexual matrix which, as Judith Butler has noted, maintains the idea of women and men and their assumed desire for each other (Butler, 1990). Thus, like feminism itself, queerness in convergence with feminism became politicized in some of the activists’ narratives, often building distance from non-​queer forms of feminism. Crucially, queer narratives likewise sometimes distanced themselves from feminist lesbian and gay narratives, in order to highlight that they did not align with the normativity of the LGBT community either. The queerfeminist narratives also illustrate how many activists identified with a specific school of feminism, thus creating distance in relation to feminists of other schools. Numerous differences can be traced between the contemporary feminist narratives and how the earlier generation of women activists spoke of their activism. First, whereas the women’s movement in the 1990s and early 2000s usually aligned itself tactically with an essentialist understanding of gender (Sperling, 1999; Salmenniemi, 2008), here the activists distanced themselves from essentialist views in various ways, as described earlier. Avoidance of essentializing gender has also been increasingly typical of feminist politics elsewhere in the 2000s, and challenging the binary understanding of gender has become a focal political topic for many feminists (see, for example, Mackay, 2015). Second, and in connection with this, going public with one’s feminism differs from the tactics of the earlier women’s movement in Russia. Indeed, activists in the 1990s and early 2000s often refrained from identifying as feminist in order not to provoke others (Sperling, 1999; Salmenniemi, 2008). Third, the fact that some of these narratives raised queer as a political identity indicates both continuity and change. At first sight, the queer narratives resemble Tuller’s (1996) observations of queer culture in Russia in the 1990s, emphasizing how non-​heterosexuals refrained from self-​definition and instead described their sexuality as being in constant flux (Tuller, 1996: 264). However, the distinction lies in the fact that Tuller’s interviewees did not want to go public with their queerness, meaning that they did not politicize their non-​normative identities (see also Essig, 1999). In the contemporary narratives, queerness emerged as a political position, thus marking a significant shift. This occurred even though the activists could not always speak of their queerness directly, owing to legislation on ‘homo propaganda’, but instead expressed it more subtly (for more detail, see Chapter 4). Finally, another novel aspect is the emphasis on self-​work in relation to becoming a feminist subject and leaving internalized misogyny behind. 47

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The use of therapeutic language and how feminism began as a personal project, by first leaving behind the patriarchal and misogynic self, has not been acknowledged in research on the earlier feminist mobilization. This is undoubtedly because therapeutic concepts have become mundane and accessible only more recently. Indeed, as in other countries, in Russia this type of psychologization of everyday life has taken place through the examples of popular media and culture (Lerner, 2015; Salmenniemi and Adamson, 2015). However, in Russia the availability of these discourses was delayed, as the therapeutic discourse began to circulate widely in mainstream media only after the demise of the Soviet Union (Matza, 2010). Like feminism, the psychological disciplines occupied a relatively marginal position in Soviet society and were not popular among the masses. Instead, biomedical and pedagogical discourses were employed to make sense of the self, emphasizing correct communist socialization (Matza, 2010). However, Soviet people too were invited to engage in Soviet-​style work on the self (rabota nad soboi), which targeted the production of a correct type of communist citizen, who acted on behalf of the community rather than for the benefit of the individual self (for rabota nad soboi, see Kharkhordin, 1999). Salmenniemi and Adamson (2015) have traced the domestication of the postfeminist and neoliberal ethos in Russia through therapeutic self-​help literature, which became extremely popular in the early 2000s, especially among women. In these books, individuals were called to engage in the ‘labour of personality’ in order to become autonomous, self-​reliant, free and responsible subjects (Salmenniemi and Adamson, 2015: 93). At the same time, however, conservative gender norms and feminized responsibility were also smuggled in. Indeed, women were often portrayed ambiguously as both the problem and the solution (Salmenniemi and Adamson, 2015; see also Perheentupa and Salmenniemi, 2019). At first sight, the activists’ accounts of working on one’s feminist self seem to align with this tradition, as they too emphasized the importance of becoming not only active and responsible but also liberated, and increasingly aware of one’s gender. These characteristics are key to the successful and independent self promoted by popular self-​help literature, echoing the postfeminist idea of an atomized self, untouched by social structures (Gill, 2007; McRobbie, 2009). Nevertheless, I suggest that the revolution of the self manifested in the activists’ interviews should be seen as being only a starting point for a wider feminist revolution. This is because narratives discussing the changing self also acknowledged the need for wider change: ‘M-​m-​m, it’s very banal, but I think personal is political; and the things that I thought earlier were my personal problems, I understood that they are systemic [problems] that all women run into. My relationship to my looks changed, and also the way I see the opposite sex. I started 48

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to react to women in a better way. … Overall, I changed in a profound way, and I am very happy that it happened.’ (Lilia) Lilia’s extract shows how, rather than pathologizing the self, she had become aware of the fact that the ‘ills’ and the cause of her feeling of injury were social and shared. Indeed, although a narrative of first working on oneself prevailed in the interviews, so did a realization that one’s most private experiences are actually not private and individual at all. Narratives such as these illustrate how the activists had become alert to the social texture of their painful experiences of misogyny. Indeed, the lens metaphor deployed by the activists helped me to read the narratives of feminist self-​work in a reparative way: rather than monitoring themselves, as the postfeminist logic would suggest, the activists were now turning to monitor the social structures. Thus, the narratives run counter to Michele Rivkin-​Fish’s (2004: 293) finding from interviewing reproductive health activists in Russia in the early 2000s. They suggested that ‘you must change yourself, not the system, because if you change yourself, everything around you will change’, and thus turned to individualized practices, leaving structures untouched. The activists interviewed by Rivkin-​Fish had abandoned the collective approach, whereas the feminists I interviewed had not, even though they too discussed individual aspects of activism as central to their own activism. However, while orienting towards social problems and their solution, many of the feminists interviewed for this study were sceptical of the possibility of witnessing any fast social changes, owing to the profoundly conservative and authoritarian juncture in the country, which did not even allow open dialogue with the political groups in power. Therefore, the self and one’s everyday life were the most tangibly changing targets, proving that change was ultimately possible. Increased empathy for the self, connected with relinquishing misogyny, as exemplified in Lilia’s extract, is also an important clue in reading the feminist narratives reparatively. Although self-​love may be connected with the mantras of neoliberal self-​help (Hazleden, 2003), I suggest it should rather be read here as connected with the idea of self-​care and love as activists’ form of warfare (Lorde, 1988). As change was a long way off and the path full of challenges, all politics had to be combined with an aspect of self-​care and self-​respect. Indeed, I suggest that the repairing of their self-​relation in the way described, rather than individualizing their activist efforts, potentially enabled them to transcend the limitations of selfhood in their activism, as suggested by Nash (2011). This is because it was connected with turning the focus from the self to collective possibilities for social change. Indeed, although the activists were realistic about achieving broad change, they oriented collectively in many ways to increase social awareness around feminist issues. Next, I shall zoom in more closely on social and collective aspects of activism, orienting to repairing society. 49

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Relinquishing the ‘culture of violence’ and related trauma A key factor drawing activists to feminism was their personal experiences of violence and abuse. Take, for example, the case of Katia, a radical feminist in her twenties. She described “having faced violence all her life”, first conducted by her father and later by her partners. There had also been moments of sexual violence. Katia further explained that for a long time she had been unable to imagine any other way of living, as she had internalized the condition of violence, thus stressing its normative everyday nature. Gradually, however, she had become aware of the possibility of non-​violence as she had got to know her friend’s family, whose everyday was flavoured not by violence but the absence of it. Having left behind another violent relationship, and being on the verge of starting a new relationship, Katia had started to look for help online, ultimately finding herself on a feminist online site about abuse –​“and suddenly, Katia had become a feminist!” She thus summarized her rapid feminist awakening. In fact, Katia highlighted that experiences of abuse were the key factor bringing individuals to feminism, “as the women who have it all good rarely become feminists”. The ‘norm’ of violence and its connection with feminist awakenings was manifested in many ways, both in the interviews with activists and in the feminist actions I observed. A teenage girl had recently died as a consequence of a violent attack by the son of a well-​known businessman. Many were worried that, because of the powerful father, he would not be appropriately punished. During my fieldwork, peaceful feminist demonstrations were organized in both Moscow and St Petersburg in her memory and in order to address the issue of gendered violence. The activists also discussed how videos presenting different forms of violence against young women were circulating on the internet and appeared to be a way for young men to boast. In the activists’ view, they were being circulated without any kind of criticism of the phenomenon, implicitly blaming the female victims. Indeed, the prevalence and mundane condition of violence was highlighted by the activists, who framed it as “the culture of violence” (kul’tura nasiliia). Similarly to Katia, many of the activists discussed their experiences of gendered or sexual violence, and the everydayness of these experiences. For example, Milka said that they were tired of discussing violence, but could not leave it behind, as ultimately “everything is about violence and comes back to it”: “The point is that the problem is absolutely non-​articulated and remains mundane and self-​evident. … We are tired of talking about violence. We want to discuss something else … but all the same everything ends up being about violence.” The various experiences and memories of violence were often made sense of through the therapeutic concept of trauma. For example, queerfeminist 50

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Sonia discussed her trauma at length, connecting it intimately with her personal history of violence, both in her childhood and in later experiences as an adult. However, she added that “I think almost all the women I know share my experience”, suggesting that her experience was common rather than special. Recalling a night when they had almost been raped by a stranger, Milka likewise observed that their story was not particular but “symptomatic”: ‘Well, I am alive, and was not strongly traumatized in a physical way, but morally. And, of course, I told everyone that this is what happened to me, because it was very triggering for me. But I can talk about it and I believe it is important. All the women I told about it, and even all the men to whom I mentioned it then started reminiscing about how their friends had experienced something similar. … It was somewhat symptomatic.’ (Milka) Milka and Sonia both construed a sense of the collective around the trauma of violence and its constant threat. Ron Eyerman (2001: 5–​6) has suggested that the concept of trauma is often deployed in order to solidify a group with a ‘shared memory’. The past becomes collectively experienced and interpreted with the help of a shared trauma, which is then construed as a reference point for future action (Eyerman, 2001: 7). Here, the collective trauma produced by the feminists can be considered cultural in nature (Eyerman, 2001; Cvetkovich, 2003), as it brought together different experiences and memories dealing with various forms of both first-​and second-​hand violence, some of which were connected with psychological experiences and the threat of violence rather than actual experiences of it. The feminist work around gendered violence can be seen as a continuum in relation to the work of the earlier women’s movement. The women’s movement in the 1990s developed women’s crisis centres in nearly every major city of Russia (Sperling, 1999: 27; Johnson, 2009), and creating this infrastructure has been deemed to be one of its greatest achievements (Johnson and Saarinen, 2013). A significant proportion of the activists interviewed for this study continued to concentrate on this work in particular, focusing mainly on issues of gendered violence in their activism, and sometimes even receiving support from those crisis centres that still existed, although in a context in which the infrastructure of safe houses had been dismantled. However, what was a novel emphasis was how violence was discussed in relation to trauma, and how trauma had become a key word in the feminist vocabulary.1 However, some feminists also distanced themselves from violence-​related activism in their narratives, pointing out that violence had drawn too much attention away from other pivotal feminist issues. Peculiarly, however, even 51

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in these interviews, trauma was often deployed as a narrative concept to make sense of one’s own as well as the collective feminist experience. For example, Dina, a queerfeminist in her thirties, connected the concept of trauma with her non-​normative sexuality and the social position into which it forced her in public. She thus highlighted the violent gesture connected with not being allowed to lead a certain lifestyle openly because of the ‘homo propaganda’ law: ‘For me it’s like [imitates a choking sound]. And it’s strange, talking about being a minority. I wished to discuss it. I think it’s interesting, because I am sure there are a lot of females who are feeling it and who are suppressing it, and I think that if you suppress it, it’s an experience which is not thought through, which can become a trauma. And trauma becomes traumatic for everyone, so then you traumatize everybody else, and then it’s a chain reaction.’ (Dina) Dina’s narrative likewise discusses violence, except that in her case she was referring to the violence of not being allowed to express her sexuality openly. The numerous ways in which trauma was deployed by the feminists in discussing their experiences point to the central role of the concept in helping the activists to make sense of their pasts and orient collectively towards the future, despite their traumatizing experiences. During my fieldwork, I was intrigued by the therapeutic role played by feminist gatherings and action around the theme of gendered violence and related trauma. These were some of the most collective moments of feminism which, I suggest, like the theatre gathering described at the beginning of this chapter, often turned to collective therapy and healing. Indeed, feminist theatre was very popular during the production of the research material, with numerous theatre projects and festivals around feminist activist theatre. What was special about feminist theatre as a tool for discussing the trauma of violence was how it allowed those who had faced violence to take an active role, but also to distance themselves from the painful issue with the help of performance. Martha, who had participated in a theatre project dealing with gendered violence, elaborated on the experience of performing in a theatre piece: ‘The performance state is activated, and it’s a bit like being under the influence of drugs … you are watching yourself as some kind of a movie. It’s me who is watching myself doing something and directing my actions, controlling from the outside. I am watching a movie about myself, and I don’t feel fear.’ (Martha) I suggest that in referring to performing in front of an audience as something that had enabled her to ‘look at her own life as a movie’, Martha was 52

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touching on how the play had helped her distance herself from the traumatic experience she was performing. Indeed, the power of feminist amateur theatre appeared to lie in allowing the activists not only to build distance from their intimate experiences, but also to take an active position in relation to them. The trauma connected with violence was deployed as a resource for action in order to change the social conditions causing the trauma in the first place (Cvetkovich, 2003). Analysed from a reparative angle, I suggest that the feminists turned the trauma, and the collective emotions connected with it, into fuel for collective action. By doing so, they avoided pathologizing individuals who had faced violence and forcing them into the passive position of victims in need of psychological help (Cloud, 1998; Gilson, 2016). Indeed, from a reparative point of view, the activists collectively rejected the passive role and instead adopted an active stance by collectively turning their gaze towards the ‘culture of violence’, its unproblematized nature in society and the perpetrators of violence. The second key element I wish to tackle from a reparative perspective is the practice of voicing experiences of violence collectively in public, thereby challenging the silence around the ‘norm’ of violence. This silence was challenged in various ways and on various fronts to highlight the everydayness of violence and alternatives to the prevailing ‘culture’. At their best, emotions such as those discussed at the beginning of this chapter enabled the activists to transcend individuality and find common ground in shared grief and joy. Whereas the trauma was connected with painful feelings, the collective performances regarding them were often joyful, and both actors and audiences were energized and given hope of actual cultural change. Indeed, while my own observations led me to analyse such feminist collective work in the context of theatre, the flashmob Ia Ne Boius’ Skazat’ (in English, I am not afraid to tell), which took place in 2016 on the Russian-​speaking internet, a year earlier than the #MeToo movement in Western countries, is a vivid example of collectively putting an end to the silence around ‘the culture of violence’. It illustrates how individual social media posts formed a collective flow, which was able to divert the gaze from individual ills to structural causes and to social blindness to gendered violence (for a fuller discussion, see Sedysheva, 2018). This kind of feminist collective coming together around experiences causing trauma, whether online or face to face, has both global and local implications. First, as discussed in the previous section, it connects with the rise of the therapeutic culture, which has made therapeutic concepts and vocabulary such as trauma accessible in making sense of one’s past, and has raised awareness of how, if taken seriously, such trauma can be cured. Indeed, Eve Illouz (2008) has shown that as a result of the availability of therapeutic tools, trauma and feminism have previously been successfully coupled in feminist activism in some other contexts. During the later decades of 53

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the 20th century especially, some Western feminists brought the issue of traumatic injury into public, politicizing it in order to demand political measures to tackle issues such as domestic violence and child abuse (Illouz, 2008: 168–​169). On a more general level, this type of feminist activism connected with personal traumatic experiences echoes the feminist tradition of mutual support groups, which offer individuals collective and emotional support for overcoming painful experiences when no other social help is available and the problem is being ignored by existing social institutions (Taylor, 1996). As such therapeutic aspects have been fundamental to strands of feminism elsewhere, they highlight that not all therapy is atomizing and depoliticizing; on the contrary, they simply articulate another form of political claims making (Stein, 2011). While trauma functioned here as a fuel for collective political action, the reverse also applied: not only was politics conducted in convergence with therapeutic aspects such as dealing with trauma, but the feminists simultaneously created their own forms of collective therapy by coming together around the trauma, and creating collective support mechanisms that would not otherwise have been available to them. However, in explaining how trauma appeared to be an efficient collective glue for feminist action, I suggest also looking at local factors. Indeed Oushakine (2016) has observed how this type of collective coming together around experiences of suffering and trauma has been somewhat typical of marginalized groups in Russia since the demise of the Soviet Union (see also Ries, 1997). This means that feminism is only one of many kinds of collectives to which one might turn to deal with one’s suffering and trauma, depending on its source (see, for example, Leykin, 2015). One example of this is how the CSM politicized their painful experiences of losing their sons in the Chechnya wars in the 1990s, and turned their narratives of loss into successful political claims making (Oushakine, 2016: 5–​12). I suggest that contemporary feminists can be interpreted as speaking of the same systemic violence, which is based on society indirectly allowing violence to take place and maintaining institutions such as the army, and the associated discourse of Russian men as ‘defenders of the fatherland’. However, what is perhaps distinct from the CSM’s tactic is contemporary feminists’ aim to bring attention to the thoroughly gendered nature of everyday violence and its permeation of Russian society. This is also why the feminist spaces of trauma were mostly occupied by non-​males who had faced gendered violence. For example Milka, who otherwise challenged the binary understanding of gender, highlighted that sexual violence was something faced mainly by women and non-​male LGBT individuals, and was thus not always understood by men. Milka underlined that “feminism is the only ideology that sees violence as a problem. All other political discourses take it as given, do not set it under the magnifying glass”. 54

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Although men were not numerous in collective gatherings around violence-​related trauma during my observations, there were moments when men ultimately being similarly victims of the patriarchy and its ‘culture of violence’ was addressed in the interviews and feminist action. For example, Oleg, a feminist and journalist in his thirties, brought up what he called the “cult of war”, including in it a critique of the narrow male roles on offer. The theme of war was timely when the interview was conducted, as Russia had joined the conflict in Syria and was also taking part in the Ukrainian war, although the government denied this: ‘The cult of the Great Patriotic War [Second World War] has expanded. Many analytics have named it a para-​religion. I mean, it is so strong that it already resembles some religions. … And the cult of the Great Patriotic War –​it is a cult of war, a cult of strong men who protect all women and children.’ (Oleg) Oleg thus associated the “cult of war” with the cult of strong men, entailing the idea of men as defenders of the fatherland rather than as individuals able to express a variety of emotions, including weakness. In a similar vein to Oleg, some of the non-​male activists discussed narrow public and political discourses of masculinity as key feminist challenges in society. They also engaged in composing feminist actions, which at times positioned men likewise as victims of the ‘culture of violence’, thus calling them to join in activism against gendered violence and narrow gender norms. Indeed, in the feminist actions of the Day of the Defender of the Fatherland, the activists addressed not only the domestic violence experienced by women, as described at the beginning of this book, but also the systemic violence faced by those having to go through the army and possibly even war. A reparative angle on the previously discussed material gives me the courage to suggest that targeting narrow patriarchal male roles and norms in the future –​that is, those identifying as men and willing to cooperate in feminist work against the ‘culture of violence’ –​would allow more broad-​based social and cultural change in the long run. Having discussed gendered violence and the collective work around it, I shall turn next to look at the political relations of the feminists more widely, and how feminist politics had a radical flavour in having to function from outside the official political structures.

Radically challenging conservative premises of politics One commonly construed path to a feminist awakening was present in Milka’s and Olga’s narratives: they had both already been politically active before becoming feminists, but as the opposition movements they had joined 55

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appeared conservative and male-​led, they had realized that they needed to bring feminism to the forefront of their political struggle. Milka had been an anarchist activist for some time before their feminist awakening. Actively participating in the ‘For Fair Elections’ mass demonstrations in 2011–​2012 had made them conscious of the twofold nature of sexism in politics. Milka elaborated on how, while demonstrating against governmental politics as an anarchist, they had become aware of sexist hierarchies in the community of anarchists. This sexism was exemplified in the fact that, based on their non-​maleness, Milka was not permitted full political subjectivity in the anarchist community. At the same time as Milka was experiencing these thoughts and revelations in 2012, Pussy Riot released its Punk Prayer and its members were sentenced to prison for doing so. For Milka, this made feminism appear even more timely: “Everything somehow coincided in a moment. And it became clear that feminism is the language that one needs to master. This is the language we must speak and make others listen to. Some we have to force, others persuade.” Indeed, similar stories were repeated with minor variations in various activists’ narratives. The activists highlighted how patriarchal hierarchies prevailed across the non-​systemic opposition. The reason for their feminist politicization thus often followed the same ‘choreography’: they had gradually grown weary of the systemic ways in which femininity and non-​ maleness were downplayed and gender overlooked within different social movements. The embodied experience of female invisibility had thus encouraged the activists towards feminism, in order to render gender visible as a political question, and to articulate and challenge gendered hierarchies. Indeed, the whole opposition was discursively construed as a target in need of feminist intervention, rather than targeting only those in power. This prevailing sexism across different parts of the opposition probably contributed to how some activists saw traditional political labels as empty signifiers with no value. For example, Olga, in her early forties, pointed out that, for her, all political labels, whether ‘liberal’ or ‘leftist’, were empty when analysed from a feminist viewpoint: ‘You know, I don’t care about these labels. When a woman comes to power, it is not important what party she represents. The key issue is that she is a woman. … I think feminism needs to take a distance from this patriarchal division, because the struggle between liberalism, the leftists, the nationalists and military –​it is all the same struggle between different forms of patriarchy.’ (Olga) Such narratives of gender blindness and sexism in both governmental and opposition politics echo Valerie Sperling’s (2015) discussion of Vladimir Putin bringing sex back into Russian politics, together with a return to the 56

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conservative rhetoric of Russian ‘tradition’. As part of his political strategy, both femininity and masculinity have been deployed as political tools (Sperling, 2015). For example, it has become typical for both governmental and opposition groups to connect plausible political subjectivity with the traditional expression of strong and ‘real’ masculinity, while political rivals have been shamed by marking them as feminine and highlighting their possible connections with non-​heterosexuality (Sperling, 2015; see also Riabov and Riabova, 2014). The situation in which Olga and other activists found themselves in the 2010s was strikingly different from that of the early 1990s when, in the liberated post-​Soviet political climate, a women’s political party had been established and had even gained seats in parliament in 1993 (Caiazza, 2002: 156). Whereas women’s groups were able to access the cabinets of official politics and influence policymakers at both regional and federal levels in the early 1990s (Posadskaya, 1994; Sperling, 1999: 32), the feminist activists no longer considered such lobbying to be a potent tactic. Only Diana, in her late twenties and working for a political party herself, discussed the possibility of lobbying, which suggests that apart from being deemed highly challenging and ineffective, lobbying did not even cross the minds of many of the activists. This was something that Diana criticized. Similarly, Rivkin-​Fish (2005: 210) problematizes how the Russian reproductive health activist whom she studied had given up on collective political work such as lobbying, while the conservative activists had successfully used it to push through legislation that now limited women’s access to abortion. These distinct political approaches are, of course, striking. However, what should not be dismissed is that feminists and conservative activists are very differently positioned in relation to the power. Whereas conservative activists have been empowered in a political context that embraces conservative ideas, feminist claims have been ignored and their activism marked as a deviant and foreign import in the official political discourse. Indeed, the contemporary feminist generation is politicized in a situation in which their right to participate in politics is denied. The public reception of Pussy Riot’s Punk Prayer exemplifies this logic: their political claims were not heard, and their activism was depoliticized by accusing them of hooliganism (Bernstein, 2013). No wonder, then, that the feminists interviewed discussed a more ‘grassroots-​oriented activism’. Rather than looking for cooperation, which appeared impossible, the activists sought to achieve social change from outside what was understood as the official political sphere, by making feminist discourses available in society. Olga’s story of becoming a feminist activist is illustrative in this regard, as she had originally tried to access the official political structures as an openly feminist candidate. She had, in her own words, been the first openly feminist candidate for the local Duma, but rather than being elected, she had been sentenced to jail and later held under house arrest as she experienced serious 57

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health issues during her imprisonment. In her view, the real reason for her detention, despite ‘official’ allegations of professional financial misconduct, was connected with the fact that she was an openly feminist candidate, aiming to introduce feminist analysis into official politics. Indeed, she brought to mind the picture of a Russian female protester of the 1990s, holding a placard with a play on words: ‘A woman’s place is in the home [doma]’, but with the ‘o’ of doma being replaced with a ‘u’ to ‘duma’, meaning parliament. Rather than taking part in decision making and using her voice to promote issues of equality in the local duma, Olga was under house arrest –​‘doma’. During our interview, part of which was conducted via Skype because Olga was completing her sentence, she said that she had decided to continue to engage in feminist politics in the only way that appeared possible to her: outside official political structures. Olga also highlighted that, in her view, women had two options in the current situation: either to conduct feminist politics outside official structures, or to hide their feminist views in order to be able to access official structures. The feminists’ political outsiderhood no doubt contributed to how the activists narratively construed the feminist movement as radical in comparison with other political groups. In the interviews, feminist political expression was defined as ‘bold’ in relation to the weak political left and in contrast to the ‘normative’ and ‘conformist’ LGBT movement. For example, Xena, a veteran feminist in her sixties, suggested that the feminist movement was the only movement in the opposition able to conduct anything exciting in public anymore as, in her view, the leftist movement had become ‘boring’ in its public expression: “[Feminist] activism manifests itself in action that is fairly interesting and artistic. They carry the characteristics of actionism [for a detailed description of actionism, see Chapter 6], and thus differ from the boring events of the opposition.” When asked why this was, she responded: “I think it is because the opposition action is in general conducted more by older people. They are very fond of certain stereotypes of action and thinking, of old slogans. They lack creativity. Feminists, on the other hand, are young, and their approach is more original.” Xena thus connected the radical nature of feminist activism with the young age of the activists. Similarly to Xena, Varia attributed her own radicality to her young age, pointing out that her youth may have contributed to her reluctance to compromise, and her relatively emotional and extreme activist expression. Varia also said that she was not ready to compromise or negotiate on key issues such as gendered violence, which probably contributed to the radical nature of her activism. One can also find radicality, at least in connection with the conservative norms, in how some of the activists combined parenthood with their activism. Indeed, the case of Pussy Riot and its aftermath clearly exemplifies how, in the conservative discourse, motherhood and politics are carefully kept 58

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apart: many argued that the groups’ members should be released from prison because they were mothers, and even their defenders often concentrated on their motherhood rather than their political claims (Bernstein, 2013: 235). Such conservative ideas of motherhood as a withdrawal from the public and political echo the Russian myth of the sacrificing mother, who puts everything else aside for the benefit of her children (Ries, 1997: 104; Gapova, 2016: 39). However, contrary to conservative ideas aiming to isolate mothers from politics, the activists combined parenthood with activism in various ways. Those who had children often distanced themselves from the culturally strong narrative of sacrificing motherhood, and instead highlighted their public identities, or discussed how their different roles could be combined without giving up either. For example, Nadia, a leftist feminist in her thirties, stressed that she was able to engage in so much activism because she was a “bad mother”, dragging her child with her from one event to another, or leaving her with babysitters when she had activism to do. In this way, she demonstrated that motherhood had not become her exclusive identity, stressing her other more central identifications connected with public action and work. Dina, on the other hand, suggested that her feminist awakening itself was connected with her having become a mother, which had made her realize that mothers’ space for agency was narrow. Having felt as if she had been pushed into the private sphere as a mother, she had started to fight for her space in public. These narratives of unruly parenting are distinct from the 1990s, when the CSM successfully made use of motherhood as a key female identity in order to be politically heard (Caiazza, 2002: 158). Whereas the CSM harnessed motherhood as a political resource, contemporary activists rather harnessed an unruly attitude towards mothering and a radical orientation to activism as political resources. It was radical not to shut up and not to withdraw into the realm of the family and the private in a context that assumed this. Narratives construing feminism as radical call for reparative analysis. By framing the movement as radical in relation to other political groups, the activists construed a sense of a brave collective that did not settle for the norm, but instead built its own political rules. This resonates with the practices of other non-​violent movements that have turned state punishments, such as going to jail, into rewards among the activist community, thereby challenging prevailing punishment–​reward relations with their resistance (Lilja and Vinthagen, 2014: 115). A reparative approach to narratives of radical action thus suggests that talking about feminism as radical enabled the activists to imbue it with positive attributes in a context that vilified feminism, and hence to collectively mobilize and find strength to resist the dominant narratives. Here, also, stories of other feminists taking radical action, even if very challenging, empowered the activists, making them feel less alone. Although action often felt like a lonely struggle, the stories 59

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gave it a collective flavour. Collective stories such as these were important in keeping the feminist flame of action alive. Moreover, I propose that the radical articulation of feminist action also entailed a therapeutic layer: it was therapeutic to take agency and be active despite all the shutting down and belittling. Yet here again, the collective dimension and a feeling of not being completely alone were pivotal. Taking public agency despite the growing challenges was even more important, as there were constantly new restrictions, and people were lured into complying with the system, and even intimidated because of their political activity. Milka’s quote is instructive in this regard. Milka explained that they were now acting as if on ‘autopilot’, trying to do at least something in order not to surrender to total political apathy and give up on action, even though, in their view, political apathy was gaining ground as a consequence of the mass detentions of protesters in 2012 and the increasing limitations on protest that had followed. At first sight, the autopilot metaphor seems to indicate that Milka had embodied the ideal feminist active subjectivity, as they now seemed to be unconsciously active, as the ‘autopilot’ suggests. However, I propose that, on closer reading, this metaphor echoes Milka’s awareness that they might give in to political passivity if they did not consciously resist the apathy looming constantly behind them. Indeed, Milka’s comment mirrors the difficulty of making a difference, as the space for independent political action was shrinking. However, while changing the system from the outside appeared challenging and far off, actual social change had gradually begun within the various social movements in which the activists were operating. By the time of my fieldwork, the feminist movement had already started to alter the non-​systemic opposition, as different movements, including anarchist, leftist and LGBT, had been forced to begin to challenge their non-​egalitarian practices. This had led, for example, to a division in the anarchist movement, as observed by Milka and others. Changes in the social movements with which feminism overlapped are one concrete example of feminism being much more than just alternative self-​making and focusing merely on individual change. Having illustrated how feminism was produced in the conservative political discourse as a foreign import, and how this forced the activists to a type of outsider politics, I shall turn next to discussing how, in fact, feminism should rather be seen as something local, owing to its historical roots and unique tradition in Russia. I shall also introduce elements in the feminist narratives that individualize feminism, thus calling for a more paranoid analysis.

Articulating an alternative tradition One key way in which the activists narrated their feminist awakening was to point out that they had actually always been feminists, despite not having 60

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always been aware of this. Thus, their feminism had been awakened in relation to a realization that the ‘tradition’ flagged up by the conservatives did not accord with their personal experiences of the norm of strong and emancipated women in charge of everyday life. Indeed, the increasingly loud conservative voices in society had forced the activists to become vocal about their dormant feminism. This was the case for Maria and Daria. They both took time to recall their childhood Soviet ‘matriarchies’, in which all important decisions were made by their mothers, and in which feminism was self-​evident: ‘I had a very matriarchal family. In principle mom made all the decisions. And her parents as well. Grandmother and grandfather were, of course, more conservative, and my father’s parents too, but they [parents] were both from relatively matriarchal families. And maybe it is because of the fact that I was born into a matriarchal family [that] I started to ask questions, such as why men are trusted with power if they are unable to do anything back at home.’ (Daria) ‘My mom was always a single mother, and she was a completely independent person … and I was asked in the kindergarten “where is your dad?”, that kind of stuff. But I never had any complexes about being from an incomplete family and all of that, thanks to my mother’s dignity.’ (Maria) Other activists similarly remembered their early feminist mentors –​single mothers, grandmothers –​and also progressive and open-​minded men and fathers, who did not limit women’s agency but encouraged them to be active and to break barriers and limitations. Only when encountering those with conservative views had they realized that feminism and women’s emancipation were not self-​evident. They would then narrate their clashes with patriarchal views in society, and how they had at first tried to fit into traditional gender norms, but had realized over time that this was unnecessary. These feminist narratives in fact subtly formed a flow of tradition very different from that suggested by the conservative discourse built on a solid picture of a heteronormative life, drawing on the Russian Orthodox tradition. In this way the activists challenged at least two louder traditions: the conservative ‘tradition’ and the Western feminist tradition. First, whereas the current political regime in Russia tends to anchor the idea of tradition to the concepts of essentialist gender roles and heteronormative family as core elements of Russianness (see Wilkinson, 2014; Oushakine, 2016), many of the feminists approached the issue of what counts as tradition from another angle. In this alternative tradition, brought to life in the activists’ interviews, women were narrated as equal to men, actively taking 61

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public roles. Historical feminist activists and women were also brought to life in these narratives, with an emphasis on the early Soviet years. Many of the activists mentioned Aleksandra Kollontai, the first woman minister in the Soviet Union and a feminist theoretician, whose ideas on liberating women are still seen as highly progressive (see, for example, Uspenskaia, 2014). For example, she advocated for a new emancipated woman, who was free to enjoy worldly pleasures and engage in love affairs based on free will and companionship (Rotkirch, 2014). Queerfeminist Dina discussed the fact that, as a result of Kollontai’s progressive politics, the Soviet Union had aimed to abolish the bourgeois concept of family altogether in the 1920s and to replace it with the idea of a larger community: “The family was abandoned … then church marriage was prohibited … and then there were discussions about sexuality.” Dina was undoubtedly inspired by this past, as it echoed her own path towards abandoning the heteronormative setting after becoming a mother and a feminist. Sonia, on the other hand, narrated a pre-​Soviet moment in the history of feminism in 1905, when “there were 5,000 feminists protesting on Nevskii Prospect!” This reminded her that she was not the only one to have taken her political views onto the streets, even though she was sometimes scared of taking part in public protest. Anna, for her part, discussed female Soviet cosmonauts and pilots as examples of women taking visible public agency. Konstantin, in his thirties, suggested that activists should revisit early Soviet history for inspiration: “I am fascinated by the 1920s in Russia … lots of interesting experiments took place … we should study that, and see what was good, what was bad, what was dangerous. We need to learn from that history!” In sharing these historical snapshots of active women and progressive gender politics, the activists defied the conservative idea of ‘tradition’ with a counter-​tradition. Indeed, by making the early Soviet feminist figures visible, the activists were able to draw inspiration for their own action from their historical mentors. Kollontai and other historical figures were thus deployed as a cultural resource, not only to challenge conservative ‘tradition’, but also to narrate how women’s agency, political possibilities and social norms have varied during different political periods in Russia. Moreover, although the activists drew on early Soviet history as a resource for their own feminism and sense of collective belonging, this did not mean that they deployed only ‘rose-​tinted spectacles’, ignoring the later, less complimentary phases of Soviet gender politics. Rather, they highlighted moments in history that had at least aimed to challenge social norms and essentialist gender roles. Furthermore, how the activists drew on stories of historical women and their public agency reveals that tradition, too, is a matter of choosing ‘lenses’. The narratives thus also bring to the fore the theme of remembering and forgetting in the context of shifting power relations (Baaz et al, 2017: 50). In this way, they not only produced 62

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counter-​history, but also engaged in ‘epistemic insurrection’ in order to ‘destabilize the epistemic status quo’ (Medina, 2011). The activists brought to life a less visible tradition of progressive gender politics coupled with non-​normative ideas of social relations. However, the interview accounts also illustrate that the activists were not always familiar with more recent feminist history: while most had some knowledge of pre-​Soviet and early Soviet feminists, much fewer were aware of the women’s movement activated after perestroika. This, too, illustrates the power geometry of forgetting and remembering. Indeed, how can one remember if there is no access to knowledge of history that has been formally deemed to be forgotten? Lack of access to historical materials, which are no longer at hand owing to, among other things, the dismantling of centres for gender studies, connects with the fact that knowledge and access to it are crucial for working on one’s feminist subjectivity (for more detail, see Chapter 5). However, conservative ideas of tradition were not the only ones defied by the activists’ narratives of early Soviet feminism. In narrating early feminist chapters of pre-​Soviet and Soviet Russia, the activists also challenged, or at least complicated, the Western feminist tradition and their own relationship with it. Thus, historical narratives of Russian feminism were resources for teasing out an alternative tradition not only to the conservative Russian ‘tradition’, but also to the Western tradition of feminism, which is often presented as hegemonic. Dina said: ‘It’s a pity that our social experiment was not that famous in the West for certain ideological reasons … if the female revolutionary achievements were known to the West earlier than the 1970s, the world could be different, I think. I posed this question to [a feminist scholar] who was teaching us a class on Russian gender and Russian feminism: “Why did everybody get excited about feminism only later, while in Red Russia there was a lot of this experiment actually, not at the level of theory, but at the social level?” ’ (Dina) Like Dina, many of the activists suggested that some of the goals that many Western feminists would fight for decades later, such as women’s right to waged work, had already been achieved in Russia following the 1917 (February) Revolution, when women rapidly entered the labour force and were given full citizen rights. For example, Anita, in her forties, recalled how the emancipatory project had taken very rapid steps during the first decade of the Soviet Union, and how these effects are still echoed in the fact that working women are the norm in Russia: “Women were given all the rights: civil, political, social, economic. All at once, in the 1920s, it was a type of national feminism, before gradually everything changed again.” Feminist narratives that contrasted early Soviet feminism with the 63

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feminist tradition in Western countries in the 20th century thus highlighted feminism as a local resource. Indeed, feminism was not a foreign import, as the conservative political discourse suggests; on the contrary, it had its specific local history. Feminist narratives of its local roots challenged the Western feminist hegemony by distinguishing it from the Russian feminist tradition with its own path and struggles. These narrative ways of challenging both Western feminist and conservative ‘traditions’ can be analysed from a reparative perspective, as they suggest a collective orientation that draws on the historical collective of feminists in Russia. The feminists interviewed took the Russian historical feminist community as a narrative resource for their own action, thus construing the collective not only with their contemporaries but also with their predecessors. Indeed, historical figures may be as significant for building a sense of collective identity as those taking action during the same historical period (Polletta and Jasper, 2001: 298). However, while narratives discussing the feminist tradition bring out the collective and political texture of activism, some of the feminist narratives contain more individualizing and atomizing elements, which I analyse next. I suggest that, although less explicitly, the activist narratives enter into dialogue with one more tradition: that of the sacrificing female activist who is responsible for the wider morals of Russian society. For example, veteran feminist Margarita stressed that feminism was pivotal in order for society to rise from its most primitive forms: ‘Well, because if there weren’t feminism, things would simply … every new era invents its simple and complex models. And if we don’t act in the cultural, theoretical, political spheres, the system will stumble to the very simplest models. It’s very obvious what they are: political repression, the growth of economic differences. Subjects simply won’t develop in such circumstances.’ (Margarita) Similarly, queerfeminist Zoia, in her late twenties, described feminism “as a special optics that helps us to achieve a just society that is much more reliable and evolves”. Both of these quotes confirm that the activists viewed feminism as a moral system, with the help of which society would not “fall into the very simple models”, as Margarita formulated it. Such activist narratives echo Eyal’s (2000) writing on Soviet Czech dissidents, stressing their societal role as civic educators and moral leaders, whose responsibility was to ‘urge the rest of society to take responsibility’. One of the main goals of the feminists appeared to be likewise to fight indifference by making the ‘truth’ available, aiming to form a ‘moral community’ in parallel with the conservative moral system promoted by those in power (Eyal, 2000: 65–​68).

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It was also common practice for the activists themselves to highlight their new feminist morality, and how, despite feminism not always being a pleasure, they could no longer leave it behind as their ‘consciousness would not allow them to’. When asked why they took part in feminist action, Katia and Sonia replied as follows: ‘Because it is the right thing to do. Because my conscience says so. I do not think we will achieve something, and that equality will be achieved during my lifetime, but I just cannot be quiet when the obvious evil is happening.’ (Katia) ‘If you stop acting, you will soon feel ashamed to look yourself in the eye. I do not think we will live to see the effect of our work, but I still like to think they [the actions] have a small and gradual influence.’ (Sonia) This kind of feminist moral order, with an imperative for social responsibility, was thus at the core of living a feminist life, as the narratives illustrate. Indeed, this type of new moral agency and responsibility for one’s country and surroundings has been suggested as being typical of the new forms of politicization of younger digital natives in Russia, and how they appear to be distinct from those of earlier generations, for whom politics often appeared distant and elitist (Omel’chenko, 2019). For the feminists, this social responsibility was crystallized as many of the activists interviewed reflected on whether they would return to their pre-​ feminist state if they could: ‘A while ago I started to think, would I like to stop seeing and go back to my pre-​feminist state? I realized I would not. This freedom is bitter, but it is better this way than not knowing anything.’ (Katia) ‘There is this phrase that once you have become able to see, you cannot return to the previous state. I cannot stop seeing things, stop noticing things.’ (Varia) Having become aware of the patriarchal structures and gendered hierarchies, neither Katia nor Varia could return to their previous state of indifference to the hierarchical structures. They thus highlighted their choice to live by feminist principles, even if, as Katia points out, feminist “freedom is bitter” rather than sweet. Indeed, feminism was not only articulated intimately together with heightened morality, but also, though more implicitly, with a sense of self-​sacrifice. For

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example, Sonia stressed that she would much rather concentrate on making art than taking part in illegal public activism, but her consciousness did not allow her to cease activism in a political situation in which the country seemed to be lost, with no clear future on the horizon. Again, the moral disposition suggested by activists such as Sonia is fleshed out when observed in dialogue with earlier historical layers of women’s activism and how sacrifice has often been feminized in Russia. Take, for example, the commitment of radical female activists in Russia in the late 19th century. These pre-​revolutionary radical activists, such as the women of the Narodnaia Volia (People’s Will) movement, dedicated their lives to the social cause of equality and easing the lives of people around the country living in extremely poor conditions. They strove for profound social change, at times engaging in terrorism that, for some, would lead to imprisonment and even execution. What was characteristic of these early female equality fighters was their voluntary choice of a simple life, as they sacrificed their personal lives and pleasures to serve the wider social good (Engel, 1983: 154–​155). Although the feminist activism studied here appeared significantly less extreme, the contemporary feminist narratives echo the same imperative to give up personal pleasures to fight for a higher good in order to save society. Thus, they serve as a continuum for the political space and agency available to women, which demands considerable moral balancing, and is often coupled with great sacrifice. The emphasis on female activists’ self-​sacrifice can be connected to both the Orthodox and Soviet traditions. The Orthodox religion presents modesty, self-​sacrifice and the ability to suffer as female virtues (Salmenniemi, 2014: 296). The emphasis on women as civilizing agents responsible for the morals of the rest of the nation was also a pivotal Soviet cultural practice (Buckley, 1989). There was a similar cultural echo in some of the contemporary feminist activists’ narratives, which repeatedly lamented the great scarcity of feminist individuals able to carry responsibility and be sufficiently moral. Indeed, it was often pointed out that many feminists operated in a strikingly irresponsible way. These often repeated narratives of feminist irresponsibility puzzled me, as they appeared to take a very harsh approach to what was expected of individual activists, and contained an exhaustive understanding of activism itself. I do not wish to underestimate the importance of activist responsibility, but I believe there is a risk of over-​emphasizing it. When repeated time and time again, it became a trope, implicitly suggesting that simply engaging in sufficiently responsible action would enable feminist grievances to be solved. Indeed, such narratives tease out a more postfeminist sensibility. This takes place in some of the narratives, as they speak to individual responsibility and suggest monitoring individuals rather than aiming at structural change (see Gill, 2007, 2016; McRobbie, 2009). I argue that such narratives speak of neoliberal developments in Russia following the Soviet Union’s collapse. 66

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They emphasize liberated and free individuals in charge of their own lives rather than dependent on others, thus aligning with the neoliberal idea of an atomized (and gendered) individual. However, they are blended with a specific local logic and cultural practices. First, they echo the Soviet tradition of work on the self (rabota nad soboi), in the sense that rather than setting individual benefit as the goal of work on the self, they seem to implicitly suggest that ‘irresponsible’ individual activists should change their bad habits for the collective good, regardless of their own feelings of injury, as was the case with Soviet work on the self in order to become a correct type of communist citizen (Kharkhordin, 1999). Second, while mobilizing to resist the essentialist ideas of gender promoted by the Church–​state tandem, these narratives were paradoxically aligned with the Orthodox and Soviet traditions of once more feminizing responsibility. This contradictory and, at root, atomizing logic is something to beware of in a context in which, as discussed earlier, many of the activists had been drawn to feminism in order to heal their experiences of violence. Indeed, activists such as Rima and Anna touched on a key issue in suggesting that some feminists were not acting responsibly because “they had not yet dealt with their trauma” or “had not had a possibility to deal with their issues with a professional”. While they explain feminist irresponsibility in terms of the trauma experienced by the activists, their reflection raises a key question for feminism: how much responsibility should individuals be able to shoulder, if they aim to highlight the responsibility of others, such as perpetrators of violence, and institutions that maintain the gendered ‘culture of violence’? At the beginning of this chapter, I observed how work on the self was connected with turning the gaze from individual pathologies to social ills. However, a more subtle logic is at work here especially when activists are commenting on other feminists’ actions, which once more aims to turn the gaze towards individuals, ignoring collective dimensions of finding social solutions to key feminist grievances. In narratives such as these, feminism takes a more individualizing orientation and can only be analysed from a paranoid perspective (Sedgwick, 2003). Indeed, such narratives erode the collective texture of the feminist politics discussed earlier in this chapter by ignoring, among other things, the importance of individual wellbeing for the feminist collective political project. This contradicts the collective trauma work discussed earlier, and runs counter to the unique feminist project that combines elements of both politics and therapy.

Conclusion: Reparative politics Reparative politics highlights how feminist politics is both individual and collective and has both political and therapeutic dimensions. Fundamental to 67

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reparative politics is how the activists worked simultaneously on the self and on the social. Indeed, inspired by Eve Sedgwick, I suggest that the activists were in fact repairing both the atomized self, and the gender-​and violence-​ blind social structures that had caused their feelings of gendered injury in the first place. Their resistance took place both on the level of alternative self-​making and narratives, and on a collective and social level, as they were struggling to alter social structures by making alternative information available and by challenging the practices of the conservative power and opposition. However, some elements of the interviews invite a more paranoid analysis, as they tended to turn the gaze back from social ills to individual pathologies, thus individualizing activism and feminizing responsibility. The chapter thus aligns with Rosalind Gill’s (2016) suggestion that contemporary postfeminist formations can also be found in the context of feminism. Indeed, the activist narratives are in no way free from neoliberal and postfeminist tendencies, although there are other mutually important logics in the background. The postfeminist logic that positions women as both the problem and the solution was especially striking in feminist narratives in which activists discussed the actions of other activists. In these narratives, the postfeminist individualizing logic blended with the strong imperative of Russian culture that persuades women to sacrifice themselves for the higher moral good, thus prioritizing the collective good over individual wellbeing. The blending of neoliberalism with local gendered imperatives was convenient for both, and contradicted the collective and social orientation of feminist politics. The emphasis on both trauma and self-​care in the feminist narratives is telling in terms of the importance of therapeutic aspects for feminist politics. Indeed, feminism appears to have been an immensely important therapeutic resource for the activists, both individually and collectively, helping them to help themselves and others, and to take political agency. In this chapter, my aim has thus been to show how therapeutic aspects lie at the core of feminist politics, rather than being a side-​product or separate from it. However, the reverse is also true. By this, I mean that while feminist politics has numerous therapeutic elements, the feminist collective therapy described in this chapter also entails elements of politics, as the activists created new feminist-​friendly forms that would otherwise not have been available to them. I have also argued that the idea of self-​care as warfare is fundamental to reparative politics (Lorde, 1988). It illustrates the immense importance of taking care of oneself as an activist in a highly consuming context, in which trauma and suffering are connected with one’s politicization while prospects for activism and social change have become increasingly unclear. Empathy towards the self and others is something to be nurtured, not only individually but also on the collective level. Indeed, it is crucial to keep in mind that individual wellbeing is equally important to, and a building block for, collective good, in order to achieve sustainable activist positions and 68

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feminist politics. This is especially so in the case of these activists, many of whom had become feminists as a result of their varying experiences of violence and connected trauma. In order to maintain the social and collective at the core of feminist politics, it is important to focus simultaneously on work on the self and on the social. Having so far concentrated on everyday individual and collective dimensions of feminist resistance, I shall now turn to interrogating spatial dimensions of feminist politics under authoritarianism.

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4

Activists Negotiating the Politics of Space Late one Friday night in November 2015, I found myself sitting under the bright lights of a large food court in a brand-​new shopping mall on the outskirts of Moscow, sharing ideas with a group of feminists. One of the organizers of the informal meeting, a young feminist called Varia, treated our group of five to rum and coke from a plastic soda bottle that she had smuggled in. A couple of new people arrived, enquired whether we were there for the feminist get-​together that they had read about online, and then shook hands with everyone around the table and joined us. “So what should we arrange then –​a picket maybe?”, asked one of the feminists, Julia, who was in her forties. There was something anarchistic in the way the group had taken over the commercial space. The organizers had noticed that there was a new shopping mall some seven metro stops from the centre, where the food court was still relatively empty of customers. They had packed a liquid lunch and taken over the space as if it were the kitchen of someone they knew, all because they did not have the money to rent a space for their activities, or even to buy a full meal from the food court. Yet all the participants had arrived there owing literally to their appetite: they were starving for feminism. “Mne ne khvataet feminizma [I don’t get enough feminism]”, Varia sighed, crystallizing what they were there for, and the feelings of many other feminists to whom I spoke during my months in Russia. In the course of my fieldwork, space and the spatial relations of feminism soon appeared essential to me, although at first I was not quite sure why. Following this early intuition, in this chapter I discuss how the activists carved out room for feminism in neoconservative times that offered limited political opportunities. I also analyse the types of feminist spaces produced by the activists. Ultimately, I suggest that the feminists produced spatial politics at two temporally distinct levels: to expand feminist space and challenge conservative politics in the long run, but more urgently to produce safety 70

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and privacy by engaging in what I call the politics of sheltering. Nancy Fraser’s (1997: 82) idea of the subaltern counterpublic is instructive here, as it suggests a dual spatial orientation of turning both inward (withdrawal) and outward (expanding the feminist counterpublic and its discourses by reaching out to new audiences). The concept of the subaltern counterpublic challenges the idea of a single hegemonic public sphere in a given context. Such counterpublics are formed by social groups whose voices are not heard in the dominant publics, in order to produce counterdiscourses and identities (Fraser, 1997: 69–​99). The spatial approach to activism is timely in Russia, not least because of the increasing control of physical public space. The post-​election mass protests in 2011–​2013 led to new restrictions on freedom of assembly, supplementing those that had already been enacted during the early years of the new millennium. Under Vladimir Putin’s first term as president, restrictions on freedom of assembly had already transformed the ‘topography of protest’ in Russia, pushing activists to look for new spatial tactics (Gabowitsch, 2017: 215). As the example from Moscow at the beginning of this chapter illuminates, the feminist groups and collectives I encountered rarely had a space of their own and were therefore constantly moving in space and looking for available locations. This also contributed to how I came to understand feminist spatiality, characterized by constant movement in city space and rapidly paced actions. As most of the activists interviewed lacked a space of their own, they temporarily took over the spaces of the ‘other’, whether referring to the state or the market, for their own purposes (de Certeau, 1988: 30). The most stable domain of feminist activism was undoubtedly the internet and feminist social media spaces. Such digital spaces have provided feminist activists lacking physical headquarters with continuity in the 2010s, as a place for dialogue, for networking with like-​minded people across the vast country and beyond, and for planning and carrying out concrete actions offline. The internet plays an essential role in feminism and activism around the world, but its role is even more essential in authoritarian political contexts such as Russia in the 2010s (Lonkila, 2008; Bode and Makarychev, 2013). Indeed, the feminist movement might not exist without internet spaces, or would at least appear very different from how it does now. In analysing feminist resistance spatially, I understand space as socially produced. This means that the social and the spatial are comprehended as mutually constitutive (Lefebvre, 1991; Martin and Miller, 2003: 146–​177). Space is produced in social action, but also influences social action (Daphi, 2014: 171). A strength of spatial analysis is that it enables discussion of more subtle forms of resistance (de Certeau, 1988; Johansson and Vinthagen, 2016; Baaz et al, 2017: 28), as well as recognizing activists’ simultaneous yet often contradictory experiences of space (Martin and Miller, 2003: 147). In more 71

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detail, my analysis draws on the concept of relational space (Massey, 1991; Harvey, 1996; Murdoch, 2005). The relational approach holds that space is never merely a container of activism, but rather is continuously made and remade in different relations (Harvey, 2004). Relations interwoven across space run over differing spatial scales: local, national and transnational (Martin and Miller, 2003; Leitner et al, 2008). As Massey (1991, 2005: 9) has noted, relational space is a meeting place where relations interweave and intersect. In these meeting places, some relations are consolidated while others conflict. This is because relational spaces are power-​filled: some alignments tend to dominate the space, at least for a period of time, while others are dominated (Murdoch, 2005: 19–​20). My aim in this chapter is to analyse key spatial negotiations of feminism in order to reveal some of the power relations and dynamics taking place in feminist space. Activists in this study often understood feminism spatially. I suggest that this may have been partly due to their lack of actual physical spaces of their own. In this chapter, feminist spatial politics are analysed through three spatial metaphors attached to feminism by the activists: underground, street and shelter. In discussing these metaphors, I delve into some of the central spatial negotiations of feminism, dealing with spatial axes such as visible/​invisible, private/​public, open/​closed and safe/​unsafe. In the first part, through the underground metaphor I look at the activists’ spatial tactics, focusing on their movement between spatial invisibility and visibility. In the second part, relating to the street metaphor, I discuss ways in which the activists reached out to new publics, or in other words how they comprehended themselves spatially in relation to outside non-​feminist audiences. I also highlight how streets, as traditional spaces for resistance, were contested in activists’ narratives, and thus offered various alternatives. In the final part, using the shelter metaphor I examine the negotiations and rationales of activists aiming to both open and close feminist space. I also observe feminist negotiations over spatial safety, privacy and comfort, as well as enquiring what might constitute too much of these. All these sections contribute to understanding feminism as a spill-​over movement (Meyer and Whittier, 1994), in how it overlaps with other counter-​cultural and political projects, such as leftist, anarchist, LGBT/​Q and socially oriented art groups often physically sharing space with the feminists.

Underground The underground metaphor carries heavy historical significance in the post-​ Soviet context. In the Soviet Union, and especially during the second half of the 20th century, the underground came to represent spaces that offered a partial refuge for misfits who, for various reasons, refused to integrate into Soviet collectives. They included dissidents (opponents of the totalitarian 72

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regime) and other individuals who were not recognized in official Soviet society, such as lesbians and homosexuals (Essig, 1999; Zdravomyslova, 2011). Underground spaces, referring to spaces that escaped the attention of the official Soviet system, offered these individuals an alternative social reality and supplied them with some kind of freedom, even if limited, at the margins of the totalitarian society (Zdravomyslova, 2011: 20–​21). A core activity of the dissidents was running the underground press and publishing samizdats in order to disseminate alternative information that was not allowed in the official public sphere (Greene, 2009: 59; Komaromi, 2012: 70–​71). During the latter years of the Soviet Union, underground cafés appeared, which brought people together for informal socializing that was impossible in the official Soviet context (Zdravomyslova, 2011). In what follows I will discuss ways in which the contemporary feminists can be seen as producing a feminist underground in relation to the current neoconservative and increasingly authoritarian political condition that tends to encircle feminist activism. This is what Nancy Fraser (1997) suggests often happens with subaltern groups in authoritarian contexts. I explore the contemporary political situation and its spatial aspects, which at times in the interviews drew parallels with the Soviet dissident underground and political repression. A quote from Zoia, a queerfeminist in her late twenties, is instructive in this regard. When asked about the evolution of feminism and whether it was growing, she said: “Of course, it will only increase and grow. Well, because the colder the frost, the warmer people have to dress up.” This highlights that as conservative and repressive political ideas have gained space, so has feminism, its main task being to provide individuals with very primary needs such as “keeping them warm”. Although Zoia was one of the few activists who applied the metaphor of the underground directly in her narratives of feminism (“there will be a revolution –​only now we are still gathering underground [podpol’e]”), many activists’ accounts contributed to an understanding of an underground more indirectly by discussing dimensions of invisible forms of activism, or highlighting how feminists were moving between visibility and invisibility in their activism. Johnson and Saarinen (2013) have suggested that authoritarianism tends to drive feminism underground in terms of both activities and claims. They also ask rhetorically what happens to feminism in regimes like Russia, in which elements of democracy and authoritarianism are combined (Johnson and Saarinen, 2013: 544–​545). I provide some answers to their question, in suggesting that while feminists are often politically produced as invisible, activists also make tactical use of this invisibility. Indeed, as Mirza and Reay (2000: 525) have noted, visibility in competing publics is not always what activists are looking for, and there are other ways of attempting to transform structures in addition to visible and overt clashes. 73

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In what follows, I delve into narratives that metaphorically suggest the production of a feminist underground, introducing ways in which the activists discussed hidden forms of activism, but often in tandem with more visible forms. Indeed, as the concept of the political underground suggests, many feminist spatial tactics took advantage of invisibility, or were moving between invisibility and visibility. The metaphor of the underground also stands for feminist spatial tactics that tended to play out over time, taking over the space of the other (de Certeau, 1988). First, I analyse the dynamics of the in/​visibility of feminist activism and hidden forms of feminist resistance in relation to spatial arrangements (de Certeau, 1988; Scott, 1989). I also discuss the multiple spatial intersections of feminism and LGBT/​Q activism, often embodied in the same individuals. I then analyse ways in which the activists detached themselves from national socio-​political contexts by playing with different spatial scales, and this way escaping the system without leaving it.

In/​visible spatial tactics of feminism and LGBT/​Q At the door of the exhibition is a sign saying ‘18+​’, signalling that only people over 18 are allowed to enter. This sign is a legal requirement, since non-​normative sexuality must not be propagated among minors in Russia. The small exhibition behind the door consists of photographs, installations and paintings: on the right are plastic vaginas of different shapes and bright colours hung next to each other, and on the left are close-​up photographs of naked body parts. The exhibition combines feminist elements with artworks on non-​heterosexuality. Everything that must be concealed in public if there are minors present is suddenly all on view, except for one thing. In one corner of the room is a colourfully decked dinner table, set for five. Around the table are glasses and plates. By pressing one’s ear close to the plates, one can hear each invisible participant of the dinner party speak, sharing stories about themselves: ordinary things about their professions as a doctor or an artist. The speakers are not to be seen, but they can be heard if one chooses to listen. Apart from invisibility, what then unites them? During the course of my fieldwork, the things I saw, such as the dinner-​ table installation, made me increasingly think of the activists’ active and forced movement between invisibility and visibility. It was not that my informants discussed it directly in the interviews, but it became tangible in how they spoke of their activism in general. I suggest that there were two dimensions to their spatial invisibility: that of the political realm producing them as invisible, and also the spatial invisibility which they themselves chose in order to be able to take part in feminist activism. As the previous snapshot of the exhibition highlights, feminist and LGBT/​ Q issues were often present and discussed in the same spaces. There were 74

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various reasons for this. First, many of the activists suggested that the political situation had pushed these two groups closer together and forced them to cooperate. For example, Lada, a social artist in her thirties identifying as heterosexual, observed that at that particular political time in Russia, it was impossible to discuss feminism without discussing the rights of LGBTQ. Thus, even when not embodied by the very same people, feminist and LGBT/​Q communities were pushed together in the politically narrow space. Indeed, some of the activists pointed out, much like Lapina (2013), that what united LGBT/​Q and feminist activists and brought them into the same spaces was their shared experiences of oppression. Radical feminist Katia’s comment illustrated this: “At a minimum we want to fight the sexism in society, and at a maximum achieve a society that is comfortable for women. However, half of us are lesbians, and therefore not only for heterosexual women but also for women of other orientations.” LGBT/​Q and feminist groups were thus producing a shared space of resistance in which they were stronger when fighting their opponents together. Second, feminism and non-​heterosexuality were very often embodied by the same activists. Eve Sedgwick (1990: 3) has defined closetedness as ‘a performance initiated as such by the speech act of silence’, attaching the notion of the closet to having to hide one’s non-​heterosexual subjectivity. In the hegemonic public, this closet-​like political invisibility, I suggest, is often directed towards both non-​male and non-​heterosexual subjects. Thus, the intersecting identification as both non-​male and non-​heterosexual situated some of the activists politically in a kind of double invisibility. This resonates with what has been written about Soviet lesbian invisibility. As Laurie Essig (1999) has claimed, there were no lesbians according to the official discourse in the Soviet Union; however, lesbian lives were led in the Soviet underground. In interviews with the feminist activists, there were echoes of the same kind of profound experiences of invisibility, as the non-​male activists often felt that they were also made invisible in the realm of the LGBT movement. Many of them observed that it was precisely within the LGBT community that they had felt invisible or misunderstood, as they did not identify as men. This had then pushed some of them to look for visibility and recognition in other social spaces. Because of the gendered hierarchies within the LGBT community, activists such as Vera, in her thirties, had decided to look for spaces of agency and community in the sphere of feminism. However, some groups also actively aimed to challenge gendered hierarchies within the LGBT movement. One such example was a group of female LGBT activists who had decided to produce a space where those identifying as women inside the LGBT community could socialize, in the absence of those who identified as men who might belittle their agency and grievances based on their gender. The group, initiated by four LGBT 75

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activists, had taken as its first task naming, and thereby making visible, the feminine history of LGBT in Russia. When I enquired what other goals they had, one member noted that the group’s key goal was simply to create a space for relaxed socializing among self-​identified women who also identified as non-​heterosexuals. However, in addition to being pushed to invisibility by others, the activists themselves seemed to navigate tactically between invisibility and visibility. I suggest that they sometimes chose to function from an invisible or hidden position in order to be able to act at all in the spatial settings in which they were embedded. Following Scott (1990), I suggest that engaging in hidden forms of everyday resistance allowed them more agility, either by acting from anonymity and hiding their identity altogether, or by hiding their feminist message. At least three key spatial tactics allowed invisible activism: the internet as a key space, constant movement in physical space, and feminist performance as a form of resistance that leaves no spatial trace. Rosa, a feminist activist with her own feminist organization in her late twenties, had collected information on Russian feminists and their tactics for action through an internet survey. In analysing the responses, she had encountered a large number of ‘invisible feminists’. As she elaborated, “There are a lot of people who do activism but decide not to talk about it in public, or who do some kind of non-​visible work.” She referred to activists who, for example, concentrated on translating original feminist articles and publications from English into Russian, or conducting feminist research to produce new feminist knowledge. Indeed, feminist spaces on the internet enabled most anonymous forms of feminism. Lena, a queerfeminist in her twenties, had established her own feminist social media site. At the time of the interview, her site had more than 25,000 followers, a considerable number for a feminist social media site in Russia in 2015. What was special about her site, Lena noted, was the fact that people could share their experiences of discrimination anonymously. She further noted that, for safety reasons, some participants even disguised their gender in virtual spaces. According to Lena, ability to take part in feminism anonymously on the internet made it easier for individuals in remote cities around the country to learn about feminism and gradually get engaged. In accordance with Lena’s analysis, many of my interviewees indeed informed me that they were originally from smaller cities, and described how, while still living there, they had taken part in feminist activities mainly anonymously through online participation only. For many, the physical move from a remote city to the centre had enabled them also to engage in public action –​to come out of the “closet of feminism”, as Vera referred to it, laughingly.1 They suggested that in the smaller cities, open identification with feminism would have exposed them to aggression, and might have 76

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had severe consequences that they had not been willing to face (see Scott, 1989). Francesca Stella (2013) has revealed a similar logic of engaging in more overt LGBT activism in big cities such as Moscow, and activists preferring to engage in hidden activism in smaller cities. Feminist digital space thus allowed the formation of loose feminist networks across space and between smaller and bigger cities, and also extended the network to feminists who had already left Russia. The intense presence in feminist digital spaces of activists who had emigrated might in many cases be explained by language barriers, since the activists living abroad whom I interviewed had not mastered English or other foreign languages. These activists participating in digital feminist networking from abroad were often those embodying the double invisibility. Elena, an activist working as a lawyer for an LGBT organization, indicated that, in her experience, female representatives of LGBTQ were the biggest social group to have left the country seeking asylum. She had been advocating for many of them, often mothers who had moved abroad with their children in order not to be separated from them because of their non-​heterosexuality and political activism. Ksenia, a radical feminist and lesbian, was one of the activists who had already left the country with her partner. I interviewed her via Skype and found out that she was very much virtually present in Russian feminist spaces on the internet and had even recently published a book on feminism in Russian. The internet thus enabled active feminist dialogue between activists in different cities and abroad, thus intensifying interactions between different spatial scales. Elena, the activist lawyer, further elaborated on how non-​male, non-​ heterosexual activists sometimes took advantage of how they were produced as invisible in the hegemonic public. According to her, the fact that the creator of Children 404 (Deti 404, a site that provides LGBT-​identifying youth with information on issues of sexuality), Lena Klimova, was a woman –​ for some ‘only a girl’ –​made it easier for her to act more freely: ‘From one point of view, no one pays attention to women … and sometimes it helps, as in the case of Lena Klimova. If it was some man that was running Children 404, he would already have been accused of paedophilia –​because of the understanding that all gays are paedophiles. But because she is a woman … there is no such understanding that she would try to lure someone. They do not pay attention to girls, and therefore she is not blamed for that. So there is this distortion … that LGBT consists only of gays, at the scale of society as well.’ (Elena) Another key tactic allowing activists spatial invisibility was that of constant movement in space. As previously discussed, most of the feminists did not have places of their own and were thus constantly on the move. If and 77

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when feminist physical spaces appeared in St Petersburg and Moscow, they tended to be temporary. These temporary venues often took the form of feminist exhibitions and festivals, which were built and soon taken down again. Eventually, another feminist event would crop up at another venue where many of the same activists were often to be found. One Russian researcher whom I met (at a research meeting in 2017) called these feminist spaces ‘hidden gardens’, since they would appear and quickly vanish, and were therefore hard to trace later. In fact, I suggest that temporary spatiality was a condition that gave the activists a fair amount of agility and a ‘lead’ on officials and ordinary citizens, some of whom tended to police spaces dealing with feminist or LGBT/​Q issues. It was convenient to be mobile so that their actions would not be regulated by officials such as the police. This spatial feminist tactic relates to Michel de Certeau’s (1988: 34) spatio-​ temporal conceptualization of resistance. De Certeau distinguishes between strategy and tactic, where the ‘strategy’ is in charge of space, whereas the tactic has no space of its own, but only time in its possession. It is always on the watch for opportunities to take over the space of the strategic, even if only for a moment. The example at the beginning of this chapter highlights how the activists were able to ‘hijack’ commercial space for their own purposes. Indeed, in the next section I discuss more broadly such possibilities for turning urban space temporarily into something of their own. By hijacking corners of cafés, with no intention of buying anything or using the space commercially but rather on their own terms, they also attached new meanings to commercial spaces regulated by the market. Furthermore, a common way of temporarily taking over the space of strategy was that of feminist performance conducted by one or a few activists in public space. While performances have always been a significant part of feminist art (Sederholm, 2002), their role appeared to be essential in Russia owing to the new limitations of public assembly and protesting. Single-​person pickets, turned into performances, remained the only form of protest that did not require a permit in advance. Performances are a way to construe new relations across space between performer and audience, observer and passer-​by (Sederholm, 2002). The temporary nature of performance, I suggest, was also why single-​person performances were a popular form of feminism in the shrinking political space, taking over the space of the strategy, even if only for a moment, giving it new meanings that would soon dissipate and could not be repeated in exactly the same way again. This was a key feminist tactic for operating in public space: at first aiming to be noticed in space by the very performative act, but soon afterwards disappearing, thus moving from visibility back to invisibility. Performative gestures attracted attention, and the actors then vanished without leaving so much as a mark at the place they had momentarily hijacked (Sederholm, 2002: 81–​98). 78

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Escaping the system without leaving it De Certeau’s (1988: xiii) spatio-​temporal concepts of tactic and strategy are also useful in discussing how the activists were able to ‘escape the system without leaving it’. I witnessed one such ‘escape’ in Moscow at an activist festival, during which a queer skirt workshop was organized, which culminated in a fashion show and a party. During the festival week, the participants had been able to sew themselves queer skirts, with the help of a feminist sewing collective in the ‘backstage’ of the festival venue. Now, the project had reached its climax and the self-​made skirts were ready for show. Thus, all those who had participated –​regardless of their gender and sexuality –​were wearing their unique self-​designed and hand-​made skirts, with various pocket solutions and expressions of unique personality. Many of the festival’s male participants were also present, displaying their self-​made skirts with pride: each and every skirt in the room was of different fabric, colour and style. We, the audience members, were served vodka while enjoying how the ‘models’ first ‘walked the catwalk’ in their skirts in front of us, but soon burst into collective dancing. The event thus insidiously turned into a queer skirt dance party, as the crowd of some 20 activists and festival visitors danced the night away only a stone’s throw from the Kremlin. This would probably not have occurred on the Moscow streets in broad daylight, but took place behind closed doors in the evening, producing a completely new space-​time. This was something I was not expecting to witness in Russia, where repression of the LGBT/​Q community is often the spatial condition emphasized. While enjoying the relaxed atmosphere during the queer skirt tusovka, I completely forgot where I was and the context waiting outside, even though the queer space-​time was produced in close proximity to and at the heart of the national premises of power, as if forming a direct spatial dialogue with them. As the previous example suggests, the feminists often produced spaces where they were able to temporarily escape the socio-​political context, and which allowed me likewise to completely forget about the political context outside these spaces. This was done through withdrawal to temporal alternative spaces. These were produced by highlighting other values and relations in space, thus detaching these spaces from the mainstream context outside them. For example, Zoia observed that it was important to carve out a space in this way, supporting other kinds of values than those promoted in conservative discourses: ‘I mean, inside the city there are many contexts. Of course, we can never forget the wider context and say that this would be the same as in New York or something. No, of course it’s not the same. … But if you look at history, feminists have no nationality. It’s a movement 79

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to make people free. … My own perception of the world is that it does not demand any special Russian feminism. For me, feminism is a global issue.’ (Zoia) In this extract, Zoia connects her feminist struggle to a global scale and discusses her activism in relation to transnational feminism rather than the national political reality, thus detaching herself from the latter (Glassman, 2001; Leitner et al, 2008). Various other activists framed their activism in a similar vein, thereby building distance from the national scale to which they felt alien. Zoia further elaborated that at certain political times, the only humane choice was not to take part. In her view, not taking part was itself a political act in the context of the “freezing political climate”. She found this possible by withdrawing to her “artistic microcosmos”, as she called the community of like-​minded people that had formed around a local art school and shared similar feminist values and lifestyles. Vera, introduced in the previous section, seemed to be talking about a strikingly similar spatial escape tactic when talking about how, in the city space, people could ignore all unpleasant moments and live their lives disconnected from the political reality in the country. Vera called this phenomenon “internal emigration”. As she outlined this tactic for internal escape, we were sitting in a cosy café in her hometown, a perfect, peaceful spot for ignoring all unpleasant political factors –​“where I think most of the customers are gay anyway”, she then whispered smilingly. The previous examples illustrate that, by playing with spatial scales, activists were connecting themselves with local and transnational feminist political spaces, and thereby actively detaching themselves from national political struggles. In this way, and by spatially highlighting feminist and leftist values with which they identified, they were able to escape the political system temporarily without leaving it. I suggest that this tactic of fleeing the system mentally was essential in an environment in which the activists felt that they were not heard in the official political discourse and hegemonic public. How feminists discussed their withdrawal to their microcosmoses and ignored unpleasant political moments on the outside echoes Haenfler et al’s (2012) observation of political movements turning into refuges in unfavourable political times, thus aiming to produce alternative realities (Haenfler et al, 2012: 4). These spatial narratives also resonate with Zdravomyslova’s (2011) suggestion that Soviet underground spaces offered the individuals in them temporary freedom, although it was ‘negative’ as it could only be produced inside the system they were fleeing. Furthermore, the narratives echo Yurchak’s (2006) writing on underground spaces during the late Soviet years. He suggests that such alternative ‘milieux’ of socializing need not be analysed as political, because not all individuals in these spaces necessarily considered their action to be resistance but simply wanted to create their own spaces 80

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for relaxed socializing. Indeed, such spaces may not have been political in the most obvious sense of the word for the contemporary activists either. However, despite sometimes being less about resistance than spending time with like-​minded people, such spaces cannot be depoliticized altogether in a repressive context in which engaging in resistance was highly consuming and challenging. I suggest that urban space played a key role in allowing the activists to flee the system without leaving it, as it offered them various possibilities for withdrawal, not only in ally institutions, but more broadly in various commercial spaces. Indeed, the spatial tactics of escape in city space, discussed by activists such as Vera, also resonate with a recent scholarly argument that more and more activism is taking place at the local rather than national scale in Russia (Clément, 2015; Gabowitsch, 2017). More recently, Erpyleva (2019: 71) has pointed out how the popularity of local activism in the 2010s can be attributed to the fact that, following the ‘For Fair Elections’ protests, structural factors were unfavourable for wider nationwide mobilizations, and activists thus felt that they could achieve something concrete only by engaging in local forms of activism. Indeed, producing collective getaways and counter-​spaces can be viewed as one such concrete action. This kind of feminist politics of producing spaces of escape also resonates with Scott’s (1990) discussion of hidden forms of resistance, as it takes the form of not confronting the system in a straightforward manner, but rather making the life of a subordinated group more bearable through momentary non-​ participation and withdrawal. Furthermore, these spaces enabled the activists to see the alternative futures ahead, even if the wider context provided no support for such efforts. Indeed, in this way the feminist spaces of escape produced are very similar to what social movement scholars have called ‘free spaces’ (Polletta, 1999). This is because such spaces allowed the activists to prefigure the society and social relations towards which they were aiming by modelling relations that differed from those characteristic of mainstream society (Polletta, 1999: 11). They were thus, in a way, able to visit the desired future, even if temporarily. These kinds of prefigurative political spaces are typical of movements and their politics in various contexts, as they allow collectives to imagine alternative futures and arm them with optimism for change. This also highlights that political aspects are elemental to these spaces. However, I suggest that the role of such places was intensified in Russia by the fact that the activists felt the national politics to be often very repulsive, and the political situation –​or altering it –​at times hopeless. Zoia highlighted that fleeing the system by withdrawing to her microcosmos did not mean that she was ignoring the national scale and politics altogether, or giving up fighting for what she felt was right in more confrontational ways when necessary. This also became evident in how she constantly returned to discussing the “feminist revolution”, which for 81

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her was connected with art, and was international rather than national as feminism “had no nationality”. Withdrawal to the underground and her own feminist microcosmos was thus a spatial tactic to avoid burning out between instances of overt action and being able to envision alternatives to the prevailing political condition ahead: “Unfortunately, it is really … I mean nobody alive is ready to, at all times, live in fear. All of us look for paths to … micro-​societies, I mean. But you can’t run there for good, because you still remain within the wider society.”

Street Public space is a site of contestation between the populace and authority (Bayat, 1997: 63), and the streets serve as both the physical manifestation and stage for that confrontation. State power aims to make public space ‘orderly’, but by negotiating what public space is in the first place, activists can challenge its control and contest its use (Bayat, 1997: 63). Here, I analyse not only the very concrete ways in which the feminists discussed the role of streets in their public activism, but also how they negotiated the concept of public and its meaning more broadly. First, I observe how the activists discussed the role of streets in their protests, and how they construed alternatives to these traditional spaces of contention. I then look at two feminist digital actions that, I suggest, challenged what was understood as public and private. The ‘street’ metaphor thus refers here concretely to streets as a traditional space of contention that was being increasingly challenged by alternative spaces, such as the art spaces and internet spaces that were regarded as the ‘new streets’ by the activists themselves. In engaging with these particular spatial negotiations, I examine ways in which the feminist activists sought to make feminist issues visible in the public sphere, and aimed to expand the feminist space in Russia by reaching out to new audiences (Fraser, 1997: 82). I argue that the contemporary feminist activists challenged the contemporary private/​public divide in many ways, often with the help of internet spaces, but also in dialogue with Soviet spatial dynamics and underground culture.

Art spaces as the new streets? Various activists returned to discussing the post-​election protests of 2011–​ 2013 during the interviews. The majority of the activists in this study had taken part in them, and for many, the protests and collectively taking over the streets had served as a platform for their feminist awakenings. However, the protests were followed by new restrictions on public protest, pushing those still organizing street demonstrations into an increasingly narrow space. The 82

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limitations following the protests have, among other things, contributed to the birth of what Gabowitsch (2017: 217–​219) has called ‘protest ghettos’, referring to distant and confined protest spaces where activists are isolated from the rest of society, performing their agenda only to the officials and possibly opponents present. These kinds of separate enclosures assigned for protesting were visible during my fieldwork. For example, when I attended a feminist protest in St Petersburg, it was appointed to take place on the Field of Mars, not far from the city centre but still separated from the crowds of the busy Nevskii Prospect. In Moscow, feminist demonstrations took me to distant Sokol’niki Park, to which I had to first take a train and then hunt around in order to actually find the demonstration in the middle of the dark park. In most cases that I observed, the activists respected the spatial limitations assigned by the officials, presumably because of the high fines they would have been likely to incur if they had chosen to defy them. Although many of my informants continued to take part in demonstrations when given permission to do so, a significant number also strongly questioned the effect of street protests and did not participate in them. I shall first discuss why some of the activists kept on organizing and taking part in street actions, and then examine some who did not, but who introduced alternative spatial tactics to reach out to new audiences. The activists who still highlighted the importance of street actions were often grassroots radical feminists or LGBT activists, who regularly organized their own demonstrations and actions, as well as taking part in other groups’ street actions in order to express solidarity. For many of the radical feminists, relational aspects of street action were central. For example, Katia and Anna, activists from different cities, emphasized that organizing street actions was a spatial tactic to reach out to ‘ordinary’ people. They thus perceived their activism in relation to lay people, to whom they wanted to relate. Katia, an office worker in her late twenties, highlighted that her group of feminist activists were themselves ordinary people and lower-​class women, and this was why it was so important for them to try to reach out to this group of people. When asked why street actions were important, she responded: ‘Because on the internet we just fume together. On the internet, feminism does not get out of the feminist community. How do you reach out to a woman on the internet that you don’t know and who does not want to read about it [feminism]? You can send her a message, but she will not read it anyway. And street actions can reach people that don’t use the internet so often, for example the over fifties.’ (Katia) The idea of going to the ‘ordinary’ people, who could not be reached on the internet, was presented by Katia as a distinction from other feminist 83

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groups, which in her view were only hanging out in “elite feminist circles with each other”. In this way, Katia conveyed an understanding of two distinct feminist social spaces: that of the ‘elite’ or middle class, and that of the non-​elite, referring to individuals in more economically precarious positions. Indeed, the middle class has often been connected with protest in Russia; for example, it has been suggested that it made up the majority of the people who participated in the opposition demonstrations in 2011–​ 2013, although the middle-​class identification as a defining factor for the protesters coming together has also been challenged (Gabowitsch, 2017). Furthermore, Katia suggested that street protesting was a way to reach out to the power holders, even if symbolically: “if you go out onto the streets, you can’t be ignored altogether”, she explained. In addition to being construed in relation to ‘ordinary people’, street activism was thus perceived in relation to the power holders and confronting them symbolically in public space. Activists like Katia were claiming visibility by taking over public space, despite its increased policing. However, numerous activists did not agree with Katia, but rather suggested that there was no point in conducting street actions anymore. These activists often highlighted how art and cultural spaces now worked as more effective venues for communicating feminism to new audiences, as if suggesting that such spaces were in fact the new ‘streets’. Indeed, during my stay, the feminist art scene was extremely lively in both St Petersburg and Moscow. An annual feminist exhibition had become almost a custom, and was a telling indicator that feminism was actually becoming something of a trend in urban art circles. The Feminist Pencil collective had been the first to exhibit in Moscow, with two exhibitions focusing simultaneously on feminist graphic arts and activism (see Dmytryk, 2016), and their success had later led to exhibitions abroad. The exhibition What about Love? organized by the Lucy Lippard collective was also often mentioned in the interviews, and many of the activists had taken part in it. There was thus an obvious political dimension to the feminist art exhibitions. Some professional feminist artists even lamented that the feminist art sphere was being ‘hijacked’ by feminist activists –​a trope that is telling from the point of view of the spatial reorganization of feminist politics. The claim that art spaces were particularly well-​suited to hosting feminism was reasoned in the interviews by explaining that art took a more subtle approach to the audience than direct street activism. Feminist art did not preach, but rather made suggestions and aimed to construe a dialogue with its audience. This was also why it was considered more effective than more straightforward activism with its loud claims. For example, Marina, a queerfeminist activist and artist, said that in her view putting together exhibitions had a greater effect on public opinion than street demonstrations exactly because of their more subtle approach: 84

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‘Nowadays I do so much less activism, and it was basically always more interesting for me to do art-​activism, because the language of art is in my view much more effective than straight action, the way it is often used. … And even more so now, when … I mean, if seven, eight years ago we could go out on the street and do a political performance, we cannot permit ourselves that anymore. And that is why … because the situation’s changed, the only way we can speak is in the language of art.’ (Marina) Zoia, on the other hand, explained that the more prohibitions there were on street activism, the more all activism would ‘leak’ into the sphere of art, which was still less regulated than other fields of action. However, Zoia too comprehended the ‘ordinary people’ as the main audience in relation to the art projects in which she was engaged, thus suggesting that spreading the word of feminism to new audiences was a key task of her art. This relationality, or the aim of reaching as many people as possible, was also how she defined a successful feminist exhibition, reminiscing about an earlier exhibition in which she had taken part: ‘I think that that exhibition was in reality one of the most meaningful feminist events of that year. Not because of its content or narrative so much … there was nothing new being said there. But what made it one of the most important feminist events was that it was organized at a central spot and was able to reach a lot of new people –​women, children and so on. There were also lots of tourists, lots of passers-​ by. … And there was a banner that everyone saw. It had really good PR.’ (Zoia) Like Zoia and Marina, many feminist artists and activists communicating through art suggested that art activism and exhibitions were more effective than street actions for reaching out to new audiences and ordinary people. However, the idea of feminist art reaching out to ordinary people sometimes contradicted the concrete spatial conditions of feminist exhibitions. The exhibitions I visited were often organized in distant venues, with difficult access even for those who were able to walk and climb. One of the big feminist events of autumn 2015 was the Feminist Topical Dictionary exhibition. This dealt with feminist concepts such as cultural appropriation, intersectionality and the ‘culture of violence’ (see Chapter 3 for a detailed description), to name a few of its key themes. It consisted of the large exhibition space itself with feminist artworks (paintings, videos, sculptures, performances, etc), as well as talks and presentations on feminism in a smaller space. The exhibition was an intriguing experience in spatial terms. It was organized in a remote factory complex in Moscow. Everyone who wanted 85

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to participate was asked to send the organizers a message in advance to get permission to enter the factory. At the factory entrance, participants had to show their IDs to a guard in order to gain access. The actual exhibition space was in the very furthest corner of the massive building complex, on the fourth floor. Although getting there was a challenge for me, it would have been impossible for people who did not have ID cards (for example, undocumented individuals) or disabled individuals. While concepts like intersectionality were introduced in detail on the walls of the exhibition space, the exhibition venue itself posed serious difficulties in meeting intersectional demands such as accessibility. Indeed, accessibility came to mean something very different in the context of my ethnographic observation of feminism more generally. However, this was not due to the ignorance of the organizers, but to the fact that they had to make do with whatever space they were able to rent, whether on the outskirts of the city or at the top of a hundred concrete stairs with no elevator. Many lamented how the tenants often cancelled space reservations at the last minute when they heard that the exhibitions were dealing with feminism or LGBT/​Q themes. Thus, although feminist exhibitions and art spaces were often promoted as reaching out to an ‘ordinary audience’ in a similar way to feminist street actions, in reality they were not accessible to all. In fact, they appeared as spaces accessible mainly to artistic and urban elites, thus resonating with the critique voiced by Katia. The increasing popularity of such temporary gallery spaces for feminism echoes how, since the protests of 2011–​2013, the Russian government has implemented new urban policies to offer certain groups –​mainly urban middle and creative classes –​new creative sanctuaries, in order to keep them satisfied and off the streets (Gabowitsch, 2017: 219). The exhibition space described is a good example of this type of creative space, which was accessible and therefore usable only by a certain segment of people, as those disabled or unwilling were unable to access it.

Performances challenging private/​public relations Since its inception, modern Western political thought has been founded on the division of private and public spheres, and this division has always been gendered and relational (see, for example, Arneil, 2001: 29). In this configuration, the private sphere has been comprehended as feminine and non-​political, whereas the (masculine) public sphere has represented the space for contesting views on social issues (Fraser, 1997). A similar spatial dichotomy exists in Russia, but there are also historical differences that can be traced in some of the feminist actions. One example is the idea of publics nested within the private during Soviet times, when private kitchens functioned as small underground publics (Gal and Kligman, 2000). 86

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In order to illuminate contemporary spatial negotiations regarding the relationship between private and public space, I shall analyse how two feminist performances, Road to the temple (2016) and Queering kitchen (2016), approached the issue. In my view, both of these feminist actions challenged what is understood as public, although in different ways. In addition, both made use of the internet in challenging the relational public/​private divide. Indeed, my analysis is based on internet observation only, as I was not present during the documentation of these performances –​presumably much like the majority of the audiences they ultimately reached. In both examples, overt activism was thus conducted with the help of internet spaces which, together with art and cultural spaces, were presented as an alternative to the streets as traditional spaces of resistance. The Road to the temple (Doroga k Khramu) action, which was discussed briefly at the beginning of this book, was conducted in 2016 by a feminist activist group in St Petersburg. It dealt with domestic violence, which, as the current legislation and power holders’ indifference to the cause suggest, is produced in the conservative discourse as a private issue. However, the feminist group took their performance of gendered violence physically to a public place, on the steps of a local cathedral. The action, which I witnessed via its internet documentation, was published online on the Day of the Defender of the Fatherland by a dozen activists, two of whom performed as males and the rest as women. The pictures published online reveal the men carrying the women, who were masked to look as if they had been heavily beaten. Some of the pictures also portrayed the women sitting on the steps in front of the cathedral, holding signs with slogans against gendered violence and statistics relating to the issue. This digital action had various spatial layers, as it literally dragged the privatized problem of domestic violence into view in public space, in the streets and on the internet. Thus, at its most apparent level, the action aimed to attract attention to the issue of domestic violence, the legal vulnerability of women and the government’s unwillingness to meet legal demands for women’s protection. In relational terms, the action was conducted not only between the performers and the (assumed) street and internet audience, but also between the active men and passive women in it. As Hannah Arendt (cited in Butler, 2011: 4) has pointed out, it is crucial to analyse whom political subjects appear in relation to in public, since the body is not located primarily in space, but in relation to other bodies, bringing about a new space. In this case, attention was directed towards private male–​female relations, and was manifested by bodies performing traditional masculinity and femininity in public space in relation to each other. I suggest that the action thus commented on and aimed to call attention to female–​male power relations in both public and private. 87

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First, the action discussed private relations within the realm of the heterosexual family by demonstrating who were expected to be the active and powerful ones in this configuration: the men carrying the women and, if we follow the performative hints emphasized with make-​up, battering their wives. The second dimension, I suggest, commented on gendered public roles. The action emphasized active men in public carrying passive, lifeless women, and by this act also pointed to the conservative idea of women taking a less active role in public and in solving social issues. However, in reality, the action proved otherwise, as the activists, masked as beaten up, actually took an active role in the form of the action itself and were only performing passivity. Furthermore, the timing of the action and the banners displayed by the activists suggest that there is more to Road to the temple. The action was conducted and published online on the Day of the Defender of the Fatherland in February, connecting its message with the thematic of the day and its celebration of Russian men as defenders of the fatherland. A slogan on one of the banners held by an activist rhetorically enquired: ‘Who defends us from the defenders of the fatherland?’ This slogan not only placed domestic power relations between women and men publicly on view, but also juxtaposed these relations with national structures such as the army. The action might thus be interpreted as a critique of the wider political ‘culture of violence’, in which men are sent to the army in order to learn violent courses of action in the name of protecting the nation. The location of the action added another spatial layer to the action. It took place on the steps of the cathedral, pointing out the ROC’s pivotal role in maintaining hierarchical power relations between men and women. The steps and the women on them might thus be interpreted as a comment on the lack of prospects that the Church–​government tandem offers women, with its neoconservative political ideas that essentialize gender. Women’s bodies were portrayed as if empty covers in the context of this official conservative rhetoric on reproduction. Butler (2011: 6) has observed that this kind of political theatre in public space challenges existing power relations by exposing the limits of those relations and their legitimacy. Thus, the Road to the temple action indeed publicly challenged the political power relations formed by the government in alliance with the ROC. The final but crucial relational layer in the spatiality of the action was its internet dissemination. The whole performance was carefully documented, with photographs published on the internet through various feminist social media sites. The action was also quite widely spread through social media, precisely because it was able to make confrontational use of the public sphere. It produced its relations anew in a surprising fashion by dragging the private issue of domestic violence into view in a contradictory way, and on

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a day normally celebrated from a very different perspective. This produced another kind of political space, even if only temporarily. The second action, Queering kitchen, was published as a video in 2016 by a queerfeminist group called ‘Unwanted Organization’, a name inspired by the undesirable organizations law (for a more specific explanation, see the last section of Chapter 2). The video sequences take place in what is very recognizably a Russian kitchen, and therefore in the ‘private’ sphere of the home. The video itself appears, at first sight, to be more like a music video than a political message, since the performers mainly seem to be having a party; they are dancing, kissing and caressing in the kitchen to the rhythm of an English pop song. However, when observed in relation to both Soviet private/​public relations and the current neoconservative politics in Russia, Queering kitchen turns out to be rich in political messages. The ‘locale’ of the video points in two directions. At the most obvious level, a kitchen is a space of feminine labour and the ‘hearth’ of the private realm to which women are often assigned in the conservative political discourse. However, the kitchen also has political layers. During the Soviet decades, private homes and kitchens had political functions, performing as spaces of veiled resistance and dissent. This was to some extent a response to the fact that the private realm was minimized by the Communist Party. Indeed, as Lissyutkina (1993) has highlighted, homes, and especially kitchens, were the only free spheres in the Soviet Union during its latter decades. The kitchen thus not only represents resistance, but also carries a layer of nostalgia arising from Soviet history (Lissyutkina, 1993: 276). On the Queering kitchen video, all the activists, in my interpretation, perform and play with femininity by queering it. This is emphasized, among other things, with colourful wigs that the performers are wearing. They thus appear in the space in which they are expected to appear as non-​males, yet challenge the ways of being there. The activists in the video present the kitchen primarily as a non-​male space, but challenge its feminine function. The space becomes not only political, but also sexual, as the non-​male figures on the video kiss, caress and have fun rather than cooking or engaging in domestic labour. The video thus not only deals with gendered power relations in relation to domestic work, but also comments on sexual relations, and specifically ‘unwanted’ sexual relations under the conservative ‘homo propaganda’ law. In portraying non-​normative sexual desire in the ‘privacy’ of someone’s home, the video also comments on the wider Russian cultural idea that homosexual relations should be kept private. In a way, it portrays a closet (Sedgwick, 1990) in which the non-​ male figures are able to ‘privately’ do what they want, and thus take part in politically ‘unwanted agency’. In the context of the ‘homo propaganda’ law, it is also noteworthy that the activists on the video do not speak and thus propagate directly, but rather act ‘privately’. In this way, they challenge 89

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what non-males are expected to do in the ‘hearth’ of the home. Queering kitchen also challenges conservative political ideas of a heterosexual nuclear family, as it silently reopens negotiations on who are allowed the privilege of forming a family. Thus, Queering kitchen, I suggest, nests the public in the private, as Soviet dissidents are suggested to have done, yet challenges how such ‘underground publics’ were gendered and male-​dominated during the Soviet period (Gal and Kligman, 2000). The fact that the edited video was published on the internet of course defies and contrasts with the very privacy portrayed in it. In addition, the video and lyrics were translated into English, pointing to an effort to reach audiences on a transnational scale. I suggest that what the group Unwanted Organization actually produced with the video Queering kitchen was a kind of street 2.0, by portraying the very private as actually something public and political. The group also succeeded in twisting the idea of non-​normative subjectivity as something to be hidden from public view through the setting of the kitchen, which is the realm of the heterosexual family, thus re-​politicizing the kitchen. On closer reading, the group successfully spun and shifted spatial meanings in numerous ways. What unites Road to the temple and Queering kitchen is that both were carefully documented and later published on the internet. The internet was thus a space in which they could reach out to actual audiences and wider publicity, offering a key alternative to the ‘streets’ as traditional spaces of resistance. Both are thus performances of the digital age, like Pussy Riot’s Punk Prayer (Gapova, 2015: 29). In both actions, the media are part of the space produced in its replicable visual dimensions, exceeding the local spatiality. People located elsewhere gain a sense of direct access to a specific space through the images they are able to view. However, it is important to remember that the scenes are edited, and that something always remains outside the mediated frames that one is unable to see or take spatially into account (Butler, 2011: 8). Social media have made it possible for these actions to become globally noticed. In Queering kitchen, the Unwanted Organization group was possibly looking for a transnational audience, but Road to the temple seems to have been directed mainly towards national audiences, at least based on the choice of language (Russian) used in the banners.

Shelter So far, I have dealt with feminist activists’ spatial tactics and ways in which they negotiated spatial dynamics, such as visible/​invisible, public/​private and alternatives to traditional spaces of resistance, in order to expand feminist space. In what follows I shall discuss why, despite its aims to expand spatially and take feminism to new audiences, feminist space often seemed to turn inwards, not allowing all individuals to enter. 90

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In the activists’ interviews, feminist projects and initiatives were often spatially paralleled with squares (ploshchad’) in order to highlight that the aim of the project was to create an inclusive feminist space that anyone who wanted could enter. However, despite the square being one of the key spatial metaphors in feminist projects, the inclusivity and openness of feminist spaces was also often questioned in the interviews, as many of the activists I met pointed out that feminist spaces actually tended to be exclusive and difficult to enter. In order to analyse in more detail the spatial negotiations that sought to both open and close feminist space, I shall explore another spatial metaphor in feminism: the idea of feminism as a shelter. I heard the metaphor used directly only once, by a female participant at a feminist festival as she asked a visiting group of feminists: ‘How could [they] let men inside feminism as it was supposed to function as a shelter for women?’ This metaphor puzzled me, but I later came to understand that it was in fact key to grasping some of the spatial dynamics of feminism that sometimes made feminist space exclusive, alongside its political aims to expand. After analysing this metaphor and what I suggest it speaks of, I turn to discuss the activists whom I call ‘spatial brokers’, who aimed to open feminist space not because they thought that safety was not sometimes very much needed, but because they thought that political groups more generally were playing it too safe. Overall, my focus is thus on spatial dynamics such as open/​closed and safe/​unsafe. Ultimately, I shall argue that, alongside its long-​term aim to expand feminist space, feminist spatial politics engages in the temporally more urgent political task of producing instant safety, privacy and a sense of belonging for individuals who lack these in other social spheres. I first look at forces closing feminist space in connection with ideas of safety, and then turn to interrogate forces and activists aiming to open feminist and political space.

Closing feminist space for safety and shelter Alina and Ella, an activist duo, focused on urban thematics of feminism in their activism. They were thus actively thinking of ways to make the city space safer and more comfortable, especially for women. By the time of our meeting, they had organized, among other things, classes to equip women with basic self-​defence skills. Indeed, there appeared to be wider demand for such sessions in other contexts as well, as I also found out about similar feminist self-​defence classes being organized and offered in other cities. Recalling some of the first self-​defence classes they had organized, Ella stated that the first hired instructor had been unaware of feminist issues and had thus discussed thematics of violence insensitively in the presence of the participants, some of whom had experienced it themselves. Thus, Ella demonstrated that the classes aiming to equip the participants with an increased feeling of safety and ability to repel possible harassers had 91

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perhaps unexpectedly exposed them to another form of unsafety, that of psychological discomfort, as triggering issues had been discussed by the instructor. This experience had made the pair realize that not only physical but also psychological knowledge of self-​defence and building up one’s barriers should be taught in the classes, in order to enable the participants also to combat psychological feelings of unsafety. This discussion with Alina and Ella, I suggest, speaks of the active work conducted by the feminists in order to increase their sense of safety and to produce spaces for it through what I call the politics of sheltering. Although I only once heard the metaphor ‘shelter’ being attached directly to feminism, I gradually understood that feminism was often comprehended as this kind of metaphorical safe space, in a context in which the activists felt unsafe and chronically lacked privacy. Indeed, I suggest that only by acknowledging the juxtaposition of these two concepts –​feminism and shelter –​can one understand the whole dynamic of feminist activism, of which a significant part, alongside aiming to expand feminist thinking and ideas in society, was of sheltering and combating feelings of unsafety. It appeared urgent to create and produce a sense of safety in a social context that pushed women and non-​male individuals into constant feelings of discomfort in public space. I suggest that, at root, the understanding of feminism as a shelter often led to activists’ shared life experiences being tagged as ‘traumatic’, and was often connected with experiences of gendered or sexual violence, as well as feelings of vulnerability as a result of non-​normative sexual or gender identification. The term ‘shelter’ used by the visitor at the festival thus points to the fact that many of those taking part in feminist events came in the hope of accessing a space where they could momentarily feel safe, and not have to confront misogynist remarks or feel their subjectivity oppressed or violated based on their gender, sexuality or other factors. The dictionary definition of the term ‘shelter’ denotes a refuge or a safe space.2 When one feels a need for shelter, it is because one feels vulnerable about something outside the shelter. The notion of shelter also very concretely refers to physical havens for people who have faced gendered violence. The idea of feminism as a shelter thus resonates with the reality that there is a great shortage of physical shelters for victims of gendered violence in Russia. With the decline of foreign funding for feminist initiatives in Russia during the first years of the 2000s, most NGO-​run shelters were closed down. Today, it is mainly state-​led public crisis centres that can afford physical shelter spaces (Johnson and Saarinen, 2013: 555–​556). Lilia elaborated on the lack of shelters and the precarity of many women in the context of their everyday lives: ‘But with the given level of corruption and the criminal rate among the police force it won’t work. The police will not protect these women. 92

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And it’s all pointless, for example in the case of domestic violence. This would require shelters and action from law enforcement. But the police are exactly those men beating their wives. And no one will give money to make this all happen. … What will we do in order to help these women? They need psychological help, support programmes in order to be able to exit the relationship.’ (Lilia) Lilia’s quote reveals not only the need for psychological help alongside physical shelter, but also the prevailing idea among the activists that the police were rarely equipped to help victims of gendered violence as they did not have the necessary sensitivity, tools or resources to deal with gendered and sexual violence. As it had become evident to the activists that providing women with official help was insufficient, feminism itself took on many of these functions. It adopted the task of offering first aid, creating collective shelter and therapeutic spaces in a political context in which other official institutions were very obviously unable to acknowledge the problem or bring any kind of relief to it. Spatial narratives suggesting shelter-​like functions of feminism were also construed by feminists who identified as genderqueer or transgender. Indeed, the spatial narratives of transgender activists are instructive, as they described their relationships with feminist space as complex. For example, Rosa, socialized as a man but identifying as a woman, pointed out that feminists were the only group at which she had felt welcome: “it was the first friendly surrounding in which I felt, for the first time, good in my life … even if of course, with time, I realized it was not that simple”. When I asked Rosa what feminism meant for her, she responded: ‘For me, it means a safe space, in comparison to society at large. It is the sphere in which I do not have to conceal myself, as I can be who I am. I do not have to hush up, and I can be honest in relation to gender, sexuality and my political views. Because in the wider society, and also with my relatives and old friends, I continuously encounter pressure and aggression.’ (Rosa) Much like Rosa, although with more ambivalence, Zhenia, who identified as genderqueer, seemed to self-​portray themselves as a misfit who was not accepted anywhere, while describing feminism as still coming closest to a sphere of belonging, even if only partially. This became evident as Zhenia commented on the police having inspected a feminist event the day before our interview in Zhenia’s hometown: “It is just so unpleasant, when some random people invade my space … they inspected, photographed, captured someone’s face even. I mean, that is invasion of my very private space, and it is very unpleasant. … I was so angry yesterday when I read about it.” Zhenia’s 93

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outburst reveals self-​identification with such feminist spaces of activism. It is crucial that, although not having been in the space when the inspection happened, Zhenia nevertheless felt intruded on as a result of identification with the space. I suggest that, despite narrating the complexities of their belonging to the feminist sphere, yet still choosing to do so with some reservations, Rosa and Zhenia both connected feminism with the metaphor of home, which indeed has many shelter-​like connotations. As Saara Jäntti (2012: 81) has suggested, safety is a notion often associated with home, since ‘home is a place that is supposed to provide shelter and refuge from the world outside’. However, as vast feminist scholarship illuminates, in reality, home is not safe for a significant proportion of people around the world, due to domestic violence or, as in Rosa’s case, the aggressive attitudes of relatives. The notion of belonging discussed by Zhenia and Rosa thus suggests that feminism not only offered them relative safety and social comfort, but also a sense of an alternative family to that of the heteronormative family and the conservative concepts connected with it. The spatial aspects suggested by metaphors such as home and shelter no doubt contributed to the reported exclusivity and closed nature of feminist spaces. Indeed, both metaphors entail the idea of building boundaries and closing out some groups and individuals in order to produce the ‘inside’ and increase feelings of safety and belonging (see also Yuval-​Davis, 2011).3 However, the activists had varying perceptions of who was to be closed out in order to produce safety and shelter. For some, closing men out was sufficient and critical. For example, despite questioning the binary understanding of gender in general, Vera defended women-​only spaces in order to ‘neutralize space’: ‘I think that sometimes it is needed for … sometimes women require a space for themselves that’s … and that might be helpful to discuss, actually any issue, it’s not restricted by issues. … And I think it’s also very important to create an environment where women can establish connections with each other without any competition or without any … it’s easier in a female-​only environment, to drop some stereotypes and to … maybe to go deeper into some discussions or thoughts.’ (Vera) Vera’s reflection suggests that as there were so few places for non-​males to socialize and exchange ideas, women-​only spaces were painfully needed. According to some other activists, those socialized as men, that is, transgender individuals, should also be closed out. For example, radical feminist Katia thought that the female experience could only be shared by those who had “been born as women” –​indeed, such statements had no doubt given rise to the idea that transphobia was rife inside the movement. This also explains 94

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why Zhenia and Rosa were only partially able to identify with the feminist community. However, for many, closing non-​feminists out was a sufficient measure. Alina and Ella advocated this, highlighting the need to produce spaces that were detached from ‘the patriarchal effect’. Despite their great variation, I suggest that these negotiations reflect the overall lack of spatial privacy among feminist groups, which rarely possessed spaces of their own. Although the activists struggled over who was to be closed out in order to produce safety, the concrete spatial conditions often exposed them to outsider harassment and comments. This made it clear that privacy was an extremely scarce resource for the movement. Indeed, the feminist events in which I participated often took place in spaces shared with other social and cultural initiatives. Feminist gatherings in these spaces were at times attacked verbally by outsiders. For example, during an activist art festival, many feminist events took place in a hostel corridor because the large private hall was often occupied, exposing the feminists to lack of safety since the sometimes personal themes observed during feminist events were heard by more ears than necessary. I suggest that these concrete convergence conditions (Routledge, 2003) contributed to the urgent spatial necessity for privacy and safety, while the concrete solutions to achieving it varied. I have already sought to show how safety and privacy were key resources that the activists lacked and thus aimed to produce collectively. However, I shall now turn to look at safety from another angle. I shall do so by discussing the wider issue of atomization of political groups which, as the feminist spatial brokers suggested, often played it too safe.

Space brokers struggling to open feminist space Although I have previously suggested that one force that closed feminist space and raised borders around feminism was that of producing safety and privacy for those who felt a constant lack of them, the theme of activists ‘playing it too safe’ was also observed by some of the feminists. However, this negotiation was connected with the issue of various political groups avoiding conflict altogether, rather than questioning feminists’ need for safety and their feelings of vulnerability. Indeed, some of the feminist activists reflected on how the Russian political sphere was closed and atomized, and that trust among different groups was often low. For example, Lada, a feminist artist in her thirties, highlighted that the art groups with which she was connected professionally were all “closed” rather than open by nature: ‘I know very few artists who would leave their own milieu and go to others. The artistic sphere is very closed. And it is very easy to understand why it is closed –​all spheres in Russia are very closed. Inside these spheres, you feel you are protected, and you have a social 95

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status. But if you leave that sphere, that status will not mean anything for people.’ (Lada) Lada thus highlighted that social space and relations were often built only in relation to those that shared somewhat similar values, and among whom one could thus feel respected and resourceful. In a similar vein to Lada, Vera noted that one of the biggest LGBT events in her hometown, bringing together both LGBT activists and feminists, appeared to her to be closed and exclusive, not only because of its aim of producing safety, but because she felt that the event organizers simply did not want to attract new visitors to complicate issues. Both Vera’s and Lada’s accounts thus suggest a tusovka-​ like Soviet architecture of political groups, socializing only with like-​minded people and thus accumulating cultural resources and ignoring political conflict. They also relate to the issue of svoi (one’s own people), discussed in the next chapter, and how the political groups were observed in Russia as atomized from each other, being built on personal relationships among those one knew and thus trusted, and with whom one had an emotional bond (Yurchak, 2006). These critical accounts suggest that although feminism might play a sheltering role, if the activists wished to launch a social change in society, they should beware of becoming too comfortable or construing their political relations based only on comfort or safety. Here, critique of understanding feminism as a home-​like space is also instructive. Feminist critics, such as Teresa de Lauretis and Chandra Mohanty, have criticized how feminism is understood as a ‘home’, highlighting the sameness of those who enter its realm (cited in Jäntti, 2012). They also argue that ‘instead of seeking the comfort of assumed similarity, feminists should leave home and search for alliances that are not based on ideas of similarity and mutual understanding’ (Jäntti, 2012: 80). As I have argued, the politics of sheltering lies at the core of feminist spatial politics for good reason and is produced to meet an urgent need, yet it is also true that it is necessary to come out of the shelter if politics is understood in terms of altering structures. Indeed, an ability to accommodate some discomfort and disagreement is necessary for a movement to increase its political effect outside its own realm. In the context of often atomized, and even closed, activist spatial conditions, the individuals who aimed to produce inclusive spaces were, in my view, in a key position to actually succeed in expanding feminist space. Vera, Lada and Zoia, introduced in this chapter, were all spatial brokers, aiming to bring together individuals and activists with different views in order to break down spatial barriers and build new connections across space (Martin and Miller, 2003). However, whereas Lada spent her time as an artist crossing various borders and spaces as she gathered material concerning women’s lives in different regions of the country, Zoia stayed where she 96

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was –​at home –​and literally welcomed everyone over. A part of Zoia’s private apartment functioned as an activist meeting and exhibition space, which appeared to be always open. She explained this as follows: “Russian society is very strongly divided, and there exists this desire not to leave one’s comfort zone, because doing so is viewed as something horrible … and losing oneself. But it is necessary to build bridges between groups.” Zoia thus pointed out that the atomization of the Russian political sphere had indeed been the motivation for creating the space with a group of other activists. This space, she explained, was available to both national and international activists and artists’ projects representing different political views. Zoia stated that she was also ready to offer the space to those with opposing views to her own. Indeed, some nationalist groups had visited her place, causing subsequent debates with more frequent feminist visitors. However, Zoia highlighted that her role was not to dictate what was discussed in the space, as she was not a ‘leader’ of the space but rather the hostess of a salon (vladelets salona). In this term, Zoia connected her role with the Russian parlour culture of the 19th century, and with the very first spaces in which upper-​class women were able to enter political debates (Ekonen, 2014) and demand political rights for the first time. Zoia was ultimately trying to achieve political plurality in order to create more open and inclusive political space –​indeed, something actually resembling a square –​where various political views could come together and be collectively observed. It is somewhat surprising, yet inspiring, that she did this in her own home, as many people are reluctant to welcome anyone into their homes apart from those closest to them whom they trust without reservation.

Conclusion: Politics of sheltering A key spatial negotiation among the contemporary feminists in Russia is the issue of closing and opening feminist space. This question also reveals feminism’s dual spatial politics, aiming not only to provide safety and privacy to those who feel vulnerable, but also to expand feminist space and challenge non-​feminist and sexist forces in society at large. These two spatial projects not only speak of different political aims in spatial terms, but were conducted at distinct temporal levels –​the politics of sheltering as an urgent response to the conservative political conditions, and the politics of expanding in the long run. Moreover, although these two spatial projects were advanced simultaneously, I suggest that the fact that feminists rarely had a physical space of their own and thus chronically lacked privacy, contributed to the urgency of the first project of the politics of sheltering. The spatial metaphors connected with feminism have also helped me highlight other spatial projects and negotiations of feminism. The ‘underground’ illustrates the possibility of acting from invisibility and the need 97

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to prefigure alternative futures in order not to lose sight of what the activists are aiming at; the ‘street’ manifests the need to communicate feminist ideas for new audiences in order for feminist space to expand; and the ‘shelter’ exemplifies the requirement not only to produce much needed safety, but also to negotiate what is too much safety and comfort, and how to make feminist space more inclusive. Many of these spatial aspects are similar to social movements’ spatial dimensions and negotiations in other contexts. They resonate, for example, with the idea of free spaces (Polletta, 1999) and feminist negotiations of safe space (Roestone Collective, 2014), which are also important dimensions of social movements’ spatiality elsewhere. However, while most of these metaphors and negotiations are not specific to Russia, I suggest that they are amplified by the authoritarian and conservative political conditions. Yurchak (2006) has suggested that late Soviet alternative ‘milieux’ need not be interrogated as political, because individuals in these spaces did not consider their actions to be oppositional, but simply wanted to create their own spaces for relaxed socializing. I suggest that the counter-​spaces studied here cannot be uncovered without taking their political aspects into account, even though the feminists, too, may not have seen these spaces first and foremost as spaces of resistance. This is both because the spaces very often had a utopian dimension of ‘living an alternative reality with alternative social relations here and now’ and, more urgently, because they were the only ones offering those in the most vulnerable positions at least some kind of shelter and aid. Indeed, I suggest that the Russian case exemplifies the impossibility of studying resistance separately from its spatial aspects. This is especially the case for those identifying as non-​male and non-​heterosexual in a neoconservative and authoritarian context that vilifies feminism, and non-​ normative gender and sexuality, and thus produces such subjects as outsiders. Here, I have touched on the issue of atomization of political groups. Next, I address the issue of why feminist groups themselves are often atomized in relation to each other. The context and how it affected feminist action and culture will also be observed more closely in the next two chapters.

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Epistemic Resources and Struggles During my fieldwork, one of the feminists invited me to organize a workshop at an activist festival. The activist thought that, as the feminist movement was fragmented, it might benefit from a workshop moderated by someone who was not part of the movement, bringing different views together for shared reflection. I agreed somewhat hesitantly to organize it, as I had already grown wary of divisions among the feminists. However, having met various activists and discussed the roots of their feminism, I was convinced that if anything might allow them to find common ground, despite their very different and even conflicting feminist views, it would be the issues and experiences that had originally brought them to feminism and the ‘personal’ behind the political. Thus, I decided to take these themes as a starting point for the workshop discussion. About 15 activists, some of them old acquaintances and others new, participated in the workshop, which was organized in a hostel lobby because, despite my request and owing to a shortage of available space, we were not assigned a more private spot by the event organizers. Even in a private space, it would have been a challenge to organize something dealing with such personal issues, but it grew impossible in an open lobby space, as outsider hostel guests were able to listen and intrude, and indeed did so. Before long, we had to look for another more peaceful space in the building, but the atmosphere was already tense, and the activists had started to produce the distinctions to which I had already grown accustomed during my fieldwork. Rather than sharing experiences of what had originally brought them to activism, the discussion soon turned to the usual issues of struggles over sex work/​prostitution, dividing the activists firmly into two different camps. These divisions within feminism and the difficulty of getting past them were also often discussed in the interviews. For example, Sofia, a queerfeminist in her early thirties, reflected on the issue as follows: “In our compact sphere [of activists] … there appear completely different views on feminism. And they are in no way … these disagreements are impenetrable. I mean, the

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discussion is very hard, and it is really challenging to communicate [between the different views].” Despite the poor outcome of the workshop, it actually revealed some unwritten rules of the movement. It illustrated how feminist debates tended to follow similar lines of argument and seemed often to get stuck in them because, as Sofia suggested, the key differences appeared impenetrable. While I have no wish to undermine the importance of the debate on sex work/​prostitution to many (see, for example, Kondakov and Zhaivoronok, 2019), I suggest there is another way of looking at this and other key struggles of feminism, which is to discover the movement’s cognitive work and the available epistemic resources. Indeed, one workshop participant even suggested that I had organized the workshop only because I wanted to accumulate my own resources as a researcher, once more highlighting how, for the feminist activists, almost everything was intimately connected with resources. For many, the workshop was likewise about resources, rather than looking for common ground and dialogue. In this chapter, I suggest that the struggle over resources goes to the heart of the movement, which chronically lacked resources. Thus, in this chapter I focus on construing the argument that when resources are scarce, they become a key factor in all aspects of activism. However, resources are not only scarce for all, but they are also unevenly distributed. Indeed, in the course of the fieldwork it became obvious that the activists had varying access to epistemic resources. At the same time, the outside condition of limited tangible resources were also what united the differently positioned and equipped activists. While I concentrate mainly on the movement’s internal struggles here, I suggest that the simultaneous external struggles and lack of local support, and both economic and knowledge resources further increased the intense struggles over resources. In order to unpack some of the local specifics of feminist epistemic resources and practices, in this chapter I trace the feminist cognitive praxis (Eyerman and Jamison, 1991). According to Eyerman and Jamison, a social movement’s cognitive praxis is formed in dynamic interactions between different activist groups forming the movement. Cognitive praxis can thus be found in the social production of knowledge and ‘communicative interaction’ between the different groups that come to form the social movement’s ‘cognitive territory’ (Eyerman and Jamison, 1991: 48–​55). In order to trace the feminist cognitive praxis, I first look at how the activists came together to produce knowledge in different feminist spaces, and then turn to interrogate cognitive interactions, or in some cases lack of interaction, between separate activist spaces and groups. I also touch on some key feminist struggles, although my perspective on them is connected with epistemic resources and activists’ varying access to them. Accordingly, throughout this chapter I discuss feminist cognitive practices in relation to the resources 100

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available to the activists. I suggest that the differences in access to cultural resources greatly affected the movement’s struggles. Thus, my curiosity lies in analysing the socio-​spatial positionalities of the different feminist groups and how their varying positions were connected with epistemic resources. In tracing the feminist cognitive praxis and its social shaping, I understand knowledge broadly as referring to all issues that inform the movement’s social activity. Knowledge is thus understood as both formal and informal, objective and subjective, professional and popular (Eyerman and Jamison, 1991: 49). Alongside more theoretical forms of feminist knowledge, I am also interested in everyday forms of knowledge, as well as embodied ways of producing it. Although the forms of knowledge and epistemic resources discussed in this chapter vary considerably, I suggest that common to all of them is how they are deployed in order to take over feminist subjectivity, action and expertise. Following analysis of epistemic resources, practices and interactions between the groups, I suggest that feminism is becoming a politics of expertise, that is, a struggle over who is the right kind and a good enough feminist, and is thus entitled to take the position of a feminist expert in public. In discussing the movement’s internal dynamics from the perspective of epistemic practices and resources, I also analyse some of the power relations and cultural struggles among the feminists. My aim is thus to build an understanding of the complex relationship between power and resistance within the movement, and how the activists’ different socio-​spatial positionalities and cultural backgrounds contributed to feminism’s internal power struggles (Hollander and Einwohner, 2004: 550; Mahmood, 2005: 15). However, I also aim to complicate the power relations and highlight that they were never simple because, depending on one’s perspective, the same activists might appear to be powerful or powerless. First, I examine two partly differing feminist spaces in which feminist knowledge was produced in two distinct ways, drawing on gynocentric and queer epistemic resources. After investigating these spaces and their social forms of knowledge production, I discuss some of the cognitive processes between the differently positioned feminist groups, and show how some of them, based on the knowledge to which they had access, produced hierarchies within the movement. Towards the end, I thus also show how both the overall political context and the varying immediate contexts of feminism affected the movement’s cognitive praxis and culture and how the resources played a key role.

Harnessing female experience as an epistemic resource As bell hooks has observed (2015: 19), ‘before women’s studies classes, before feminist literature, individual women learned about feminism in groups’. 101

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Other feminists were thus their most important epistemic resource. The fact that this form of collectively producing knowledge is still alive and well proves its strength, especially among those who may not have other means of accessing feminist discussions and epistemic resources. One such group now stands before me on a stage, dressed in black dresses with screaming red pockets that take the varying shapes of vaginas. In front of an audience of about 40, as the skirts suggest, they are performing the classic play The Vagina Monologues by American playwright, Eve Ensler. The project has been organized by a local crisis centre to promote its work and issues concerning gendered violence, in the spirit of the global V-​day campaign that aims to ‘end violence against girls and women’. However, the theatre project’s epistemic aims go far beyond spreading the word on gendered violence through a performance that has taken months of preparation, as suggested by the project’s nickname, ‘school of feminism’. Nina, one of the amateur actors in the play, was actually taking part in the project for the second year in a row. A year earlier an acquaintance had invited her to participate in the project, and this year she had asked her other acquaintances to join the project too. This year there had been so many individuals who wanted to participate that the planned single play had turned into two plays (the other was called Za Kamennoi Stenoi [Behind a Stone Wall]). Following the play’s premiere, Nina, in her early thirties, described the ‘school of feminism’ as having changed her thinking and self-​ relation in many ways: ‘It was precisely this [the play] that made me identify myself as a feminist. That is, I realized that this corresponded with my beliefs. This actually made me more self-​c onfident and I. … Finally, I somehow parted with all these attitudes and started to think about my own well-​being as a person. I immediately wanted to develop myself.’ (Nina) Nina further highlighted her self-​change by discussing how she used to have very specific ideas about how to lead a life as a woman: ‘Everyone says you have to get successfully married. And when you receive this kind of information from the media, you start thinking, “How do I get married successfully? What do I have to do in order to achieve that?” You start reading magazines, in which it is written how you need to dress and behave, and so on. And at some point, I realized it does not work.’ (Nina) As this quote shows, the ‘information’ on which Nina had given up deals with gender-​normative ways of being and living one’s life. However, as she 102

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highlighted, ideas and information in her head had changed with the help of the feminist theatre project. Nina’s reflections resonate with what I myself paid attention to when taking part in rehearsals for the play. These rehearsals, weeks earlier, had been organized at the workplace of one of the amateur actors, a local party office in the city centre. The activists arrived gradually, many after a long day of work, bringing in sweets and biscuits, drinking tea and exchanging ideas in a relaxed manner. They discussed what had happened to them during the week, what kinds of situation they had encountered on public transport or on social media, and what kinds of questions concerning the thematics of the play they had in mind at that very moment. Thus, even if the play itself was not Russian, the thematics of it were localized and connected to the participants’ everyday lives and encounters. In reminiscing about the rehearsal period, Nina highlighted how issues were collectively observed during the rehearsals: ‘We talked a lot about it, described some situations from [our] lives, talked about ourselves, listened to the situations of our colleagues. The Vagina Monologues are close to every woman, and every woman has been in a similar situation. And while we were working on this play, we felt it all through ourselves, and we opened up through it.’ (Nina) As Nina pointed out, an important part of the rehearsals was discussing the thematics of the feminist play in dialogue with similar situations in one’s own life, often dealing with discrimination or violence. What is notable is also that she narrated how everything in the process was ‘felt through the self ’, suggesting that during this process, the thematics of the play were thoroughly observed and embodied by discussing them in dialogue with one’s own experiences. Similarly, Nika, one of the play’s project coordinators, described how participants in the ‘school of feminism’ had transformed during the process and had become aware of what had happened to them earlier in their lives –​ of their own tacit everyday experiences and pasts: ‘It is clear that as they [the amateur actors] make a contribution to this work, it becomes valuable for them. And their participation in the work builds their sense of self-​worth in their own eyes. And they can already fend off some manifestations of this daily … daily misogyny and homophobia in their surroundings. They become more sensitive to these things. In general, they start talking about themselves –​it’s very difficult to start talking. Women mostly come and say: “Oh, I have never had anything like that in my life.” And after three months they all say: “What do we have around…? Aah!” [realizing new perceptions] That is, as if people … have their third eye opened.’ (Nika) 103

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Becoming aware of one’s own everyday experience of misogyny or homophobia and learning to verbalize that experience in the group was thus at the core of the theatre project’s epistemic practice. By coming together as a group to discuss the thematics of the play, female experiences were gradually invited on stage. These dealt with issues such as body image, sex, menstruation and gendered violence, the tacit and embodied everyday knowledge to which the participants were so accustomed that they did not really think of it as knowledge in the first place. Attention was turned to the self to interrogate what kind of silenced knowledge all of the participants personally embodied. Furthermore, this knowledge produced in the context of the rehearsals was very much gendered. The epistemic focus was on the female body, and on sensitivity to the female experience in relation to both pleasure and pain, and was thus gynocentric in nature. For example, Nina reflected on how, with the help of the project, she had become conscious of her femininity and the networks of hierarchies to which it was tied. On the other hand, Oleg, one of the few male participants, said that he had become aware of how he spoke a lot and was accustomed to taking a lot of space for himself, but was now aiming to give more space to the women in the group. This type of framing of experience as male/​female, alongside sensitivity to LGBT issues, was no doubt connected with the fact that the project had been organized by the local crisis centre, and was part of the V-​day campaign which focused on violence faced by women and conducted by men. Based on the fact that the female experience was highlighted, the cognitive spaces produced in the context of the feminist theatre project might thus be viewed as taking a gynocentric approach to knowledge production, as they produced female experience as distinct and special in relation to male experience (Matero, 1996: 258). Female experience was thus deployed as a key epistemic resource in the project.1 Although attention was turned towards the feminine/​masculine experience as an epistemic resource, it was the collective coming together that lay at the heart of the epistemic work conducted in the ‘school of feminism’. It was only through the collective work and mutual sharing that the individuals were able to take over their private experience and produce it as meaningful, and thereby as something that had to be voiced and worked with further (see Murphy, 2012: 56). The dialogic nature of the production of the knowledge was thus pivotal, because by voicing their experience, the participants would encounter very similar stories and memories told by others. Following Patricia Hill Collins (2000: 256), I suggest that the theatre project participants embodied a kind of collective wisdom, looking at the everyday forms of knowing they carried with them, and engaging in a collective process of meaning making in producing the play. Another pivotal part of this collective cognitive work was how the participants recognized each other as subjects 104

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capable of truth claims, and thus became agents of feminist knowing and action (Murphy, 2012: 88). This type of collective epistemic work echoes the rich tradition of feminist consciousness raising, in which personal gendered experience is likewise deployed as an epistemic resource. As in feminist consciousness raising, everyday experience played a pivotal role in this project, and became a key part of the ‘economy of knowledge’ through positive affective entanglements (Cloud, 1998; Murphy, 2012). Finally, like feminist consciousness raising, the theatre project also aimed ultimately to politicize the participants. The ideas embodied in the project, drawing on personal experiences, were thus tied to ideas of becoming conscious and active agents of feminism. In order to encourage the participants in this, the play’s director seemed not only to boost the actors’ self-​confidence, but also to encourage them to take space more boldly. For example, during the rehearsals, the director advised some of the female amateur actors to use their bodies and voices more loudly and stop being too cautious. One actress, Gina, reflected on the very embodied training sessions as follows: ‘We had many bodily training sessions, because we have this culture that we are not [used to] being close to people. Even though we live in a big city, and especially on the metro and public transport are situated close to each other, it is not the case in work or with the people you know. That is also why it was really hard to play scenes portraying violence. Those scenes are in themselves heavy, but it was even more heavy because we could not get as close to each other as the director would have liked. That is why we had many bodily practices. They all taught us about working together, co-​operation.’ (Gina) Gina connected the embodied rehearsals with collectively learning and embodying knowledge of how to trust others, and how to let go of earlier ideas of being afraid to get too close to others. Gina further reflected on how the bodily exercises during the rehearsals had helped her to find more confidence in performing in public: “I especially liked the way we worked with our voice and learned to talk from the diaphragm rather than our vocal cords, so that it would be louder and more confident.” Indeed, this experience had ignited a fire for public activism in Gina, who was now planning to conduct her own public action in order to attract attention to the insufficient legislation on gendered violence. In accounts such as Gina’s, it thus became evident that, as well as collectively producing knowledge based on their gendered experience, the students of the ‘school of feminism’ were learning and embodying knowledge about how to become politically active. This political empowerment was encouraged in them not only by the very concrete embodied exercises, but 105

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also by raising their feminist self-​consciousness in various ways. Indeed, many activists highlighted that, in the process of creating the play, positive emotions and working on a more accepting attitude towards one’s body in the group had been empowering. Although dealing with difficult and painful thematics, the project was thus connected with greater self-​confidence and acceptance of oneself. Martha, a feminist artist in her late twenties, also discussed how she had learned to respect and take care of her own body in the process: “I started, probably, in some ways to cherish the fact that my body would feel more comfortable.” This empowerment of the participants could be vividly sensed in the air on the night that the Vagina Monologues premiered. It was striking how all the performers stepped confidently on stage, speaking loudly and taking space without hesitation. After the play, the activists appeared in front of the audience once more, one at a time, now again as themselves, voicing their real names and how they were planning to fight gendered violence in the future: “I am here because these stories could be about my close ones!”, “I am here, because I have lived in a family with violence!”, “I am here to put an end to violence!” and finally, “I am here so that every vagina would be happy!”

Queer as a resource for epistemic experiments Nina, introduced in the previous section, suggested that I should also visit another kind of feminist space: queer tango tusovkas. Nina herself socialized in both types of space, the ‘school of feminism’ and the queer tango tusovkas, revealing that, despite their partially distinct epistemic orientations and resources, the two cognitive spaces overlapped, with the same individuals sometimes spending time in both types of space. I attended a queer tango gathering months later, after meeting queerfeminist Irina, one of the organizers of the get-togethers. I barely found the place in an old stable building one late Friday evening. The corridor was packed with dancers dressed in various ways: some in impressive and posh dance costumes, others clearly preferring to feel as comfy as possible. The small dance studio was dimly lit, with couples dancing tango all around the packed room, and Irina DJ-​ing in one corner of the space, choosing some Argentinian tango. Having found a spot near the DJ table, I had time to observe how the couples moved smoothly across the space, many with their eyes closed. In this space, it was unimportant whether women were dancing with men, or how the dancers defined their gender. What was important was that they were able to exchange roles and take whatever role they felt like at that particular moment. They could take the lead, traditionally a male role in tango, or dance as the follower, traditionally a role assigned to women. Irina described how queer tango 106

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allowed the dancers to discover power relations and hierarchies often built between men and women: ‘Let’s say that compared even to salsa or lindy hop, there is a very strong gender focus as I call it. The trick is that it’s an alter-​gender focus and that makes it queer. I even think that it’s queer from the start. In the sense of hyper normativity, because it doesn’t exist in reality, and because it is present in the dance and in the aesthetics, it’s queer by definition.’ (Irina) Thus, queer tango, according to Irina, enabled borders to be crossed between masculinity and femininity, reaching a state beyond the binary idea of gender and the hierarchies tied to it. Nevertheless, Irina lamented that, despite the various possibilities available, many participants in the gatherings preferred to embody only the other role (leader or follower), even if breaking the traditional male–​female casting or dancing with someone queer or of their own gender. She herself had cut her hair short and was dressed in baggy trousers, taking time to dance with women as both leader and follower, and thus highlighting her freedom of choice: ‘Yes, it’s my choice, because I really love to do that; but at the same time I have a choice. I can refuse to dance with them [men], I can dance with women. I can dance with men as the leader, which is the most interesting option. I consider this an important question, particularly from a feminist viewpoint.’ (Irina) The queer tango events thus appeared to be a means of collectively studying and learning about how to go beyond internalized and embodied gender hierarchies and norms. Although, as Irina lamented, the participants would at times not grasp the possibility and instead chose the more classic formation, the possibility for this epistemic endeavour was there. The gatherings thus functioned as a collective attempt to dismantle existing hierarchies and produce a different kind of experience of the social. Compared with the theatre project and its cognitive space of consciousness raising, queer tango was deployed not so much in order to revisit something in the past (gendered experience and memories as epistemic resources), but to create a collective shared experience beyond hierarchy there and then, and to dismantle rather than to highlight the binary gender order. As in the context of the play discovered earlier, the body was a pivotal instrument in producing knowledge, but through shared action rather than with words and reminiscences. Somewhat similar elements of producing a collective embodied experience without words were also found in the context of queer feminist art projects. Sofia had taken part in organizing several such events, which 107

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were initially often hard to define because they brought together different cultural elements. Earlier during the interview, Sofia had brought up the laboratory-​like possibility of queer theory producing knowledge. However, describing an event that she had been organizing, she suggested letting go of all earlier knowledge, and instead producing queer awareness in the collective performative process, through embodiment and shared sensuality. She observed that queer theory used not to be as clear to her, but discovering it collectively had helped her figure out what it might be: “And actually, yes, no theory, only sensuality. That is, through the sensuality, through our physicality, we were talking about it.” Rather than discussing and sharing ideas or experiences in a group, Sofia then highlighted that collective action had enabled the group to explore sensuality. What is peculiar in Sofia’s quote is how she describes letting go of theory and discovering new ways of knowing with the help of the body. This echoes Sutherland and Krzys Acord’s (2007: 135) description of art as a way to produce experimental and ‘unclaimed’ knowledge with the help of the body. Sofia further elaborated on how the self appeared to get in the way of the collective experience, and thus had to be dispelled by ‘breaking oneself ’: ‘Because you sort of analyse yourself, trying to understand where one thought or another comes into your brain, whose are these thoughts and how your body reacts. And this is all through this physical, sensual, and you are actually experimenting on yourself all the time. I even have a manifesto that is called “self-​liberation”. It suggests that it can be scary, that you will have to turn maybe your life or something upside down. If you start breaking yourself, everything can fall apart.’ (Sofia) Much like Sofia, queerfeminist Tamara also discussed a photography art project as a way to dismantle oneself: ‘I picked three parameters: biological sex, sexuality and gender. I selected those to keep it simple; they are all equal. And then through each I observed to what extent I identify as female, male or someone else, something that doesn’t exist in the Russian language. And the result was that I’m around 47 per cent female, from three to 10 per cent male, and the rest is something that doesn’t exist in the Russian language.’ (Tamara) The remaining part that “doesn’t exist in the Russian language” was what Tamara then studied in a photography project with visual elements, suggesting that language was insufficient to acknowledge such elements. Sofia and Tamara thus both appeared to discuss a laboratory-​like condition of producing new kinds of knowledge of the self and social through embodied 108

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forms of expression that allowed the discovery of issues that could not be expressed in words. The previously discussed theatre project aimed to construe a somewhat coherent collective female experience, whereas here, the gendered experience and the self were broken down again into different pieces, as if breaking a once-​completed puzzle of the gendered self. Clothes, and especially skirts, also played a key role in some queer epistemic experiments. Wearing a queer skirt was suggested to broaden one’s ability to know otherwise, and to empathize with other people’s positions. For example, it was suggested that men might understand women better if they too wore skirts: ‘Because we are all the time saying that we need to understand the Other, understand the sensuality of the Other, the desire of the Other. And somehow to find some common points. But the clothing also gives you this opportunity. Because boys or men, when they dress as women, they feel quite differently. This is a different sort of identity for them.’ (Tania) Wearing a queer skirt was thus suggested to be a tool enabling one to feel otherwise and, at best, empathize with others. This logic echoes Saba Mahmood’s (2005) discussion of how a pious women’s community in Egypt uses the veil in order to learn to embody the pious life through bodily senses, and thus over time become the ideal pious individual, as the clothing supports their efforts. Similarly, the queer skirt might be seen as an epistemic tool to allow and offer non-​females an opportunity to empathize and situate themselves in a feminine position. According to Clare Hemmings (2012: 150), in order to know differently, we must feel differently. Hence, I suggest that cognitive practices in queer spaces often aimed to ‘know otherwise’, that is, in non-​normative and non-​hierarchical ways. Queer spaces thus appeared to be able to touch on something that was difficult to deal with in words. One similarity between the queer and gynocentric cognitive spaces was how they both drew profoundly from collective socializing in space and testing ideas in relation to the position of others in a curious manner. In the previous section, it was suggested that the knowledge was already there in the form of experience and just had to be collectively acknowledged, whereas in the queer spaces, knowledge was produced during the collective process itself. However, these kinds of cognitive practices, drawing on the epistemic resource of queer in order to let go of theory and surrender oneself to collective sensuality, appeared to demand a fair amount of knowledge and theory to be consciously conducted. Indeed, letting go of theory, as Sofia suggested, entailed the idea that one must first master advanced feminist ideas such as queer theory. Many of the activists in these spaces were deeply 109

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engaged with queer theory and other theories of gender and sexuality, which enabled them to aim to dismantle the heterosexual order and gender hierarchies through their collective practices. Theory thus played a pivotal role in abandoning theory, as being in completely new ways seemed to demand considerable knowledge of and reflection on the background. Next, I look in more detail at the issue of theory and academic knowledge as a resource for the feminists.

Academic resources: producing a feminist underclass ‘On the first of May there was a demonstration in St Petersburg and there was a feminist bloc [kolonna]. They made men wear hijabs. And those men marched the streets. They had some kind of banner, and we had a fight about this action [aktsiia] afterwards. What was that about? Why do you, White feminists from a metropolis, allow yourselves to do those kinds of things in relation to people you have never even met?’ (Lilia) This extract from Lilia, an anarcho-​feminist in her thirties, raises the issue of feminists’ misuse of religious symbols. The protest in which feminist activists dressed in hijabs to make their point, which was discussed by Lilia and many others, indeed appeared problematic in many ways, as the activists themselves were not Muslims. In Lilia’s view, the problem lay in “hijacking someone else’s figure”, which also resonates with recent discussions of cultural appropriation (see, for example, Hubara, 2017): ‘They just take some girl and start using her figure, in order to demonstrate how the Muslims have it so bad. And in that context, it is as if they criticize the orthodoxy. All the same, they do not have a clue what they are talking about. And that is very unattractive and very wrong. There is a lot of Islamophobia in Russia at the moment. And when people say that … feminists speak about how the women in Islam are oppressed. They do not help these women; on the contrary, they support this discourse of Islamophobia. And in my view, they only discriminate against and insult these women.’ (Lilia) This agitated quote is illuminating in many ways. The feminist scene was very White, and there were few who politicized the situation of migrants and racialized individuals. Indeed, the voices of those of religions other than Orthodox Christianity or from different ethnic backgrounds were mostly absent during my ethnographic participation. However, I suggest that the case coincides with the epistemic resources and the activists’ varying socio-​ spatial positionalities in ways that are worth analysing. 110

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Lilia pointed out how “some of the [feminist] actions are conducted without really understanding what is done”, when discussing the above-​ mentioned case. Other activists problematized feminist actions in a similar vein, suggesting that actions conducted without ‘thinking’ or ‘asking questions’ were backward in nature: ‘I probably do not see feminism in it, except of course primitive feminism. … It is hard to explain. But I would rather say that for me there is no feminism that is not queerfeminism, and connected to these questions … if there is not this perspective, I am not interested in that kind of feminism.’ (Zhanna) Zhanna was one of the activists who construed the trope of ‘primitive feminism’ when discussing certain feminist grassroots actions often connected with radical feminism. As an activist situated in the academic realm and identifying as a queerfeminist, she pointed out that for her, this kind of feminism was actually not feminism at all. Her comment thus produced a distinction and symbolically excluded certain kinds of ‘improper’ feminisms that are unable to take certain perspectives. Other activists, situated either within the academy or in its close networks, construed similar lines of distinction, pointing out that, while the groups and individuals criticized did not ‘want to ask questions’, they themselves were, on the contrary, ‘trying to think’ with the help of concepts such as queer and intersectionality: ‘They have a dichotomy and they [are] happy with that, and they don’t want to ask any more questions, and they don’t want to problematize their own position in society. … Since we … we are trying to think. So intersectionality is quite familiar to us as the process of thinking, which we understand makes us vulnerable, because we must be aware of a lot of things that are happening.’ (Iulia) Iulia, like several other activists, further suggested that some contemporary feminist groups in Russia reminded her of second-​wave feminism, a phase that has been theorized as taking place in the UK, the US and some other countries in the 1960s and 1970s (Budgeon, 2011; Evans, 2016) but did not take place in Russia owing to Soviet suppression of independent activism (Dzhibladzhe, 2005; Hemment, 2007: 77). By connecting some activists and their thinking with the second wave, Iulia and other activists thus situated the ‘primitive activists’ in the past, suggesting that they relied on outdated knowledge. Iulia further concretized this by problematizing how some groups concentrated on politicizing the issue of gendered violence which, in her view, had lost its topicality, as gendered violence was similarly an issue highlighted by second-​wave feminists. 111

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As the previous extracts show, both Iulia and Zhanna deployed Western feminist theory (concepts such as queer, intersectionality and feminist waves) in order to build distinctions between different feminist groups. Drawing on academic knowledge resources, they suggested that some activists were ‘stuck’ in the past, while attaching themselves to timely and advanced questions of feminism that had followed the second wave. Whereas recent studies have problematized how, in research, Russia and other former Soviet countries are often produced as ‘backward’ in relation to the West (see, for example, Kangas and Salmenniemi, 2016; Wiedlack, 2016; Solovey, 2020), these activist narratives operated with a similar logic, but instead produced part of the feminist movement as backward, thus highlighting their own progressiveness. They took a bloc of the movement, translated it into time, and labelled it with attributes of a past time period (see Agnew, 1996: 27). Fusion of time with space into binary distinctions between those ‘ahead’ and those lagging ‘behind’ was thus deployed within the movement and by the activists themselves. These academically oriented narratives echo the elite history of feminist activism in Russia. Since its inception, feminist thought has been tied to academic institutions and, one might suggest, has flourished and remained alive owing to the academic structures in Russia. Academic institutions have not only maintained the discourse, but have also publicly borne responsibility for educating those outside the academy, contributing to the ‘public consciousness’ (Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2014: 255). However, while the close connection between feminism and the academy has been pivotal, it has also produced challenges. Suvi Salmenniemi (2008) has observed that engaging in feminist activism in the early 2000s was a way to accumulate resources, and thus had a flavour of elitism. In her study of women’s activism, she discovered that rather than producing equality among all civic organizations, the feminist academic elite actually often functioned as an arena for resource accumulation. Furthermore, this appropriation of the right to feminism only for those who were (highly) educated contributed to remaking the Russian class structure (Salmenniemi, 2008: 223). Olya Reznikova (2014) has touched on a somewhat similar contemporary logic connecting feminism with elitism, in the context of women activists in Chechnya. They do not identify as feminists and tend to feel distant from the concept because, according to them, only elite women in the metropolis can be ‘feminists’. While contemporary academic feminist narratives echo the elite history of feminism, this ambivalent dynamic of feminism is not Russia-​specific, but rather has wider resonance in both feminist history and contemporary situations elsewhere. For example, bell hooks (2015: 8, 22) has suggested that, in the context of the US, while academic legitimation was crucial to the advancement of feminist thought, it also excluded and overshadowed feminist thinking emerging from practice outside the academy. 112

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The narratives here illustrate that similar elite ownership and privilege remained characteristic of the contemporary movement, dividing the feminists roughly into those who had access to academic resources and those who did not. According to academically situated narratives, the latter were thus unable to embody ‘real’ or the ‘right kind’ of feminism. By drawing on the epistemic resource of academic knowledge, activists with access to these distinct resources narratively construed a feminist ‘underclass’ that was, unlike them, ‘unreflexive’, as it had not mastered certain knowledge and concepts. Thus, the academically oriented narratives actually normalized feminist privilege and pathologized those who did not have access to similar epistemic and cultural resources (Skeggs, 2004; Lawler, 2008: 177). The academically situated feminists construed a hierarchy by classifying feminists, but did so by masking their ideas in narratives of individual abilities (Lawler, 2008: 127). In highlighting the lack of reflexivity in non-​academic feminists’ thinking, they simultaneously accentuated their own ‘complex’ and ‘progressive’ thinking, characteristics that Beverley Skeggs (2004) has suggested often touch on class without mentioning it. By stressing how they were able to operate with complex theoretical concepts, the academically situated activists narratively legitimized themselves as those whose feminist perspective counted. This logic resonates with the Russian cultural tradition of producing social hierarchy by viewing some as ‘less cultured’ than others (Gapova, 2015: 26). Furthermore, the academic narratives problematized not only the thinking, but also the actions of some non-​academic feminists. For example, Sofia highlighted that many feminist actions would have been better left undone, suggesting that only well-​planned, and thus ‘reflexive’, feminist actions were worthwhile conducting: ‘And to do them [actions and events], maybe less, but with much more. … With quality, depth. I mean, roughly speaking, by reading more and reflecting on experience more. And not only by reading some book, like Beauvoir or something similarly vanguard, but also something more complicated. And more generally, I think it is necessary to deal not only with feminism, but rather queerfeminism.’ (Sofia) Sofia’s comment subtly suggests that one must master a vast amount of ‘complicated’ knowledge before being allowed feminist subjectivity and a right to act in the first place. Though touching on a very concrete issue, her comment actually raises profoundly political questions: who is authorized to engage in feminist knowing, and what does this ‘knowing’ consist of? Furthermore, who has the right to be a feminist subject and take feminist action? Indeed, somewhat typically of contemporary class narratives, these feminist narratives aimed indirectly to restrict the agency of those who 113

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had not mastered advanced academic feminist concepts. While narrating themselves as mentally agile and mobile, activists with academic resources simultaneously reduced ‘primitive’ activists to their bodies, cementing them to the spot and suggesting they should better not act at all. These academic narratives highlighting the superiority of queer theory resonate with Hemmings’s (2011) and Puar’s (2007) demonstrations that queer theory has also been deployed as a tool for building hierarchy in other contexts. I do not suggest that the activists marked in these narratives as ‘primitive’ were innocent. Indeed, the previously discussed action engaged in cultural appropriation and echoes femonationalist tendencies (Farris, 2017). The action discussed is just one example of the fact that the network of feminists was still very White: there were few racialized feminist activists, and the intersecting experiences of non-​White non-​males remained largely unrepresented in the feminist field. However, I wish to make clear how academic epistemic resources were deployed in order to authorize some and not others. Furthermore, I suggest that, rather than problematizing only the actions of those who did not have access to academic resources, both groups –​academics and non-​academics –​acted from the positions and perspectives that they were able to take, with the epistemic and cultural resources to which they had access. However, the resources and positions they deployed tended to limit their ability to appreciate others’ perspectives, or to act in any other way. Indeed, ‘perspective’ itself is about taking a knowledge position and thus, rather than an overview, a narrow section of particular interest represented as a common view (Skeggs, 2004: 6). Perspective always depends on access to knowledge and is thus implicated in power relations. In other words, when a group takes a perspective, like the activists with academic resources, they simultaneously cast other perspectives as irrelevant and unimportant (Skeggs, 2004: 6, 45). Thus, the academic perspective that criticized ‘primitive’ actions for their ‘unreflexivity’ itself remained often similarly unreflexive on its own privilege in relation to the epistemic and cultural resources assembled around academic networks. However, we are able to examine some non-​academic perspectives regarding the issue of feminist knowledge here. Indeed, most of the non-​ academic activists narrated a completely different story which, though circulating around knowledge, did not divide the field into ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ forms of feminism, though they too construed an understanding of different forms of knowledge. For example, radical feminist Nika divided knowledge into that coming from ‘above’ and that coming from ‘below’: ‘It is a very interesting situation with the concept of queer. … Because this is a thing that came to us not from below but from above, came to us in the form of some sort of academic discipline. In this regard, it is completely inaccessible to real people. And … well, it is some sort of 114

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completely insane postmodern idea that has nothing to do with the problems of real people who identify themselves in such a way.’ (Nika) Nika thus highlighted how knowledge from ‘above’ was barely applicable to the everyday lives of ordinary people as it did not help them solve their concrete, everyday problems, and even excluded them. Anarcho-​feminist Nelli, on the other hand, criticized how academic feminists did not share the knowledge they produced or possessed: ‘First of all, I think that those students who go to gender studies should have interest and motivation. In order to further take part in activism and in some way, and actually, raise the level of activism, and furthermore society. And at the moment, it does not feel like that. … Those who exercise gender studies, they should have their position, and a political position.’ (Nelli) Nelli connected access to academic knowledge with a political responsibility for spreading the knowledge beyond the academy. For her, knowledge, and access to it, appeared political and were connected with an obligation to take a political position. These non-​academic activist narratives of the imperative to use knowledge and make it useful to ‘real people’ echo how knowledge was often understood as something of a lifeline in the non-​academic feminists’ circles, which many pointed out had helped them in moments of despair, and had assisted them in taking over feminist subjectivity and action in the first place (for more detail, see Chapter 3). Feminist knowledge was thus often discussed by the non-​academic activists as a way to solve concrete everyday challenges and situations –​and to survive. It was marked as a key resource, and because many felt that there was a shortage of it, it was, by nature, political. Furthermore, as these extracts illustrate, knowledge was discussed very differently by academic and non-​academic activists. The academic activists thought it was better to act (be a political subject) only when one had mastered ‘complex’ theory and the right epistemic resources, whereas for the non-​academic activists, academic knowledge was a privilege, and thus political by its very nature in a context of the constant shortage of epistemic and other resources. In their view, it was necessary to pass it on to those looking for feminist knowledge in order to help and empower as many ordinary people as possible.2

Everyday experiences as an epistemic resource As previously discussed, activists had varying access to academic knowledge, and it was thus a core epistemic resource for the feminists, but produced 115

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them as unequal. Furthermore, academic concepts were deployed in order to narrate some activists as mobile and others as mentally stuck and ‘backward’. Indeed, I suggest that although the academic narratives produced class mainly symbolically, they also had implications for differences in access to economic resources and mobility among the activists. Thus, the academic narratives, while depoliticizing class, in fact raised a key issue, as they touched on a concrete question of fewer resources for moving across space and being able to travel and network internationally. Differences in activists’ ability to move across space tapped into the power geometry within the feminist movement (Massey, 2005). Furthermore, mobility was not just a physical, but also a mental category, as ‘one can be highly mobile from a fixed position via networks and connectivity’ (Skeggs, 2004: 49). Accordingly, some of the non-​academic feminists interviewed for this study lamented that they had no resources to travel, nor the necessary language skills to assimilate feminist writings, theory and concepts in English as easily. Both physical and mental mobility were thus discussed in non-​academic narratives as a dimension that enabled the accumulation of resources. Among other things, it enabled some activists to build distance from the social condition (of external and internal feminist struggles) more effortlessly than others. Indeed, I myself was able to come and go, or distance myself from the feminist circles, when I felt frustrated with apparently impenetrable internal feminist struggles. This possibility was definitely a resource for me, as I could return having been able to reflect more clearly on some of the issues and struggles from a distance. However, not all the activists were able to do so. Movement across space also allowed activists to relate to other perspectives, as the interview accounts reveal. Queerfeminist Lilia, for example, illustrated how moving away from Russia had opened her eyes to other kinds of more complex intersecting experiences: ‘[B]‌ecause here, when I arrived, I was not in Europe for the first time; but all the same, in Russia there are not. … In the streets of large cities, in St Petersburg and Moscow, I did not see women dressed in Muslim clothes. … And here they are many. And it completely changes your attitude regarding that question, how it is even possible to talk about them, that they are oppressed, and use their figure.’ (Lilia) Katia, who highlighted her non-​a cademic and non-​e lite feminist positionality, similarly discussed how her perspective had changed after her feminist awakening, connecting these changes with the mental mobility allowed by feminism itself: ‘What has also changed in me, as feminism developed, some of my racist habits disappeared. I began to pay more attention to the 116

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experiences of migrant women. At the beginning of my feminism, I somehow thought that these are not very important problems, whereas now I understand that these are important, maybe even more important than our internal problems. Because the law may not be strong, but it still somehow protects us, and no one at all protects them.’ (Katia) These reflections by Katia and Lilia, in my view, highlight how feminism allows cognitive movement and is ultimately an epistemic tool for relating to the position of others, especially if there are possibilities for encounter and sharing the same space. Whatever the other perspective, whether that of racialized women or those marked as the feminist ‘underclass’ or ‘elite’, empathizing appeared more challenging if one only encountered others through the internet and social media spaces, which tend to blur the personal and embodied experiences behind opinions and debates. The lack of face-​ to-​face contact was also how Zhanna analysed why epistemic gaps between different feminist groups were so profound: “We don’t have any physical contact through some live communication that would keep us together all the time. We are physically and in other ways isolated from each other and only meet through some virtual projects like a blog or reading.” The internet as a resource for the movement, initially allowing it to form and then enabling access to various forms of feminist information, thus presented a paradox. As most activism took place online, it distanced the groups from each other and made it harder for them to relate to differing positions and experiences. The concept of svoi is useful for analysing the difficulty of solidarizing between different feminist groups. ‘Svoi’ stands for ‘one’s own people’, originally referring to tightly knit Soviet networks formed around a shared interest, occupation or discourse (Yurchak, 2006: 131). While construed around similar interests and discursive spaces, the glue holding these groups together was intense socializing and sharing of the everyday, which built trust between network members. Thus, these networks and groups actually shared much more than an ideology –​they had an emotional bond (Yurchak, 2006). Indeed, I suggest that similar kinds of social and emotional bonds were what kept some of the feminist groups together in support of the shared discourse. At the same time, other groups that one had only met online may have felt distant, due not only to their differing views, but also to a lack of social sharing and trust built on face-​ to-​face socializing. Intense socializing and trust thus acted as a glue that kept some activists together, while keeping them firmly apart from others. This was despite the fact that they might have found some similarities and possibilities for strategic solidarizing if they had had the chance to socialize more informally, rather than only confronting each other in the form of debates, whether online or offline. 117

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I suggest that in this kind of context, with different activist positions and perspectives, one must critically address how best to characterize the variety of feminist experiences and struggles in order not to lose sight of the manifold nature of local feminist grievances. Listening to both Katia and Lilia discussing their own private paths to feminism and their broadening perspectives, I could not but ponder on how, for example, the feminist wave concept, deployed by some of the academic activists to draw a temporary distinction between themselves and ‘primitive’ feminists, did not do justice to the grievances of those marked as ‘primitive’. Categorizing some groups as ‘backward’ and others as ‘up-​to-​date’ was simply inaccurate in expressing the different and shifting activist positions and experiences, which nevertheless were all no doubt timely for the activists I encountered. Thus, making sense of the manifold feminist politics through the concept of feminist waves, among other things, simply lost the specifics and blurred the variety of feminist embodied experiences. In drawing on the feminist waves and other academic concepts to make sense of the movement, most academic activists were attached to the third and fourth waves of feminism, while gynocentric radical feminism, highlighting female experience, was most attached to the second wave. However, I wish to complicate this idea, not least because I believe that the gynocentric approach cannot be relegated to the past, as it plays a pivotal role in some contemporary realities and contexts. First, it is activated by the governmental neoconservative politics, and thus cannot be bypassed by the activists altogether, despite not identifying as women nor with the gender binary, because they are treated as women in the context of formal politics. Second, it is obviously useful and up-​to-​date for some in particular socio-​ spatial positions, as it helps those drawing on this resource and gynocentric knowledge to ‘help themselves’, especially as they may not have access to other conceptualizations connected to feminism, such as intersectionality and queer theory. Feminist grievances such as gendered violence and, in some cases, first-​hand experiences of it can hardly be marked as ‘backward’ or belonging to the past, if and when they are embodied by contemporary feminists and remain a key factor bringing them to feminism in the first place in order to solve acute personal and social problems. The fact that there was still so much activism taking place around gendered violence and concentrating on male–​female relations was a sign of the relevance of these problems and their gendered nature at the everyday level of the activists. Neither should my observation that radical feminism was popular in Russia be simplified as a ‘repetition of what happened in the West in the 1960s’. Rather, it should be considered as stemming from the local context, a radical feminist approach offering some individuals a resource to confront and solve their problems. There is a specificity of its own here that should be acknowledged. 118

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How some activists produced others as backward was problematic, yet these considerations and struggles speak of the movement’s ongoing intensive cognitive processes and struggles over political culture. Furthermore, they speak of a necessity to evaluate and debate which feminist theories and forms of knowledge produced in other contexts are useful in Russia, and which are not. Furthermore, they reveal that there are various very different immediate contexts, from which the activists take agency. However, the overall political context should not be forgotten. Indeed, these epistemic struggles highlight that all the activists were often quite dependent on the international sources of feminist knowledge to which they had access, in the form of both academic theorizations and information from the internet and new media. I suggest that the overall political context, in which the activists tended to have much less access to local feminist knowledge and history, intensified some internal feminist struggles over knowledge. For example, Milka reflected on this as follows: ‘Of course, most of the things are imported; it’s obvious that we are using the language of Western feminism. And it’s not a very good thing, because the uniqueness of Russia is that it’s a gigantic country sharing borders with multiple countries, where all kinds of things are blended. It would be cool to use this specific nature to create another kind of feminism. Not that hegemonic and Western, White kind of feminism. Russia is a country with a history of colonization, and there should be more sensitivity to some decolonization practices and to decolonial critique. Unfortunately, that hasn’t happened yet. I myself have a very Westernized type of mindset.’ (Milka) Despite feminists’ dependence on Western concepts and knowledge, I suggest that, in fact, a vast amount of local everyday knowledge was available, embodied by the differently positioned activists. Yet, as this chapter has shown, this knowledge did not always travel across the particular cognitive contexts of feminism, as there was little face-​to-​face interaction between the different groups, and even when there was, the focus was usually on more theoretical questions. I could not help but think that, at times, large-​scale theoretical discussions, such as that on sex work/​prostitution, overshadowed some of the everyday issues that activists opposing each other shared despite their differences. At the most basic level, even when situated very differently, the activists shared not only the externally challenging political condition, but also the overall consuming activist position. The highly consuming nature of activism was also manifested in the attitudes that the feminists themselves took in relation to others, belittling feminists’ problems, and even diminishing them to ‘middle-​class White women’s problems’, as well as comparing them with those in clearly worse positions, as if the fact that 119

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there were always individuals in a worse position meant that their problems and struggles did not count. However, in my view, the fact that some groups had engaged in problematic actions did not mean that their own lack of resources and hardships were unimportant; nor were the grievances of those acting from within academic networks with more cultural resources, but still under challenging conditions, some of them simultaneously struggling with having to hide their non-​normative sexual orientation. Here, I suggest consideration of Sara Ahmed’s (2017: 10) comment on the everyday as the most important resource for feminist theory, and the ‘personal as theoretical’. When producing theory in more local terms, as Milka suggests, the experiences of those without access to academic discourses and theory making should also be heard, rather than blatantly deeming their views to be irrelevant. The academic activists might indeed benefit from listening to those with no access to academic resources if they wanted to contribute to local theory. The various and multifaceted feminist experiences and embodied forms of local and situated knowing might also be a resource for the whole movement, if acknowledged as such.

Conclusion: Politics of expertise I have outlined the feminist cognitive praxis by tracing some of the key social processes through which feminist knowledge is produced, and by identifying key epistemic resources available for feminist activism. The core epistemic resources traced were gynocentric and queer forms of producing feminist knowledge, as well as academic resources and resources for both physical and mental mobility and networking. I have suggested that activists’ varying everyday experiences constituted a key resource for the movement, even if not always acknowledged as such by the differently positioned activists. Ultimately, I have illustrated that the epistemic resources to which activists had access varied a great deal and, as they were scarce, considerably affected the feminist cognitive praxis and the social shaping of the movement’s knowledge. Overall, in tracing the feminist cognitive praxis, my aim has been to illustrate how the academic culture affects feminist practices from the ‘outside’, and how some of the academically situated activists aimed to regulate the forms and styles of feminism that were unruly and insufficiently ‘complex’ from an academic viewpoint, without acknowledging that the activists criticized often lacked access to similar resources (Swidler, 1995: 35). Indeed, it might be suggested that the academic activists acted as they did, not because of their similar starting points nor even their values concerning feminism, but because they shared the cultural context and were drawing on an academic tool kit (Swidler, 1995: 35). At the same time, I have shown that non-​academic activism, criticizing feminism’s elite orientation, is 120

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rising and very present in the research data. These activists’ critique of the academic practices of activism highlights that while all the activists shared the same broad context of few political opportunities and tangible resources, activists indeed came from profoundly differing immediate cultural contexts and backgrounds. I argue that the feminist politics of expertise, with its struggles over who has the right to embody feminism and take feminist agency, lay at the heart of the feminist political project. However, my choice to discuss the struggles over feminist subjectivity and expertise in this chapter did not stem from these struggles being Russia-​specific. Rather, I suggest that such struggles over who has the right to embody feminism and take the position of a feminist expert in public are much broader. Among other things, this has resulted from the rise of digital technology and internet spaces that allow the relatively easy dissemination of various forms of feminist information and knowledge. These struggles also tap into the long tradition of tensions between academic and non-​academic forms of feminism. While struggles over whose perspective counted and who had the right to feminist agency were not entirely context-​specific, the scarcity of resources was, in terms of both the lack of local epistemic resources, and the lack of economic resources for the whole feminist movement. Thus, even though the activists came from different immediate cultural contexts and had differing access to intangible resources, the overall context of few tangible resources and political repression was what they shared and what greatly affected the overall feminist cognitive praxis, even if its consequences were more immediate for some than for others. I suggest that the lack of resources for the movement intensified feminist struggles over who had the right to feminist subjectivity and expertise. Moreover, potential struggles over the few economic resources and sources of funding were likely to further intensify the politics of expertise discussed in this chapter. Indeed, struggles over who is the right kind of feminist can also be discussed in relation to the pressure experienced by differently positioned feminists to ‘perform the right kind of feminism’ so that their group, rather than another group with conflicting views, would be supported and funded. Furthermore, the fact that epistemic resources were a core resource for the whole movement and its political work intensified the struggles over them. Thus, disputes over the right forms of feminist knowledge and who was authorized to be a feminist expert in public are somewhat unsurprising. My aim in this chapter has been to show how, under conditions of resource shortage, all aspects of activism evolve around resources, and the struggle over who gets to be a feminist expert in public. While social movements are rarely unanimous, I suggest that becoming aware of these shared challenges might help the activists, under demanding conditions, to prioritize moments in which they could also put their differences aside in 121

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order to solidarize strategically, and try to find spaces for dialogue where they could momentarily set aside their obvious differences. As Zoia, one of the space brokers introduced in the previous chapter, said: ‘Maybe for us, here in Russia, it is an even bigger necessity to unite because we have problems with the dissemination of knowledge, and the information channels. If we do not grasp each other by the hand and exchange ideas, we will not have a chance to work on a common language of communication, and even less try out some kind of shared action for freedom.’ (Zoia) I have discussed, among other things, the academic effect on feminist practices and politics. Next, I shall turn to observe how the highly mediatized opportunity structure affects feminist public practices, and how, owing to political repression, the tool kit of feminism has been transformed. In the next chapter I shall also continue to complicate the picture of feminist resistance. I shall illustrate how feminism’s internal power relations are far from simple because, depending on the perspective adopted, the same activists might appear powerful or powerless. Accordingly, I shall adopt an alternative perspective on the question of resources, revealing that there are ways of accumulating resources and value in the field of feminism other than those connected with academic resources.

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Mediatized Manifestations of Feminism The photographs spread quickly on the internet. They showed a group of feminists protesting in the square and in the tower of the Kremlin, holding a banner with the text in Russian: ‘Feminism is a national idea.’ The action was picked up not only by Russian independent online media, but also by international online media, such as the web publication Buzzfeed. However, soon after the stunt had gone viral, it turned out that the picture portraying the activists in the Kremlin tower had been photoshopped. The activists had not really been in the tower, within the Kremlin walls and premises of state power, but only in the adjoining square. An online debate between activists ensued. Some thought that the stunt was staining the name of activism, while others thought it was actually brilliant, making good use of the internet space to make waves and generate publicity for feminism. “This was what made feminism big in Russia”, one veteran feminist told me later, looking back at the International Women’s Day action of 2017. This action at the Kremlin resonates with the populist tactics and post-​truth era communications for which other political groups, including those in power, have become known in the 2000s in Russia. While the feminist protest at the Kremlin can be viewed from many perspectives, it serves as an intriguing example of the highly mediatized expression and inventive tactics in which feminists in Russia have engaged in the 2010s, in order to reach the consciousness of the Russian population. In this chapter I examine practices of public feminism during turbulent times, as the political opportunities available in Russia have essentially shifted. In the previous chapter I turned the gaze on the movement to interrogate its internal dynamics and tensions in relation to available resources. In this chapter I look outward again to analyse how available resources are turned into feminist public action. As discussed in Chapter 2, the Russian women’s movement was able to form in the late 1980s and early 1990s because of the political liberalization 123

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that started with perestroika and glasnost, and exploded following the demise of the Soviet Union in the 1990s (Buckley, 1992; Posadskaya, 1994; Sperling, 1999: 44). However, the contemporary feminist movement has been formed in a contrasting situation of diminishing political opportunities. Changes in the political opportunity structure have forced the activists to look for new practices to pursue social change. Vera, in her thirties, described the changes that had taken place in recent years as a crisis for activism: ‘Of course, a lot has changed in Russia during these five years, actually that’s … there have been tremendous changes, and in all spheres of activism. So, I think that … we are also now facing a crisis in activism, because the ways in which we can express ourselves, the number of activities we can do is very limited.’ (Vera) Furthermore, whereas many feminist initiatives and groups were supported by foreign donors in the 1990s and early 2000s, in the hope of democratic development in the country (Kay, 2000; Henderson, 2003; Hemment, 2007; Salmenniemi, 2008), in contemporary Russia very few feminist groups receive foreign or domestic funding. Since the feminists interviewed for this study often lacked tangible resources such as money, I continue to focus on intangible resources (know-​how and skills) and analyse how they were deployed in order to implement public feminist activism. As highlighted in the previous chapter, academic knowledge is one key intangible resource and a privilege to which not all feminists have similar access. However, other intangible resources are also pivotal to activism and further contribute to the most visible forms of feminism in Russia. Thus, in this chapter I discuss the intangible resources on offer in relation to public activist practices, aiming to complete the depiction of what it meant to be a resourceful feminist, in a context in which tangible resources were in very short supply. In tracing the public practices of feminism, I draw on Ann Swidler’s (1986: 273) idea of culture as a tool kit from which activists can construe certain lines of action. This means that I trace key patterns and styles of public activism deployed by the activists. As Swidler observes, the tool kit is always historically construed, but tends to transform during culturally unsettled periods; therefore, one might expect it to be changing in increasingly authoritarian Russia. My curiosity lies in how the resources available affect the tool kit and forms of feminist public action. I suggest that available cultural resources to some extent dictated what kinds of practices and styles were adopted by the feminists, and who were able to define what feminism was about in public. At least three key changes have taken place in the feminist tool kit since the 1990s in Russia, with feminism increasingly taking place in the sphere of art, focusing on single activist bodies, and moving online. First, following 124

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Ann Swidler’s (1986: 278) idea of new styles deployed during social transformation, one might suggest that art as a tool for resistance has gained increasing significance in the context of Russian feminism. Indeed, during my fieldwork, the most popular form of activists coming together face to face was at festivals or exhibitions of feminist art. The focus on festivals to bring feminists together appeared to be a clear shift in the activists’ practices, as activists in the 1990s focused rather on organizing academic conferences and seminars, which formed the backbone of activists coming together back then (see, for example, Voronina, 2009; Salmenniemi, 2014). Earlier research has shown that artists and art projects have become more political in Russia in the 2010s (see Jonson, 2015: 158), and the material at hand further suggests that even those who were not artists felt pressure to deploy increasingly creative and artistic practices in order to get their message across in public. Indeed, art appeared to be one of the few remaining realms for feminist discussion and expression in the Russian context, as it was much less regulated than more overt political action. Queerfeminist Zoia, for example, illuminated the overall shift in feminist practices by noting that the more political limitations there were, the more activism would ‘leak’ into art. Zoia’s comment echoes the notion that as direct political action such as demonstrations was increasingly policed, resistance would take over less regulated spheres. Second, in connection with increasing policing of demonstrations, the emphasis on single bodies performing feminism had increased. The popularity of performance, and especially single-​person public performance, was striking during my participation in the feminist movement’s activities. The emphasis on performance was connected, among other things, with the fact that picketing was still allowed without applying for permission from the authorities in advance. According to Margarita, a veteran feminist in her sixties, single pickets turned into performances in order to attract public attention: “Why pickets? Because a single picketer does not get arrested. Well, consequently, a single picket is an action, it is a performance. That is, the artistic genres are now interconnected with the political situation. Because the power is manoeuvring, and so is the artistic environment.” As Margarita suggested, the lack of political opportunities had increasingly turned attention towards single protesting bodies, a phenomenon also documented in other authoritarian societies. For example, Turkey’s Gezi Park demonstrations will be remembered for the standing man performance, based on a single male body and the simple gesture of standing (Özge, 2017: 198), and the Arab Spring began with the act of Tunisian fruitseller, Mohamed Bouazizi, setting himself on fire. Indeed, feminist protest itself has emphasized the activist body. Groups such as Ukrainian Femen, Pussy Riot and the SlutWalk demonstrations organized around the world have established the body as a central site for protest (Dean and Aune, 2015: 390; Gapova, 2015: 31). 125

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Third, there appears to be a consensus that digital activism constitutes a paradigm shift in feminist protest culture around the world (Baer, 2016: 18), and no doubt affects the activists’ tool kit in various ways. However, Russia serves as an intriguing case for studying digital activism because most of the remaining political opportunities exist online. As discussed earlier, the Russian media space is peculiar, in that the government controls most of it, and particularly television as the most far-​reaching medium across the vast country, which has pushed the activists to operate mainly in the realms of new media and the internet (Strukov, 2009; Nikiporets-​Takigava and Paina, 2016). The rise of the internet had enabled the activists to create new forms of activism in order to reach new audiences. For some veteran activists, the changes in activism connected with the rise of the internet were so drastic that comparison with earlier activism appeared impossible. Stella, who had been an activist since the 1990s, noted: ‘It is impossible to compare to the 1990s. Because back then there was no internet and nowadays a significant amount of activism and making a difference in society in general happens through the web. I mean, it is possible to write a post or publish a video that goes viral, which can have a bigger effect than some kind of a street action. Of course, it requires [a lot of] thinking to come up with something [like that].’ (Stella) Stella’s comment highlights the high demand for creative ideas in order for the feminists to gain visibility in social media. Indeed, the activists seemed to endlessly plot new schemes in order to organize something interesting enough to make their publications and posts go viral and awaken the interest of independent online media outlets or, in the best-​case scenario, be noticed by the national governmental media and the main television channels. This endless quest for media visibility increased the constant need for creative ideas and solutions as a key resource for successful media activism. The activists interviewed highlighted not only this constant need, but also the shortage of creative ideas in order to produce something interesting enough to go viral. I suggest that the available tool kit and political opportunities remaining in the sphere of art, performance and the internet, and their elements coming together, contributed to the most peculiar forms of contemporary feminism. While the goals of different feminist groups varied, most groups shared the idea of challenging hegemonic discourses through media effect, as is typical of social movements that lack power in the official political domain (Swidler, 1995: 34). As Della Porta and Diani (2006: 220) have highlighted, discursive opportunities are intimately connected with the media, as the main arena for the expression and formation of public opinion. This connects with the argument of this chapter that, in a context of limited political opportunities 126

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in which most opportunities exist in the media realm, the activists aimed to maximize mediatized appearances. Following philosopher Hannah Arendt, Judith Butler (2011: 6) has noted that to act and to speak politically is to ‘appear’ to one another in some way or another. Therefore, I argue that feminist activism at its two extremes becomes a politics of appearances and veiling, in terms of both overtly visible and covert forms of activism. Furthermore, these two styles of public activism communicate with each other, as some veiled forms of activism can be interpreted, among other things, as resistance to the visible and loud activism that fosters what I call the feminist politics of appearances. In discussing these two aspects of feminist public activism –​politics of appearances and veiling –​I also observe the interplay between overt and covert forms of public feminist activism (Hollander and Einwohner, 2004). In order to concretize the main styles and practices of feminist public action, I identify seven key lines of action deployed by the activists during observation for this book. These are shock, smuggling, masking, turning the gaze, staging, stealing publicity and carnivalesque. By tracing these core lines of action, I am able to concretize some of the changes in the tool kit and how the mediated cultural context affects feminist practices and politics from the ‘outside’. By lines of action, I refer not just to a single action, but rather to an assemblage or chain of action in which the styles and emotions displayed are part of the whole (Swidler, 1986: 276). Whereas Chapter 4 touched on some of the more specific spatial tactics of activism, here my focus is rather on lines of action and what they tell of the available tool kit. In the remainder of this chapter, I begin by discussing the overt and loud lines of action of contemporary feminism, and analysing some of the counter-​practices that cover and veil. I then discuss performative feminist lines of action, which I suggest are at the core of the politics of appearances. Finally, I argue that the mediatized feminist lines of action particularly mirror the strategies of Russian power holders. I also observe some of the power struggles within the feminist movement in relation to public activism, highlighting the complexities of feminist culture, resistance and its entanglement with power.

Overt lines of action: producing media shocks Many of the feminist actions I observed during my fieldwork took strikingly confrontational and provocative forms, and thus represent what Hollander and Einwohner (2004) call overt resistance. First, feminist actions often emphasized spatial confrontation, meaning that the action was conducted in a symbolically significant public space such as a central square or the stairs of an Orthodox cathedral (see Chapter 4 for more detailed spatial analysis). Second, the performers were often masked and dressed provocatively, with 127

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bruises or blood to draw attention to feminist grievances such as gendered violence. I suggest that the confrontational nature of many of the feminist public actions was connected with the activists’ aim to maximize media visibility, and thereby get their grievances noticed and recognized. Thanks to the media skills and rapid response of some of the activists, I suggest the movement was at times able to appear larger than it was, if the actions went viral. Mediatized practices were likely to reach out to larger audiences and have a greater effect than demonstrations because in 2015–​2018 feminists were not yet able to mobilize masses to the streets. When seeking publicity, the activists interviewed for this study were especially reliant on the independent new media publications functioning on the internet, although they sometimes also got through to governmental and traditional media outlets. However, articles dealing with feminist issues were most often published in urban digital media outlets such as Afisha, Colta. ru, The Village, Metro, Radio Liberty and Wonderzine. At best, independent digital media outlets published feminist pictures, announcements or press releases almost without editing them, meaning that the activists were able to get their message across directly. The activists also discussed how Meduza (an independent online media outlet) and Russian Cosmopolitan, among other publications, had started to write about feminism in a more friendly tone. Also, local radio and television channels sometimes acknowledged feminist issues in their news broadcasts. In order to boost their visibility, the activists also had their own social media communities, some of which could be considered as small independent media outlets, as they had several thousand followers. These functioned as platforms to spread the word and inform others of the feminists’ activities. Pussy Riot’s Punk Prayer is an illuminating example of how feminist groups had previously been able to maximize media effect with confrontational and loud actions. The power holders had to react in some way to the Punk Prayer because of the extensive media attention that the performance generated, both in Russia and abroad, even though Vladimir Putin’s government consistently depoliticized the issues with which the prayer dealt, and charged the group with hooliganism instead (Bernstein, 2013). I myself learned the core role of media visibility when I declined to take part in a feminist action, the aim of which I could not quite understand at first. Afterwards, some of the activists with whom I had been cooperating in other ways seemed to communicate between the lines that my input was insufficient, as I had not given my face and body to the protest action. In fact, it was already going viral on the internet as it had turned out to be a success, as I discuss later in this chapter. Queerfeminist Alla and radical feminist Lisa both took part in street actions that aimed to maximize visibility of feminist issues by producing a media effect. For example, Alla participated in activist coups by night in order to 128

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attract attention to the problematics of gendered violence in various ways. Lisa’s group of radical feminists, on the other hand, organized various kinds of street actions and solitary pickets to publicize the grievances of non-​elite and lower-​class women. Alla and Lisa both discussed at length how feminist street actions were often met with aggression, not only by officials but also by ordinary passers-​by, and how they had to thus constantly balance between confrontation and safety in their public activism. Their narratives of ‘having to engage in street activism’, which they did not particularly enjoy and that did not come naturally to them, in my view mirrored their experience of a lack of political alternatives. The fact that they were acting in such a limited and repressive context had pushed them to increasingly confrontational lines of public action. Furthermore, both of them highlighted that the mediatized dimension of the street actions was pivotal. According to Alla and Lisa, all their actions were carefully documented and then published online on their own social media sites, as well as being sent to other media outlets in order to attract as much attention as possible. If they were lucky, some of the online media outlets would later publish the pictures of their actions. In addition, however, feminist groups and individuals such as Alla and Lisa seemed to be looking for ‘holes’ through which to sneak into even wider publicity that would cover the whole country and not just urban audiences, through the governmental media and mainly television. Although some social and oppositional movements in Russia have targeted international media with their protests, the feminists did this quite rarely. One indication of this was that their messages and banners were usually written in Russian rather than English, with some exceptions. I have termed one of the key overt feminist lines of action shock. This refers to how the activists often seemed to aim to produce elements in their actions that were sufficiently shocking to enable them to attract as much media attention as possible. Pictures of feminist protests published by various independent internet publications often revealed that the more shocking they were, the more likely they were to be published. In addition, the way in which feminist demonstrators documented and distributed material on the internet sometimes continued to irritate the police until they were arrested can be viewed as a feminist tactic to prove a point using shocking elements, which they carefully documented in both video and photographs. This tactic has also been deployed by other activist and opposition groups in recent years in Russia (see, for example, Lyytikäinen, 2016). If not noticed by the media at first, documented arrests were likely to increase the circulation of videos on social media and would eventually also reach representatives of independent and traditional media outlets. Here, visual elements, videos and photographs with shocking elements such as arrests and conflict with officials were essential tools to generate media interest and visibility. However, this practice was deployed rather by the most provocative of feminists. A majority 129

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of the activists I interviewed did not even take part in demonstrations and thus did not engage in such action. Furthermore, shock was often expressed in feminist actions in the form of performing shocking emotions such as sorrow and distress, which were mostly connected with the thematics of gendered violence. Performing vulnerability of the body is a common tactic of political activism (Parviainen, 2010), and has an especially long history in the context of feminist activism and bringing the private problem of domestic violence to public awareness. Here, the peculiarity lay also in the way the activists performed violence non-​violently (Vinthagen, 2015: 11). The shocking element in the context of playing violence was thus the gesture of bringing the privatized and ‘normalized’ phenomenon to a central place like the main street of St Petersburg’s Nevskii Prospect in order to disrupt the daily routines of busy city dwellers with fake blood and expressive performance. ‘Scandals’ were often discussed at length by the activists, and came very close to what I refer to as the line of action of shock. Some of the activists seemed to suggest that if the media wanted scandals, one should feed them scandals in order to make it into the news. Indeed, Bella Rapoport, one of the most well-​known activists in the Russian feminist movement, was often mentioned as having become famous because of a media ‘scandal’ in which she had been involved, and which she had been able to use tactically in order to break into the news with her feminist agenda.1 One of the activists even noted proudly that there used to be only international feminist scandals that one could read about in the news, but that now Russian feminists had started to create their own scandals, as if signalling the increasing strength of the domestic feminist movement, yet also highlighting international influences and connections in the background. Feminist artist Kira, in her late twenties, discussed how the media were always after a scandal, and proved her point by describing how, during a feminist exhibition that she had been organizing, media representatives came looking for a scandal and only left having found it: ‘There were three reportages in the media, that is, on three TV channels, I think. … They really tried to hype up a scandal. I remember, on the one hand, we were accused of not being sufficiently radical, which would seem very strange. On the other hand, we had an installation about what if Jesus was a woman, and the reportage was called “Feminists crucified Christ”. … They tried to present it as an insult to the [religious] sentiments.’ (Kira) As Kira observed, the fact that Jesus was presented as a female was scandalous enough for the media, and highlights that shock could easily be produced simply by playing with normative gender roles or portraying the religious 130

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figure as female. Kira also referred here to the Russian law that bans hurting religious feelings, and thus to the logic of the media always aiming to construe a conflict in order to attract readers’ attention. There is a rich history of this kind of activism that aims to shock, both transnationally and in Russian activism in particular. For example, Jasper (1997) has written about moral shocks that aim to provoke bystanders’ sympathy and garner support as a strategy for contentious politics. In the Russian context, actions such as those by the national Bolsheviks, and more recently the stunts by artistic group, Voina, for example in decorating one of the central bridges in St Petersburg with a large picture of a penis, have aimed to cause shocks (Gabowitsch, 2017: 181). According to Brooks Platt (2018: 141), the roots of these provocative forms of performance art can be traced back to the Viennese Actionists in the 1960s, who conducted bloody performances using, for example, animal corpses and self-​inflicted injuries (Yatsyk, 2018: 129). Although some have viewed Russian actionist tradition as losing its edge in the 2010s, one actionist, Pëtr Pavlenskii, has been active and visible until very recently. He became well-​known after sewing his mouth shut in order to support Pussy Riot during their trial (Brooks Platt, 2018: 141–​142). During my stay in Moscow, Pavlenskii also set the doors of the Federal Security Service on fire in Lubianka city centre, as part of a performance that was filmed and published online soon after the actual event. Shocking and ‘actionist’ elements have also been pivotal to various feminist actions that have gone viral and generated media interest. For example, Ukrainian feminist group, Femen, found going topless to be the only way to make their protest against clericalism, the sex industry and dictatorship heard (Femen and Ackerman, 2014; Thomas and Stehling, 2016: 88). In the Pussy Riot case, shock was based, among other things, on the selection of the place for the protest –​the cathedral –​and what ‘was done’ in it, or at least what seems to have happened inside it. The members of Pussy Riot had a background in Voina, and Punk Prayer was thus closely connected with the tradition of ‘actionism’. In addition, the group’s tactics can be traced as resonating with styles deployed by other feminist groups such as Guerrilla Girls and Riot Grrrl (see for example Yatsyk, 2018: 129). In the case of the feminist activists interviewed for this study, the shocking aspects of their actions point towards them similarly drawing inspiration from the rich ‘actionist’ tradition and other counter-​cultural projects such as Riot Grrrl. Finally, shock as part of the feminist tool kit can also be discussed in relation to the bewildering speed with which the feminists’ actions were planned and conducted. In order to ensure media effect, they were often planned as fast responses to media events. For example, Marina, a feminist artist in her thirties, described how feminist actions were planned rapidly in order to respond to something that was being discussed in the media or in politics at that very moment: 131

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‘These are such direct answers to some specific events. In this case [an action she was part of], they were going to adopt a law on fee-​paying education or something, and there was a terrible scandal. All were alarmed about having to pay for education from now on. … I was very angry. I rarely get so angry. And it was just the day of pickets and direct actions. And we actually decided to express our position in this form. It was a precise, specific answer to a specific event … it was thought up in just a day or two.’ (Marina) However, Marina also criticized overt and shocking practices of feminism, as she no longer believed in confrontational forms of feminist action and had started to distance herself from them. Next, I shall turn to examining covert feminist lines of action which, I suggest, produced a politics of veiling, sometimes in response to the overt and confrontational forms of media activism.

Covert lines of action: smuggling and masking Like Marina, Rima, in her late twenties, also discussed how feminist actions were heavily based on threats from outside, and how the media and those in power were too often able to dictate what the feminist movement did, when it acted and how it acted: ‘And it is always related to reaction to external forces, for example to the action of government. Someone in the parliament can suggest banning abortion and it would be an external threat. Or some kind of group rape happens, and all the feminists begin to talk about it; an idea to organize protest against rapes would come up. That is also an example of an external event. So it’s always response, reaction to the news and media.’ (Rima) Rima problematized the reactive nature of most feminist actions, and highlighted that in order to become stronger, the movement should set its own agenda, rather than always following the agenda set by the media and politicians. In order to criticize and construe distance from the overt and reactive nature of activism, some of the lines of action that Marina, Rima and other activists discussed, in contrast to the confrontational and overt practices, may be viewed as covert and non-​confrontational, sometimes taking veiled forms of everyday resistance (Scott, 1989). One such line of action was smuggling, which many of the activists discussed, although I have coined the term. What I refer to as smuggling are actions that aimed to disseminate feminist knowledge and ideas to those who were not looking for that kind of 132

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knowledge and even avoided reading anything labelled as feminist. Smuggling was conducted both directly and through media effect. The activists pointed out that it was better not to use the word ‘feminism’ in the context of certain events or actions, in order to attract the attention of people who would not attend the events if they were associated with the alienating concept of feminism. For example, Rima mentioned that her feminist organization arranged movie nights that they did not label feminist yet chose movies that containing a hidden feminist message or theme, which would be observed with the audience after the film. Having already organized such movie nights, Rima indicated that showing films with certain kinds of thematics encouraged people to take part in discussion and to start reflecting further on the issues discussed in them, without being scared off by the idea of taking part in something ‘feminist’. Popular culture thus appeared to be a way to smuggle feminist ideas to the masses, as did feminist art. Marina and many others pointed out that the strength of feminist art, in comparison with more overt activism, lay in the way it did not preach or peddle but rather made people gradually reflect on feminist issues. It was also pointed out by the activists that people were not always ready to discuss problems and harsh real-​life stories that felt too distressing, and that other lighter and less emotionally charged ways of addressing audiences were more effective and easier to deal with. In addition to taking part in overt forms of action, Alla also discussed smuggling as a valuable line of action. She, like numerous activists, lamented that there was no sex education in schools, which had led to a rising number of teenage pregnancies. Alla explained that her feminist group had therefore started to look for ways to bring information about contraceptives and safe sex to teenagers through the internet. She explained how her group aimed to disseminate information about safe sex issues to teenagers, but would tag and give the articles names that could be found in very different internet searches, increasing the possibility that teenagers would end up reading their information sheets accidentally when looking for entertainment and pastimes that they were often more interested in to begin with. The cases discussed thus smuggled information not because they considered it dangerous to talk about feminism more openly, but because the activists thought it was a way to make people gradually understand the benefits of feminist thinking without scaring them away, while observing important feminist themes. However, there was another key motivator for smuggling as a line of action that aimed rather to protect the activists and their position. Indeed, the practice of smuggling may also be connected with the fact that some of the activists were in a more vulnerable position publicly, and could thus not discuss politics as openly as others. Here I refer, for example, to activists who identified as non-​heterosexual, whose position has become increasingly vulnerable due to the increasing homophobia in the 2000s and the various 133

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local legislation, and later a national ‘homo propaganda’ law, banning public discussion of LGBTQ issues. The queer and LGBT activists interviewed reflected on an ambivalent public position, which also, I suggest, affected the style of action in which they were able to engage and the emotions they chose to display publicly. For example, one queer practice of action that distanced them from the shocking emotional culture (drawing on strong emotions like performing suffering and sorrow) with more veiled messages and expression was that of masking. As Baer (2016) has noted, the activist body is often either masked or unmasked in contemporary feminist activism. SlutWalk and Femen both unmasked and revealed bare skin in order to prove a point and draw attention to issues important to them, whereas Pussy Riot covered their heads in their protest. A feminist event called ‘Non-​ordinary panties’ [Neobyknovennye trusy], conducted by a queer feminist group in 2012, which I was able to view through social media later, was interesting from the point of view of revealing and masking, as it appeared to aim to do both. Based on its documentation, the event took the form of a fashion show, and the activists taking part in it walked on stage like supermodels, dressed in various kinds of peculiar underwear, as the title of the event suggests. First, by revealing something as intimate as underwear and bare skin, I suggest that the event indeed revealed, but also actually masked the issue behind the event: the topic of queer subjectivity itself. The curious, eye-​catching underwear became a substitute for the more tangible affair actually being discussed. Panties thus functioned as symbols of queer issues, referring to non-​normative sexuality, and non-​normativity more broadly. However, while the project engaged in veiling, it simultaneously played with the element of shock by revealing. This ambiguous queer practice resonates with how, according to Scott (1989: 55), some forms of resistance are made ambiguous and given a double meaning in unsafe circumstances, so that they cannot be read as a direct, open challenge to those being resisted. These kinds of hidden practices of resistance tend to gain popularity under authoritarian conditions, as the sanctions for open resistance may be too severe for individuals to bear (Scott, 1989: 54). Here, the message was produced as ambivalent, resonating with the broader idea of queer theory aiming to challenge binaries. Another queer veiling line of action was turning the gaze. In feminist performances that I observed, at times the viewer became a part of the performance, and the gaze was turned from the actual performers back to the audience, in this case me, forcing me to evaluate my own stance, identity, gender and sexuality. For example, during a queerfeminist performance about migration, the attention was, in my interpretation, turned to the prejudices of us, an audience of about 25. In the midst of the performance, the activist actors started to collect things from us into black plastic bags, and at that moment it appeared uncertain whether we would eventually 134

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get the items back. After brief consideration, I chose to give something minor –​my gloves –​so that if I did not get them back and they were lost, it would not be a big thing. At the same time, I was quite aware that giving nothing would mark me as not open enough to what was taking place. In the process, I had to estimate whether I trusted the performers enough, but was also invited to take the position of someone losing something, being pushed into a momentary position of uncertainty and ambiguity. These kinds of covert lines of action were deployed both together with and alongside more overt practices, but also in order to criticize the shocking and confrontational practices on which some activist groups drew. The feminist veiling lines of action can thus also be viewed as a critique of the public feminist emotional culture that aimed to produce shocks time and time again, striving instead to display other kinds of more subtle emotions and to widen the palette of feminist emotions in public. They thus entailed resistance to certain forms of feminist lines of action that some of the activists found increasingly problematic. Here, the movement’s ‘feeling rules’ (Hochschild, 1990) also came to the fore. Social groups have feeling rules and emotional cultures that dictate how members should manage and express feelings. However, emotional cultures are not monolithic but may be contested, as was the case in the context of contemporary feminism in Russia (Gould, 2004: 163). During my fieldwork, feminist actions that performed suffering in a shocking way were criticized at length by some of the feminists, who were distancing themselves from this ‘culture of suffering’ by performing other kinds of emotions. Indeed, some feminist lines of action illustrate how the emotional culture of activism was contested among the feminists, much as it has been contested by oppositional political groups more broadly in Russia in the 2010s. For example, Roudakova (2017) has observed that the 2011–​2013 protests turned a new leaf in the emotional political culture, raising humour and sincerity as new styles of activism in order to highlight being serious about one’s political goals. However, it is also crucial to remember that these different public emotional styles stemmed partially from the different positionalities of the feminists. Those identifying with the letters LGBTQ were in a more vulnerable position than those identifying as heterosexuals in public, especially when they wanted to discuss issues of sexuality. Furthermore, overt and confrontational practices, in particular, were pointed out as being mentally very consuming. This may have contributed to the fact that, alongside confrontational and overt street actions, many of the activists were constantly looking for new practices and emotional repertoires, and also actively reflected on them in the interviews. Many of those who took part in street actions said that they sometimes had to take breaks from public activism, as they simply did not have sufficient energy to continuously participate in public action. 135

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Staging and stealing publicity Following my fieldwork, I was especially impressed by a couple of Russian or Russian-​speaking (taking place simultaneously in Ukraine and Belarus) feminist actions. The first was the feminist internet flash mob ‘I am not afraid to tell’ (Ia ne boius’ skazat’). This campaign had been started by Ukrainian feminist, Anastasiya Melnychenko but soon went viral, so that Russian-​speaking feminists more widely started sharing their experiences of gendered violence under the hashtag ‘I am not afraid to tell’ on social media. Feminists of different stripes whom I had interviewed took part in the flash mob, which seemed to be a success, since commonly constructed borders and distinctions in the field were momentarily crossed. What is also noteworthy is that ‘I am not afraid to tell’ was a #MeToo campaign in Russian-​speaking countries, before the very similar social media-​aided movement discussing and challenging gendered and sexual violence would take place in Western countries a year later. The other feminist action that made an impression on me was a documentary play entitled My own stranger (Svoia Chuzhaia) by a feminist group from Samara. Although staged at a feminist festival, the play had been stripped of all extraneous performativity: the activist actors simply walked on stage one at a time and shared an intimate feminist story with the audience, some of which dealt with violence, and others sexuality and misogyny. Common to both the play and the campaign was that performativity was reduced as much as possible, and instead real people with real problems appeared to be speaking to the audience. Indeed, I had grown so numb to the performative and shocking lines of action of feminism that performances that did not seem to perform at all had the most powerful effect on me. This invited me to reflect on the very performative elements of public feminist activism and their connections with attracting media attention. By performativity, I do not refer here so much to Judith Butler’s (1990) idea of gender as performative, but rather to the way that all social movement action is viewed as performative, as activists aim to attract public attention and sympathy for their cause (Alexander, 2006; Eyerman, 2006; Juris, 2014). I suggest that the performative element was very explicit in many of the loudest feminist actions, and that this was partly due to the political opportunities remaining in the media sphere, as well as to the fact that theatre itself was a key way to educate feminists and communicate feminist ideas (for more detail, see the second section of Chapter 5). A point made by Juris (2014: 228) is instructive here, as he has suggested that it may be useful to ‘think about social movements’ practices as arrayed along a continuum from more to less performative’. Indeed, the actions I discuss next were at the other end of the spectrum, as they appeared to maximize the performative aspect for various reasons. As discussed in the previous chapter, a central method of engaging new individuals with activism was feminist theatre. Following my fieldwork, 136

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numerous workshops were organized in order to equip new individuals with the ability to put on plays dealing with feminist thematics, often within a very short timeframe. The popularity of theatre as a tool for feminist activism echoes a wider trend in political claim-​making in Russia. During the 2010s, the genre of political theatre gained ground in order to criticize not only politicians, but also the media and the field of journalism for losing its ethics of truth telling (Jonson, 2015: 197–​199; Roudakova, 2017: 199). However, feminist theatre also emerged out of the theatre stage and onto the streets, as gestures of performance and staging more generally. First, performativity was often very vividly present during feminist demonstrations and their ‘choreography’. During the International Women’s Day protest in 2016, this performance was conducted by the feminists in dialogue with their counter-​protesters, who held patriotic and pro-​state banners. Although the demonstrations were situated in different parts of the park, only facing each other from afar, there were very performative elements to the symbolic confrontation. The show-​elements between the two contesting demonstrations reached their climax when a group of young counter-​ protesting men started to approach a group of feminists in an aggressive manner, and the feminists responded likewise: forming a wall and mimicking masculine toughness, which made the young men, now storming towards the feminists, turn back at the last minute, and withdraw from their theatrical attack. This kind of performance between protesters and counter-​protesters, the latter often taking a pro-​state stance, has also been documented by other researchers (see Robertson, 2011; Sperling, 2015). Second, staging protests that were never actually organized has become common practice among some of the activists. Alla called these staged protests ‘fading pickets’: ‘ “Fading picket” means that a certain amount of activists go out on the street somewhere, moving really quickly, hiding the banners, taking a lot of photos. They end it quickly and split up. No one has time to notice anything. But there are photos, and everything is shown in the publication as if it really happened. No one knows it was actually only for a minute. It might look like the demonstration lasted an hour … we distribute it to the publication. … So, the “fading picket” is working, speaking of protest actions. Because everything is forbidden, meetings are forbidden, even though it’s against the constitution. They prohibit everything. But we are struggling to do something in spite of it. Our only hope is our inventiveness.’ (Alla) Indeed, many of the feminist actions I observed were centrally about staging. What was essential was how the actions appeared later in photographs in digital space and media, not what had taken place in reality outside the 137

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pictures. Because of the high policing of public space, feminist street actions were often conducted fast and when policing levels were as low as possible, meaning by night. This meant lower surveillance, but also smaller audiences on the streets. I call this line of action staging, and suggest that it stemmed from both the shrinking political opportunities and the fact that most remaining possibilities existed in the new media sphere. Indeed, the real and the digital had already been profoundly blended together in Pussy Riot’s Punk Prayer (Gapova, 2015). Following this and my own observations, I concur with Gapova that the more emphasis the digital space gains in activism, the more it actually serves as the new ‘reality’, becoming more important than the reality outside the digital realm (Gapova, 2015: 30). I discuss staging further in what follows, as most of the remaining examples are, in fact, connected with this key feminist practice of aiming to create mediatized appearances by drawing on performative elements. Another line of action building on that of staging was stealing publicity. I encountered this a couple of times, and found it thoroughly puzzling in terms of the message the activists were aiming to convey publicly. It was also the action to which I referred earlier, when I decided to decline to take part since I was initially thoroughly confused by its goals. During a feminist festival, I was asked by a few activists if I would like to take part in an action camouflaged as an orthodox activist. A group of feminists had decided to ‘hijack’ publicity from a group of orthodox activists, who were set to arrange a boat protest the next day on the St Petersburg canals. The feminists were able to rent a boat and decided to conduct their own staged protest before the actual protest began on the same day. Dressed as orthodox activists, and with banners and posters proclaiming anti-​abortion and conservative pro-​ life messages (such as ‘a woman should give birth, rather than think’), the feminists completed the staged boat action only hours before the orthodox boat protest was due to begin. Photographs of the staged protest were published on the internet and attracted a lot of media interest, as various independent digital media outlets and newsletters soon published and shared the pictures. The protest provoked wide discussion on social media, and active individuals commenting on the action online soon seemed to realize the plot: the ‘orthodox activists’ were actually not orthodox activists at all, but rather their opponents, the feminist activists. This was perhaps not least because the slogans on the banners also seemed to have ‘between the lines’ messages and one of the activists was actually, on closer inspection, carrying in her arms a huge white male organ (sculpture) decorated with flowers. Although reading about the protest online through various media outlets truly inspired me, the action left me puzzled by its absurdity. It was necessary to read everything between the lines in order to really figure out what was happening and what was the actual message of the feminist activists, who in the photographs appeared to be communicating their opponents’ messages. 138

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What kind of effect were the activists after and what was their goal? Absurdity as a style was a word I heard them repeat time and time again when discussing the protest, and they were clearly quite satisfied in terms of the publicity it received. I shall now turn to discussing this and other actions at the core of the feminist politics of appearances, in relation to the strategies of those in power. Indeed, I suggest that such actions in fact mirror some of the actions for which the Kremlin became known in the 2000s.

Mirroring the power politics I argue that the line of action of stealing publicity, introduced in the previous section in all its absurdity, can be read as a comment on some of the government’s most conservative and ambivalent legislation and policies. In fact, this kind of commentary on governmental strategies of action can be traced in many of the feminist actions introduced in the previous sections. These appeared in many ways to mirror the absurd nature of formal politics and neoconservative legislation. Alla, among others, lamented that of all the new conservative laws, the one she found most confusing was that banning hurting religious feelings. This was because feminism itself could be interpreted as breaking the law by publicly advocating issues such as women’s right to abortion, which conservative orthodox activists oppose. It appeared that the activists were actually spinning the confusion of absurd neoconservative and authoritarian politics into their own absurd lines of action, in the case of the boat protest by imitating their opponents. This kind of ‘trolling’ of the orthodox activists, I argue, should be viewed as mirroring, and thus as a commentary on the similar strategies of the power holders. It can be read as a comment on how those in power indirectly allow conservative orthodox activists to attack activists advocating human rights, but at the same time deny a similar right to groups such as feminists and LGBT/​Q activists, with the help of laws such as the law banning the right to hurt religious feelings (see, for example, Yatsyk, 2018: 130) and the law on ‘homo propaganda’. Furthermore, the absurd feminist actions mirror the absurdity of the conservative and authoritarian legislation and policies, as they are ambivalent and unclear, just like the policies, some of which, as suggested by journalist Adam Curtis (2016), are purposefully designed to confuse and cause uncertainty. Similar observations of the regime sanctions becoming a part of public resistance have been discussed by Flikke (2017), who studied the Russian ‘monstrations of mocracy’, an anti-​demonstrating public performance that ‘activated the prohibitions of politics’ in its carnivalesque public performance of ‘non-​protest’ (Flikke, 2017: 314). By engaging with absurdity, the previously described feminist action likewise took a strikingly carnivalistic approach to activism. Similar carnivalesque and absurd elements can be found in the queerfeminist 139

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actions observed in the third section of this chapter, regarding covert lines of action. For example, the ‘Non-​ordinary panties’ event might similarly be read between the lines as a comment on state-​sponsored homophobia, which increased in Russia during the 2000s and became national policy in 2013 with a countrywide law banning ‘homo propaganda’. As suggested, the event plays with meanings, substituting queerness with the weird panties and celebrating them. However, the event’s veiled message can also be disassembled in dialogue with the patriotic fashion line created by representatives of the pro-​government organization Nashi. The fashion line, presented at Moscow Fashion Week in 2008, entailed, for example, T-​shirts with pronatalist texts such as ‘I want three’ as well as a bikini top with a friendly message of support for the president using his nickname ‘I am with you Vova’ (Lassila, 2011; Hemment, 2015). When analysing the non-​ordinary panties event from this angle, it receives new hidden meanings, such as challenging heteronormative assumptions about ideal family, as well as masculinity and femininity promoted by conservative pro-​state forces. Indeed, the whole tendency to turn activism increasingly into an absurd carnival can be interpreted as turning the mirror back on the government and its neoconservative policies, and thus spinning the power holders’ political plausibility into ridicule. Some of the activists also directly called the conservative power holders clowns. The carnivalesque approach echoes Michel de Certeau’s (1988: 37) idea of the art of the weak, as they pull tricks on those in power. Here the feminists played ‘tricks’ on the powerful by spinning the idea of conservative and hegemonic masculine power (Connell and Messerschmidt, 2005) from plausible into questionable and ridiculed clownery. Furthermore, what is noteworthy in connection with the ‘power of the powerlessness’ here, following Luhtakallio (2012), is how the figure of a clown blurs gender, as clowns are out of reach of the ‘categorising power of gender’ –​in this case, stripping the politicians of their masculine armour. Moreover, following the cultural idea that female activists are often expected to express feelings more openly than men, this line of action abandoned this gendered expectation of activism; rather, by engaging with carnivalesque, the activists displayed seriousness or amusement in order to highlight the absurdity (Goodwin et al, 2001: 12–​14). Carnivalesque as an activist practice is by no means new in the context of activism in Russia. Many Russian activist groups have drawn on a rich carnivalesque tradition of subversion through laughter, using humour as a means to ‘expose cracks in the edifice of the dominant social, political and economic order’ (Johnson, 2013: 599). Groups such as Voina, and before them the Decembrists, can be connected with the carnivalesque tradition, as their aim was to build ‘an “art-​war” that is simultaneously constructive and destructive, applying monumental and noncommercial forms of absurdity, sarcasm and the carnivalesque to the undermining of “socio-​political 140

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obscurantism” ’ (Johnson, 2013: 594). However, although the feminists were likewise increasingly replacing the performance of suffering and grief with the aim of provoking laughter with their public actions, more serious layers lurked under the surface of the feminists’ actions, mirroring confusion over the absurdity of the legislation and political decision making. Indeed, as Roudakova (2017) has suggested, one important reason for humour’s appeal in the context of public activism was the way it helped the activists to deal with the anxiety with which they had to live when engaging in resistance. At the same time, by promoting positive emotions in the face of fear, carnivalesque and laughter can be seen as tactical choices, as they also amplified the collective feeling among the activists and thus helped them to carry on resisting together under challenging conditions. Another activist style in addition to absurdity and carnivalesque that mirrored the power holders’ strategies was that of modifying the truth, which is closely connected with the line of action of staging. The feminist action conducted on International Women’s Day 2017, introduced at the beginning of this chapter, is a case in point. It exemplifies the action of staging, crystallizing what the feminist politics of appearances is about at its extreme. Photographs of this group of feminists in one of the Kremlin towers, with red protest smoke rising above them and a large banner in their hands declaring ‘Feminism is a national idea’, spread fast, provoking considerable interest and curiosity on social media. Soon, however, one of the protest pictures portraying the activists in the Kremlin tower was found to have been photoshopped: the activists had not really been in the tower inside the Kremlin, but only in the adjoining square. This widespread media action was soon nicknamed ‘photoshop feminism’, and provoked debates among activists who thought that the action was staining the reputation of activism which, as some pointed out, was not high to begin with in society. However, some thought that the action was extremely successful precisely because it attracted attention and, as one veteran feminist suggested, actually ‘made feminism big in Russia’. I suggest that this action again imitated the strategies of those in power. First, the slogan referring to feminism as a national idea, which seems cryptic at first sight, refers to long-​standing discussions of ‘the national idea’ in Russia. The concept is used mainly by pro-​state and patriotic groups, and thus the feminist takeover of the slogan can be viewed as mirroring the strategies of those in power as it appropriates the patriotic concept to feminists. Second, in the 2010s, Russian power holders, and populist rulers in other countries, have become known for photoshopping and moderating the truth. According to some accounts, a significant number of Russians do not mind this kind of ideological mediatized manipulation of the truth (Oates, 2007). Images are how one is known to convince and rule the masses, at least in mediatized societies. Based on the logic of the power of images, both governmental politics and 141

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feminist politics, at their extreme, seem to have become a spectacle in which the truth can always be moulded or even altered, and in which faking it and trolling opponents are useful everyday political equipment (see, for example, Fedor and Fredheim, 2017). The feminist photoshop action resonates with the post-​truth era, a political trend discussed extensively in the context of conservative populist governments around the world in digital times. It also echoes Goscilo’s (2013: 2) observation of spectacle ‘becoming the order of the day’ of politics under Vladimir Putin’s rule in the 2000s, with the support of state-​controlled media. Julie Hemment (2015: 193) has pointed out that such spectacle and ambivalent patriotic performances, together with deliberate provocation, have also been apparent in the actions of the pro-​government youth organization, Nashi. Lines of action that aimed at media spectacle thus seemed to be deployed across the political field, as mediatized reality had encouraged different groups to turn to mediatized lines of action in the hope of appearing in an impressive and unforgettable way to mass audiences through the media. Indeed, this shows that although these groups were very different in their political values and positions, they in fact drew on a very similar tool kit, their action thus highlighting how media conditions affect their practices similarly from the ‘outside’ (Swidler, 1995). In addition to similarities in lines of action, one might suggest that their target audiences were more similar than those of some of the feminist activists who criticized these shocking lines of action: both the power holders and the feminist groups engaging in the politics of appearances were similarly aiming to target the ‘ordinary’ people and masses through the media. However, I suggest examining the critique aimed at the feminist photoshop action in order to highlight some of the power dynamics within the activist realm itself. Indeed, I argue that debates about and criticism of the photoshop action provoked among the activist community should be discussed in relation to the overall styles and emotional rules of the opposition. Natalia Roudakova (2017) has highlighted how the leaders of the 2011–​2013 protest movement were able to break a cynical cycle that had existed in Russian politics for years, as a legacy of the Soviet political culture and communications. One pivotal style on which the protesters and their sympathizers drew was ‘a reduction in pathos’, which meant reducing ‘unnecessary drama’ in public speech, and thereby actually expressing political sincerity. This new emotional approach was deployed in order to challenge the earlier irony, ‘stiob’, that prevailed in the post-​Soviet protest culture and has been analysed as having alienated the masses from politics. By altering the political style and communication, the protest leaders successfully attracted the interest of those who had grown numb to empty political rhetoric and drama (Roudakova, 2017: 203). I suggest that the massive criticism that the photoshop protest received from other activists reflects this idea of holding on to public political sincerity, and highlights the dangers of losing that 142

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sincerity when engaging in lines of action aiming to appear in an impressive way. At the same time, however, one can also defend the ‘photoshoppers’ to some extent, as from the perspective of visibility and media appearances, the action turned out to be a success. It has sometimes been suggested ironically that in contemporary societies, people need pictures to believe something really happened. In the context of contemporary digital reality, one might rather ask: if there are pictures, did it have to happen? What are the rules when one just wants to break it to the news, to appear in one way or another and find an audience for one’s cause? What means of activism are justifiable when there are few means to begin with? The feminist action at the Kremlin can be viewed as a success from the point of view of media attention, at least compared with the average media attention provoked by feminist actions –​even more so because the discussion and debates following it ensured that active social media users and the audiences of independent digital media outlets would find out about it. It was thus a success in terms of appearances –​the feminists appeared to a large group of people in a thought-​provoking way, confronting the premises of the state power and politics from which they were excluded. It is also noteworthy that this was not the first and will probably not be the last time when appearances and documentation were not based on what had literally happened outside the digital realm. Similar modifications of reality have already been discussed in the context of Pussy Riot. Indeed, the video ‘performed’ in the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour did not really take place only there but just looked as if it did, and was based on appearance created by editing and repeating the same sequences, some of them actually filmed in another church. While it is understandable that other feminists and activists criticized the ‘photoshop protest’, their strong reactions should also be interrogated more thoroughly. Why exactly did some groups react to the ‘photoshop protest’ so fiercely, and what does this say about the feminist movement and its political culture? The answer again lies in resources. The activists who were able to get through to the media were able to define the feminist agenda in public. Although there were other reasons for the fierce reactions, it is clear that feminist struggles over public practices such as those discussed here were in many ways entangled with the scarce resources and who was able to deploy them to define and frame feminist issues publicly. This brings me back to the question of a resourceful feminist. The activists who were able to plan and conduct action that provoked media interest and were successful in terms of appearances were indeed the resourceful ones, since they were able to define what the movement was about in public, and even stain the name of feminism as other activists suggested. Media wit and inventiveness were thus key intangible activist resources, in addition to the academic epistemic resources discussed in the previous chapter. To complicate things, these 143

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resources were not always in the hands of the same activists as the academic resources, but were often deployed by those who were simply charismatic, inventive and enduring enough to plan and conduct media stunts rapidly. Indeed, some of the activists who could be considered the most resourceful in the movement were those who were inventive enough or, better yet, worked as journalists or with the media themselves, and could thus publish articles and publications about feminist issues effortlessly. Media experience has also been successfully turned into a political resource among other political groups in the Russian political opposition (Bode and Makarychev, 2013: 54; Gapova, 2015; Gabowitsch, 2017). For example, during the 2011–​2013 protests, those who were equipped with media skills and were already familiar to the masses (through media) were able to take the role of unofficial leaders of the protest movement (Gabowitsch, 2017). Also, the success and visibility of Pussy Riot was closely connected with the group’s media skills. They were able to provoke broad interest abroad by combining signs and symbols from popular culture, although domestic audiences and activists were mostly unmoved by their message (Gapova, 2015). Intangible resources such as media know-​how, and the fact that these were unevenly spread across the field of feminism, gave rise to new hierarchies and power relations within the movement. While those in the proximity of academic knowledge production were able to draw on academic resources, media-​related know-​how enabled some of the activists to accumulate their resources into visibility and power, sometimes becoming celebrity feminists who were able to function on their own rather than as a part of a group. Furthermore, the more intangible resources these individual activists possessed, the more they could turn them into tangible resources. For example, some well-​known feminists were gathering money through their own social media pages, which they had been able to turn into small independent media outlets with several thousand followers. Thus, the media emphasis of activism increased its individualization and the power of those who were able to use different kinds of media platforms, be inventive and accumulate social media followers. This logic of action based on charismatic leaders, also apparent in feminism, is the final key factor mirroring the Kremlin’s strategies of action in its personality cult (Sperling, 2016). It also resonates with earlier research on Russian non-​governmental organizations, actually often suggested to be non-​governmental individuals (Henry, 2002). In light of this discussion, I argue that although the activists were unable to engage in direct dialogue with the power holders, the way that many of their practices mirrored the strategies of the powerful in fact formed another kind of symbolic dialogue with them, by ‘forming a dynamic tactical interaction’ (Baaz et al, 2017). As Baaz et al (2017: 149) have suggested, while resisting the dominant power, individuals engaging in resistance simultaneously utilize some forms of it. While some forms of power are resisted, such as hegemonic 144

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norms and identities, other forms are deployed, in this case practices of creating media appearances (Baaz et al, 2017: 149). Here, Bhabha’s concept of mimicry is also instructive, as it refers to how the ‘colonised becomes like the coloniser, but not yet the same’, thus challenging fixed ideas about who actually are the colonizer and the colonized (Bhabha, 1984). The mirroring feminist practices reveal how muddy the field of politics is in contemporary Russia, and how the binary idea of resistance and power is, in many cases too simplistic, as both sides mimic each other (Yurchak, 2006). At times it is difficult to recognize who are the actors behind a certain action, as they may intentionally perform to be someone else or create uncertainty, as has been the case with some state-​sponsored viral campaigns, whose main aim has simply been to generate confusion (Fedor and Fredheim, 2017). Indeed, due to the two-​way dynamism of power and resistance, we can also learn about the morphing forms of power by studying resistance.

Conclusion: Politics of appearances Owing to the central role of the media in the contemporary Russian political opportunity structure, feminist activism has become a politics of appearances. By politics of appearances, I refer to how some of the feminists strove to create impressive media appearances and drew on performative and often shocking elements and styles in order to attract the attention of both independent online news media and governmental media outlets, in order to reach out to new audiences and be noticed. The politics of appearances was conducted by the activists as they construed lines of action such as shock, staging and stealing publicity. The concept of the politics of appearances illuminates how, within a limited political opportunity structure in which most opportunities exist in new media spaces, the media effect and producing spectacles mattered at times more than the literal truth and what has really happened outside the digital realm. Indeed, the media logic thus seems to have altered the activists’ tool kit and is affecting feminist culture from the ‘outside’, as it encourages some to engage in highly mediatized lines of action. Although an extreme example, the feminist Kremlin protest nicknamed ‘photoshop feminism’ is a crystallization of the activists’ yearning for media appearances. It also highlights that while resources are scarce, inventiveness is the resource that counts. Whether or not one approves of the lines of action and styles deployed by some of the feminists, some of which mirrored the strategies and ‘spectacle’ deployed by the power holders (Goscilo, 2013), I suggest that these lines of action were construed because they were the most effective ones available to the activists drawing on them, in order to generate broader visibility of feminist issues. Indeed, due to activists’ media skills, the movement was at times able to appear larger than it really was. Furthermore, the mediatized 145

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actions also mirrored the shrinking activist space and the fact that most political possibilities were somehow related to the digital space and media. I argue that the total lack of any kind of communication with political decision makers and the government has increased the central role of media in grassroots activism: it has become the only way to have any kind of dialogue, even if only symbolic, with the power holders, who themselves are known for producing mediatized appearances in order to communicate their political strength or to cause confusion. Thus, the mirroring of power holders’ strategies illustrates the dynamic interaction between the dominant power and resistance (Baaz et al, 2017). It also highlights how they both draw on strikingly similar, highly mediatized tool kits, and ultimately suggests that by studying resistance we can also learn about power. Alongside overt feminist lines of action which aimed to maximize appearances, in this chapter I have investigated several covert, veiling lines of action, such as smuggling, masking and turning the gaze. These were most often conducted by those in more vulnerable positions publicly, such as the activists identifying as LGBTQ. However, in discussing these veiling feminist practices, I have also aimed to illustrate how practices and feeling rules were contested within the feminist movement. Following Swidler (1986), one way to look at the various lines of action is to suggest that they were a causal effect of the immediate cultural contexts and resources to which the different activists had access. As Swidler has pointed out, ‘one can hardly pursue success in a world where the accepted skills, style, and informal know-​how are unfamiliar’ (Swidler, 1986: 274–​275). This refers to how activists tend to engage with the lines of action and styles that they master. Those in the proximity of academic institutions tended to construe lines of action characteristic of the academic culture, in order to talk to elite audiences, whereas those outside these institutions not only had different capacities at their disposal, but were also aiming to reach out to a partially different, non-​elite audience of ordinary people. Here, the classed dimensions of activism and the differing contexts of elite and non-​elite feminism became somewhat distinct, as their lines of action appeared partially very different from each other. Some practices mirrored the strategies of the power holders and indeed appeared similarly to reach out to mass audiences, whereas those engaging in veiled forms and criticizing the unnecessary drama of other actions seemed not only to be drawing on another tool kit, but also speaking to peers with similar cultural resources. Furthermore, we must remember that here we are discussing relatively resourceful individuals, whether they had media-​related or academic resources, or at best both. Thus, there were always those who remained unresourceful and therefore less visible, as they possessed neither of the two key resources. While there were many differences in activists’ lines of action and practices, the absurd and carnivalesque elements, which spoke from between the lines, 146

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were increasingly deployed by feminists with different cultural backgrounds. I suggest that the increasingly absurd and carnivalistic lines of action deployed by various feminist groups mirror the shared political context of confusing conservative legislation and authoritarianism. Indeed, these lines of action can be seen as activists returning closer to the Soviet style ‘stiob’. This was an everyday aesthetics of the late Soviet period (Yurchak, 2006) that subtly ridiculed the authoritative discourse, for example by imitating it and appropriating its messages but using them in a different context, thus giving them completely new meanings. Roudakova (2017) suggested that the 2011–​2013 protest wave was about political sincerity and abandoning the ‘unnecessary drama’ of politics, whereas here we see that as the authoritarian condition has become more profound, those resisting it have also turned to lines of action perhaps typical of an authoritarian context.

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Resources and Their Effect on Feminist Resistance The two key threads running through this book are resistance and resources. Throughout the book, I have interrogated various aspects of feminist resistance in order to draw a complete picture of its complex forms. I have illustrated the dual nature of feminist resistance, and how it became both extremely visible, and even spectacular, while at the same time hiding and taking disguised forms in order to produce shelter and safety for those who felt vulnerable. In doing so, I have built on the work of Johnson and Saarinen (2013), who have suggested that resistance is likely to hide in increasingly authoritarian Russia, by showing that the issue is more complex. Indeed, activism both hides and becomes extremely loud (and many things in between). Furthermore, by building on earlier studies of spatial dimensions of resistance and underground spaces of socializing in the Russian context (Yurchak, 2006; Gabowitsch, 2017), I have suggested that spatial aspects cannot be separated from analysis of resistance in an authoritarian context such as that of contemporary Russia. They are particularly fundamental to feminist activists, as the system produces them as foreign agents and does not take gendered violence and non-​normative gender and sexuality seriously, but rather overlooks them and engages in a ‘culture of violence’. I have also built on earlier work discussing individualized forms of activism in Russia (Rivkin-​Fish, 2005) by illustrating how the contemporary activists engage in both individual and collective practices of activism. Indeed, this way they are able to engage in their own unique politics, which targets simultaneously the self and the social, and combines political and therapeutic elements. Moreover, by uncovering the movement’s internal divisions and atomization, I have contributed to more recent scholarly work on possibilities for feminist solidarity in Russia and beyond (Senkova, 2018; Wiedlack, 2020). Furthermore, I have suggested that the new forms of feminism may speak of morphing forms of state power and strategy, as the relationship between the two appears to be dynamic. This is relevant to those looking for signs 148

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of how both power and resistance will manoeuvre in Russia in the future. However, some of the feminist lines of action identified also speak of the new forms of late Soviet-​style ‘stiob’ and the activists’ at least partial return to political absurdism following the suggested phase of political sincerity in the 2011–​2013 protests (Yurchak, 2006; Roudakova, 2017). This should, among other things, be read as a sign of their space for action shrinking as the authoritarian tendencies have increased. Many fresh insights into feminism and resistance are offered to global readers. The findings on how feminist resistance is shaped within the shrinking opportunity structure, and its spectacular and spatial forms, are highly relevant to scholars of feminism and resistance in other contexts, as conservative and authoritarian tendencies are on the rise around the world. I have also interrogated the workings of postfeminism and the neoliberal logic in the feminist narratives, thus developing an understanding of postfeminism’s complex contemporary manifestations in feminist activism and how these blend with the local cultural logic in an authoritarian post-​Soviet context (McRobbie, 2009; Gill, 2016). Indeed, although, in many ways, the activists avoid falling into the individualizing and depoliticizing postfeminist logic, their activism is not entirely free from postfeminist tendencies. The Russian cultural imperative of female sacrifice forms a fertile ground for the neoliberal individualizing logic. This imperative, as well as some activists’ tendency to problematize feminist irresponsibility activates an individualizing logic that runs counter to the unique feminist collective political work uncovered in this book. Moreover, it subtly ignores some activists’ individual wellbeing by prioritizing collective good. However, collective good and sustainable politics can only be achieved by embracing individual wellbeing, not dismissing it. This is especially important in a context in which the trauma of violence plays a significant role, having brought activists to feminism in the first place. Indeed, self-​care should be nourished as a tool for sustainable feminist politics on both individual and collective levels. Another key contribution is to highlight the fundamental role played by resources. Indeed, in many ways, the issue of resources appeared in this case to be inseparable from the issue of feminist activism itself. Although resources are always key for social movements, which tend to lack sufficient resources, they appear to be pivotal at all stages of activism in an authoritarian context with few resources, as in the case of feminists in Russia in the 2010s. I suggest that the movement’s intense internal struggles are partially connected to this. The lack of resources makes resources count in a way that, among other effects, exacerbates internal struggles between different feminist groups. This finding introduces a completely new angle on resources in social movement theorizations, and should be investigated in other contexts, as democracies worldwide have become less transparent and some are showing authoritarian tendencies. It is critical to address what happens to such movements that 149

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are epistemic in nature, making alternative knowledge available and helping those in the most vulnerable positions. In this book I have also uncovered the characteristics of a ‘resourceful feminist’. One way of answering the riddle of the ‘resourceful feminist’ is to look at the epistemic resources and differences in activists’ access to them. Indeed, activists positioned in proximity to academic institutions, who thus had access to academic knowledge resources, from this angle appear to have been the resourceful ones. Cultural resources allowed academically situated activists to construe a hierarchy within the movement, and to narrate themselves as timely and up-​to-​date as they operated with ‘complex’ forms of feminist knowledge. However, from another angle, those with media know-​how and the ability to create impressive media appearances within a short timeframe appeared to be equally resourceful. One crystallization of a resourceful feminist is someone who may have neither a lot of money nor access to latest feminist theory, but successfully accumulates other kinds of intangible resources to produce public visibility, and thus has power to define what feminism is about in public. Overall, my aim has been to show the ambivalent nature of what and who count as resourceful feminists, as the same individuals may appear both powerful and powerless, depending on the perspective adopted. The riddle of the ‘resourceful feminist’ might also be answered in another way. Based on how they narrated their feminist awakenings, all the activists appeared resourceful in comparison with their earlier ‘patriarchal’ selves. According to the activists’ narratives, feminism appears to have been a great therapeutic resource for the individuals, allowing them to help themselves, heal and transform. They had also found like-​minded individuals with whom to take collective action and engage in mutual support. However, the therapeutic aspects also appear to illuminate friction and struggles within the movement. Indeed, the fact that feminism is such an immense personal resource, while at the same time so very consuming and full of internal struggles, is a key ambivalence in the research material. It is as if two opposite logics are at play: the healing dimension that brings individuals to feminism and collective action, and the movement’s highly consuming internal and external struggles over resources, which complicate collective action and solidarity. This is also why feminist activism –​or at least its more visible and public manifestations –​tend to be short-​lived, as activists burn out and change quickly. Thus, these findings demand that more sustainable forms of activism be discovered, and suggest that the differently positioned activists might sometimes also strategically cooperate to increase each other’s resources, rather than expending their energies on internal struggles. In this book, I have analysed some of the hardships and barriers that prevent representatives of different schools of feminism in Russia from cooperating with each other. I have also shown how the activists sometimes 150

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lived in very different lifeworlds and drew from differing cultural tool kits, both factors which made cooperation and solidarizing harder. Indeed, based on my observations, it seemed easier for the activists to cooperate and solidarize with feminists of the same school in other countries than with feminists of different schools from their own city or country. While not belittling the reasons for the barriers against solidarizing with feminists from Russia, I suggest that strategic alliances and solidarities –​both national and international –​between different schools of feminism may be worthwhile considering and at some point necessary. Among other things, cooperation is needed in order to form an enduring counterpower to the rising conservative forces around the world. Indeed, supporting an increasingly conservative style of rule in various countries, nationalist, far right and populist groups with highly misogynist and homophobic views have grown stronger. They have also successfully accumulated further power by developing transnational networks and solidarities. For this reason, establishing feminist solidarity across differences is, in my view, pivotal in Russia and globally, in order to strengthen the feminist networks. Of course, solidarizing across difference is rarely easy, as it demands ‘working together’ from equal positions in which no party feels superior or has less responsibility (Wiedlack, 2020). Furthermore, attempts to solidarize across difference often result in failure, which should nevertheless be followed by new attempts, and ‘failing better’ (Wiedlack, 2020: 23). I further suggest that it is pivotal to listen to and aim to understand others and how their social positions affect their feminist engagements. This book has articulated some of the positions and related perspectives taken by different activists. Whether or not the activists choose to cooperate, I suggest it may be useful for them to acknowledge their different positionalities and the issues creating friction between them, one of them being social class and varied levels of access to different forms of knowledge, but also public visibility. It is also relevant to acknowledge the role played by violence-​based trauma, as discussed in Chapter 3. How trauma brought individuals to activism, but was at the same time suggested to be a trigger for some of the internal struggles within the movement, should not be overlooked. Violence-​related trauma exists and plays a role within the movement, so acknowledging its many manifestations may help activists to work across differences, or at least better understand each other and their different positionalities. The fact that feminism often took place on the internet also contributed to the atomization of feminist groups. It was thus another key ambivalence in the research material. While internet-​based feminism allowed those in distant cities to learn about and engage with it, it also distanced the feminist groups from each other, and contributed to hierarchies between feminists. It was a pivotal source of information in a context that did not allow access to local history and knowledge of feminism, as it enabled the feminists to 151

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access transnational feminist sites and knowledge, and build transnational networks. Yet many of the activists interviewed felt that they were over-​ reliant on international feminist knowledge, and often knew much less about the local feminist tradition. While the activists interviewed narrated and delineated the local and particular feminist tradition, highlighting how it is distinct from that in Western countries, they simultaneously lamented their dependence on ‘imported feminism’. Here, we arrive at a crucial resource for the activists, that of local feminism. Recently, the Western hegemony of feminism has been increasingly problematized from the Eastern perspective (Solovey, 2020; Wiedlack et al, 2020). Indeed, the activists interviewed for this study also expressed their dreams of creating something more local and context-​specific. I have suggested that these elements of a more local theory can be found by examining the everyday experiences and knowledge embodied by the differently positioned activist groups, and by drawing on the idea of ‘personal as theoretical’ (Ahmed, 2017). This book and the material on which it draws highlight that although international events and global influence must not be overlooked, analysis of feminist resistance cannot be detached from its local context and history. For example, some radical forms of contemporary feminism in Russia can only be uncovered as part of the locally specific spatio-​temporal context that, as I have suggested, invites them in. By highlighting the local specifics of feminism in Russia, I have also aimed to illustrate how the Russian case offers a unique alternative to the path taken by feminism in Western countries, as many things have happened and continue to take place in a different order and are motivated by local factors. Finally, as this book has hopefully crystallized, it is crucial to study not only the visible and spectacular forms of feminism enabled by new media, but also hidden forms of feminism that do not attract attention, as many activists wish to remain invisible for pivotal reasons, yet still contribute to the feminist revolution.

Gazing through feminist lenses: what next? Feminist activism and the politics in which it engaged in Russia during a somewhat radical phase in the mid-​2010s have been uncovered in this book. The period examined is one of intense dynamism, during which both the activists’ tactics and powerholders’ strategies have changed. In addition to analysing these changes, I have illustrated some of the movement internal tensions. However, what movements do best is move. As I write these conclusions, the feminist movement has already moved on. New generations and activists have emerged, who will probably challenge some of the divisions and feminist struggles highlighted in this book. They will dismantle the ideological walls built by the activists interviewed here 152

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and will possibly construe others. They will build up new alliances, and spill over into newly emerging social movements. Indeed, even during my fieldwork, I encountered younger activists entering feminism with different thoughts and wishes. When an audience member asked one of the more recent feminist activists, during her public talk at a feminist festival, what she thought of the sex work/​prostitution question, her response was telling: rather than taking sides, she highlighted that the issue itself was complex and not easily solvable. I do not remember many having said this during my fieldwork, as it had appeared to be necessary to take sides in this particular feminist struggle at that point. Moreover, alongside the rise of new feminist discourses and struggles, one trend, I suggest, will be a lighter and more popular version of feminism that defies its radical and emotionally charged nature. As observations following my fieldwork highlight, new movements oriented in a feminist way, such as the body positivity movement, are gaining attention in social media spaces across Russia. However, it must not be forgotten that one reason for the rise of humour and more popular forms of feminism may be the shrinking space for independent political agency in Russia. Under such circumstances, lighter forms of activism offer a hiding place for resistance. The political struggles that have emerged since the material production for this book have brought feminists both setbacks and triumphs. First, feminism has become more visible in Russian media due to feminist activism and campaigns such as ‘I am not afraid to tell’. Indeed, it appears that feminism has consolidated its position as a focal topic and theme, especially in urban new media outlets. These tend to write about feminist issues on a regular basis, although they do not always label their articles explicitly as feminist. Also, governmental media now regularly address feminism, although from a more populist angle. Furthermore, since the material production for this book, feminism’s spatial shortage and lack of privacy has eased, at least in St Petersburg. Feminist café Simona was established in 2019 and is now one of few spaces for feminists, with specific opening hours reserved only for those identifying as women. Shortly after opening, the café had already appeared in the news, as it was attacked by conservative activists. Such attacks reveal how necessary a private feminist space is, but also how the privacy of such spaces is fragile. Also, new laws have been introduced, which have limited both independent activism and women’s rights. One of the biggest political setbacks for feminists was the decriminalization of simple battery (poboi) in 2017, introduced during the material production for this book. The law was drafted by Elena Mizulina, a member of parliament, who declared that this legislative change was acceptable in order to ‘strengthen the family’ (see, for example, Walker, 2017). This legal change taps into the increasing necessity and call for the feminist politics of sheltering in bringing relief and 153

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producing safety for those who are not protected and whose problems are not publicly recognized based on their gender and sexuality. In this book I have argued that with the help of individual activists’ media know-​how, the feminist movement was at times able to appear larger than it was, as it was not yet able to mobilize masses on the streets. However, the situation has partially shifted since. In 2019, some of the biggest feminist demonstrations were organized in support of the Khachaturian sisters, who killed their father in self-​defence, after years of domestic violence and abuse, and stood accused of murder. The protesters demanded changes in the legislation regarding domestic violence and legal measures to protect those who are forced to use violence for self-​defence. Solidarity demonstrations were organized in other European countries as well, and the case once again returned Russian feminism to the international media, at least for a moment. Furthermore, based on the public discussion around the issue of gendered and domestic violence, a new bill on gendered violence was drafted by a group of feminist legal experts. Many say, however, that it is unlikely that the bill will pass, even if drafting it has ensured that the theme has been kept on the public agenda, at least for those who follow independent online media outlets. The government’s tightening grip on independent activism and the internet also became evident as I was writing these conclusions. As I have shown, the feminist movement has been able to form due to internet spaces, and often takes place online. Pressure to go digital may only grow as political repression increases. However, in 2019, the Russian government introduced a new law on the ‘sovereign internet’, which has tightened state control of the internet. In the extreme, it also enables the state to detach the Russian internet from the rest of the world, and thus entails serious repressive potential. Another example of increasing control over independent activism has been the broadening of the foreign agent law from NGOs to individuals. This status in many ways paralyses public grassroots action, especially when resources are lacking to begin with. Among the very first people to receive this status was a well-​known feminist artist, Darya Apakhonchich, who left Russia shortly thereafter. In 2021 numerous demonstrations against the government were being organized to show support for opposition figure and anti-​corruption activist, Aleksei Naval’nyi, who was arrested on his return to Russia so that he could not participate in the 2021 elections. Even though many of the feminists would not agree with Naval’nyi’s political views, they joined the demonstrations in order to express their support for Naval’nyi as a political prisoner.1 During the wave of solidarity demonstrations in early 2021, many protesters, including the feminists, were arrested and their homes searched by the police. In February 2022, the feminists were some of the

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most vociferous activists in Russia to rapidly respond to Putin’s fully-​fledged attack on Ukraine with their protest. In the early 2020s, Russia shows no sign of becoming less authoritarian any time soon.2 This has already impacted severely on the feminist movement. On the other hand, as we have seen, feminists are talented in going underground and ‘talking in code’. They find channels to communicate and exchange ideas and knowledge, and ‘keep warm during freezing political times’ by creating alternative spaces and shelter. There is a lot of creativity and perseverance among the activists, as this book has sought to demonstrate.

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Appendix: Methodology Production of the research material The research material for this book was produced ethnographically. The main materials on which I draw are semi-​structured thematic interviews, observations of various feminist events and gatherings, internet and social media materials, and reflection on the research process documented in the field diary. The main research material, and most of the 42 interviews with self-​identified feminists and activists functioning on the fringes of the movement, were collected during my stay of over three months in Russia during autumn 2015. Together with the preparatory visits during the previous spring and the follow-​up visits in 2016–​2018, the fieldwork amounted to a total of four months. I conducted two preparatory field trips to Moscow and St Petersburg in May and June of 2015 in order to meet some of the first feminists interviewed. Although my preparatory trips armed me with an optimism that quite a lot was happening on the feminist front in Russia, I was still not sure how I would be received by the activists. Thus, when the fieldwork began, I was pleased to not only find out that many feminist events and festivals were organized, but also that most of the people I approached were willing to meet me. Looking back, I think the positive response I received can be explained by the good timing of the material production. Feminism was rising in the cities studied, and activists were thus looking for people with whom to talk to and cooperate. My presence sparked curiosity among many. The meetings with feminists often took me to certain key locales: particular organizations, cafés and parks. For example, I noted how the activists in Moscow often suggested a certain canteen for our meeting as it was relatively cheap and always had tables available, around which one could sit and exchange ideas for hours without anyone interrupting. Also, a few important allies (universities, crisis centres, and some commercial organizations) supplied activists with spatial resources, sometimes free of charge. Those venues would be places I would visit time and again in order to participate in feminist activities.

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Although feminist activism was most certainly about active individuals, I soon developed a sense of feminist collective, since everywhere I went, I was likely to end up meeting some of the same people I had already met several times before. The field notes reveal that, relatively soon, I came to embody knowledge of divisions in the field and groups that did not operate with each other. Although the internal feminist struggles were often highlighted during the interviews, I was also constantly reminded of the simultaneous external struggles the feminists were engaged in. For example, when meeting Russian people who had nothing to do with the movement, some would enquire as to the purpose of my stay in Russia. When I told them about my research, they would start to reflect on the theme of feminism, voicing jokingly sentences like ‘beats means he loves’ (b’et, znachit, liubit) –​a Russian saying that taps into the mundane nature of gendered violence, revealing how feminism was still considered controversial and represented something extreme for those not engaged with it. Aside from my excitement due to all the inventive feminist action I witnessed, the field notes also reveal my frequent exhaustion, perhaps speaking to the consuming nature of feminist activism in Russia and how it is flavoured with both deep personal engagement and fierce struggles. Thus, my respect goes to all the activists who tirelessly act and make an effort in these highly consuming settings, and who had the time to meet and share their views with me.

Research interviews The first interviewees were chosen because I had received their contact details from mutual acquaintances, who were connected to Russian feminist activists or gender researchers. However, I used these contacts in order to settle only the very first meetings, as I soon acquired new names from the feminists I met, and also started to contact activists through the internet. In order to map feminism in Moscow and St Petersburg, I visited feminist social media pages regularly, and was soon able to identify a group of activists whom I considered key in the movement at that moment, based on their active participation and visibility. However, in addition to interviewing activists who were very visible at the time of the fieldwork, I interviewed individuals who were less visible or had only recently become feminists, as I was also curious to learn different and less vocal feminist views. In choosing the final group of interviewees, my aim was also to include activists from different schools of feminism in order to get as diverse a picture of feminism as possible. Four-​fifths of the individuals I approached granted me an interview, either because we had mutual acquaintances or because they were happy to discuss feminism with a feminist colleague. However, some activists never 157

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answered my messages, and others responded only to enquire what was in it for them. On these occasions, I told the enquirer that I could not promise any reward or outcome, but that I thought that the theme was important and was curious to know more. Most interviews were conducted in public cafés, offices and parks. Some activists invited me to their homes which, while conducting the interviews, allowed me a glance into their private lives. The interviewee was always able to decide both the venue and the language of the interview. Most interviews were conducted in Russian, although some were carried out in English. They lasted between one and a half and three hours. The thematic interviews were built loosely around various themes concerning the informants’ paths to feminism, as well as questions dealing with their activism, its goals, action, politics and the movement, and the overall social situation and attitudes towards feminist issues in the society. However, the question outline changed during the process, as I gradually started to pay more attention to specific themes. This is typical of ethnography. The researcher’s perception of the field and its relations evolves, so the difference between the first and last interviews is often significant (Tolonen and Palmu, 2007: 92). Most interviews were conducted with one activist at a time, with two exceptions when I interviewed feminist colleagues together because their activism was based on close collaboration. A couple of interviews were conducted via Skype, in cases where the activists had moved away from the country or when I was out of the country myself. Following my fieldwork, the interviews were transcribed. All the feminists interviewed were given pseudonyms.

Observation off-​and online Participation in feminist events, gatherings and unofficial hangouts played a pivotal role in construing an overall perception of the feminist movement in the two cities studied. Indeed, as Huttunen (2010: 43) suggests, different materials, in this case the observations and interviews, allow the phenomenon to be observed from different angles, exposing its nuances and shades, and adding to an understanding of the complex whole. Observation also often helps to reveal, better than interviews, the actual norms and behaviour connected with a certain phenomenon (Grönfors, 2010: 157). Indeed, it is often beneficial for an ethnographer to ‘stumble’ into the norms of the community studied, in order to figure out what those norms are in the first place. The observations I made during the fieldwork and wrote about in my field diary also enabled me to locate holes and silences in the research material, referring to things that appeared crucial even if they were not discussed in the interviews. 158

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I took part in all the major feminist events in St Petersburg and Moscow during autumn 2015 and continued to take part in key events in St Petersburg in 2016–​2018. Sometimes the field came to me: activist events were organized in Helsinki in 2016–​2018, which brought Russian feminists to my hometown to discuss their recent work with local activists. I felt that returning to the field while already writing and analysing the material was fruitful, especially as I was doing research on a movement that seemed to be continuously evolving, although some issues and struggles remained unchanged despite the passage of time. Following the intensive fieldwork conducted in 2015, online observations and virtual ethnography became the focus of my work. This seemed natural, as the majority of feminist actions were documented on feminist and social media sites. Indeed, the analysis also draws on feminist actions that I was only able to observe online, since some had taken place before my actual fieldwork, or after it had finished. Thus, I accessed some of the materials analysed in this study only through internet documentation. Using materials published on social media raises issues to be aware of, as videos and photography are ‘produced’ rather than ‘reality’ as such, and should thus be viewed as products in which some issues are highlighted while others are intentionally left out. With this in mind, I nevertheless consider that use of social media materials immensely enriched the overall research material.

Analysing the material The material for this book has been analysed by thematic close reading. Thematic analysis refers to looking for the typical and common in the research material. It thus often entails both the themes originally chosen for the interview, and new themes arising from them (Hirsjärvi and Hurme, 2000: 173). However, looking at exceptions in the material is often as fruitful as examining the typical when the two are conducted in dialogue (Hirsjärvi and Hurme, 2000). Furthermore, my mind started to organize the material during the fieldwork in the form of key thematic threads. For example, the themes of resources and space both came to me during unofficial mingling and haunted my mind afterwards, as if insisting on being investigated further. Random phrases used by individual festival guests or feminists also sparked my curiosity and further functioned as analytical leads. For example, a woman at a feminist festival referred to feminism as ‘a shelter’, a term I decided to examine further. This called for both metaphorical and spatial analysis, with which I was already thinking of engaging. This is just one example, although a very vivid one, as it was based on a transitory moment of worry aired by the woman in front of a festival crowd. Many of the themes were inspired by ethnographic observation in dialogue with theoretical insights. 159

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They appeared either because they were repeated, or because they seemed to capture something I had not yet been able to verbalize. However, having been grasped, they started to further open up and speak to the material from a new angle (Huttunen, 2010: 59). In order to analyse the activists’ processes of meaning making, in some chapters I engage in narrative analysis, as it offers useful tools especially when tracing how activists explain themselves and the social world around them. Narratives can be analysed as a way to construe a coherent sense of the self. In narrating ourselves, we also actively engage in narrative world-​ making and navigate different contemporary narrative cultures (Meretoja, 2014: 216). Thus, the act of narration can be seen as a way to assemble various memories, experiences, interpretations and episodes in order to ‘make the self up’ and creatively produce it with the help of various raw materials (Lawler, 2008: 11). However, culture and context also limit the narratives and identities on offer, so the self is always narratively assembled from the cultural ingredients available (Swidler, 1986; Somers, 1994). Furthermore, even when focusing on narrating the self, narratives are profoundly relational, as they position the self as part of a social world and relations (Somers, 1994; Lawler, 2008: 19). Indeed, the self is construed in dialogic relationship with ‘significant others’ (Meretoja, 2014: 19). As a movement is something that constantly moves (Eyerman and Jamison, 1991), it was also important to reflect on analytical approaches that allow constant flux. It is highly challenging and yet necessary to analyse a movement without freezing it and its agents. I chose some of my analytical lenses with this constant movement in mind; for example, the spatial and relational analytical approach enabled me to highlight (or at least not to forget) the constant flux. Space as an analytic concept, I suggest, is something that not only allows acknowledgement of constant movement, but also allows analytical attention to be paid to relations between individuals and groups in and across space. Furthermore, the spatial approach enables analysis of the unspoken, that is, practices which are traced through observation. Spatial analysis may also help reveal silences in the interview material (Skeggs, 2001; Davis, 2014), and with this in mind, I sought to interrogate space in tandem with an awareness of issues that might have not been mentioned verbally. One example of these kinds of tacit aspects is the therapeutic role afforded to feminism through action rather than direct articulation. In the research material, feminism was often articulated through spatial metaphors. As Lakoff and Johnson (2003: 160) point out, metaphors are ‘vehicles for understanding, and play a key role in the construction of social and political reality’. They are thus not simply matters of language, but in fact, take part in constituting the world. Indeed, the power of metaphors lies in how they help us create social realities, and they may serve as ‘guides for future action’ and even become ‘self-​fulfilling prophecies’ (Lakoff and Johnson, 160

Appendix

2003: 157). Following the lead of key metaphors used by interviewees may produce new interpretations of the world, as metaphors function as lenses that reveal some aspects of the social world, while possibly hiding others (Lakoff and Johnson, 2003: 157). Indeed, metaphors of feminism, such as understanding feminism as a lens or as a shelter should not only be analysed in relation to the power they resist, but also in relation to each other. Whereas some metaphors may suggest mutual coherence, others may conflict with each other. While a metaphor may be true for some, it may not be true for others, and while many metaphors seem to suggest similar kinds of interpretations of the world, some clash and are the opposite to each other, as social issues and interpretations are continuously negotiated (Lakoff and Johnson, 2003). Thus, while I consider, for example, the shelter metaphor attached to feminism as pivotal for understanding some practices of feminism, I do not claim that all feminists agree with this metaphor. Furthermore, the analysis of this study was thoroughly informed by feminist epistemology. This means, among other things, that my analytical aim was to engage with feminist critique of how we often make sense of the world by construing binaries. I thus sought to engage in dismantling binaries and dichotomies, and to include their co-​existence and ambivalence in the analysis, even when the binaries were presented as solid in the interviews. As is so often the case, dichotomies are ultimately blurry in everyday life. Finally, as the analysis was informed by an intersectional approach, attention was paid to simultaneous and overlapping social categories that situated individuals in different and hierarchical ways in social space, targeting analytical curiosity at the intersections of gender, sexuality, class, disability, ethnicity and race. However, since disability, ethnicity and race, apart from the prevailing Whiteness, are largely absent from (or at least not mentioned and thus silent in) the material, I suggest that their absence plays a pivotal role in the social formation of feminist space.

Ethical questions In order to guarantee the ethical sustainability of this research, I consulted a research ethics specialist about my research plan. Consent to participate in this study was collected from the activists by explaining to them prior to the interview that the material would be used confidentially, and that they had the right not to answer any question they did not feel comfortable answering. When initially contacting the feminists, I had already described the process and aims of the research to them. I never collected names, addresses or other information that might help trace the activists’ identities. Interestingly, though, approximately half of my informants stated that their interviews need not be anonymized since they were keen for publicity rather than anonymity in their activism. Nevertheless, I decided to use pseudonyms. 161

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This was because the situation of activists, and especially activists of non-​ normative gender and sexuality, may be considered particularly vulnerable in contemporary Russia. In order to protect my interviewees, I have tried to remove all points where an individual activist might be recognized, leaving out key identifiers, and in some cases splitting single activists in the analysis into two so as not to link information about them (hometown, age, form of activism) with other important information which, in combination, might reveal the person’s identity. Nevertheless, I am convinced that even if I were able to make the activists completely anonymous to individuals outside the movement, some activists would still be able (or would at least feel sure that they were able) to recognize some of their fellow feminists, as this is to some degree unavoidable. However, the decision to split activists between various different pseudonyms is, in my view, the best way to protect their identity, while remaining aware that protecting their anonymity from each other may be impossible, especially when talking about specific actions that I have chosen to discuss. The ethical questions on which I had to reflect most in this study often centred around issues of the activists’ differing forms of vulnerability. Many can be defined as vulnerable subjects in the contemporary political context, both because of their activism and also because of their non-​normative identifications and current laws relating to issues of non-​normative sexuality. My research questions dealt with the feminist movement and broader Russian society. They also enquired about how my interviewees had become feminists, which sometimes took the research to a very personal level. However, with these vulnerabilities in mind, my most important principle was to portray the feminists as they were, as active agents who were acting in potentially highly challenging conditions, many of them aiming to maximize publicity for their cause. This is how I have chosen to respect those who took risks because of their activism, some of whom were even imprisoned during my work, because the conditions were at times repressive for certain individuals positioned in particular ways. Finally, conducting virtual ethnography raises further ethical questions. According to Turtiainen and Östman (2013), the peculiarity of doing online ethnography is that in theory many online materials are easy to find, while in reality there are many ethical questions connected with the use of such materials. For example, understandings of public and private vary, as does how the publisher of any internet content might comprehend it. Furthermore, the publishing context and the reason for its existence must be taken into consideration, as these play a key role in evaluating the ethical use of internet materials. Being critical of sources and reflecting on their openness is therefore important in order to recognize where use of particular materials might be problematic. Materials that are freely available are, in principle, available for research use like any other published material. 162

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However, if an internet forum requires registration, the publicity is already quite relative (Turtiainen and Östman, 2013: 51–​56). In order to guarantee the ethical use of online materials, I only drew on materials that have been published and are thus accessible to all, without requiring registration or permission to enter an online space, and have been targeted at audiences and public dissemination.

Reflections on the research process As Pietilä has noted (2010), researchers should keep in mind that foreign visitors are not always met with similar honesty to those from one’s own country. Talking to a foreign researcher may put interviewees under pressure to represent their country favourably, and thus sugar-​coat their answers, or conversely slander the issues observed (Pietilä, 2010: 415–​416). At the same time, it has been pointed out that the ‘culture’ studied need not be connected with nationality alone (Rastas, 2005). The issue of nationality is interesting in the context of this book. My aim as a feminist researcher was to bring down walls rather than build them up. When entering the field, I believed that feminism could be as uniting an experience as having been born in a certain country or local context. In retrospect, my project of bringing down borders was both successful and unsuccessful. While many of the activists welcomed me, a feminist from Finland, like a colleague, a few feminists, especially some of those whom I met only briefly during feminist events, adopted a more suspicious attitude towards me. For example, a couple of the activists I met analysed the power relations between us, airing the idea that our different nationalities made us unequal and gave me power as someone coming from the ‘West’. This concept does not have entirely positive connotations in recent history in Russia, since some foreign organizations came to Russia in the 1990s with an attitude of ‘teaching locals how to achieve democracy’ in order to ‘instil’ the democratic system in Russia, a project that has for good reason been criticized heavily in retrospect (see, for example, Henderson, 2003; Hemment, 2007). Indeed, this may explain why I was sometimes regarded as powerful simply based on ‘coming from the West’, although at the same time, for some, I may have appeared less powerful, as I came from a smaller neighbouring country and repeatedly stumbled over my Russian. Furthermore, I suggest that the suspicion voiced by some individuals about me accumulating my own resources is instructive in terms of the analysis, as it reveals the central role of resources in the field of feminism and the overall repressive and challenging conditions in which activism is conducted. In navigating these questions, I came to agree with Nagar (2014: 12), who has suggested that we must complicate the frequently invoked division between ‘inside’ and ‘outside’. Indeed, these kinds of divisions based on 163

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who is ‘local’ or an ‘insider’ may be dangerous. This was also a driver in the context of this study. As the analysis in this book suggests, the different feminist groups partially drew from different cultures, and thus regularly also produced other differently positioned local feminists as ‘outsiders’. My aim as a researcher was to always form non-​hierarchical and reciprocal relations with the activists, meaning that while they gave me their time and shared their thoughts, I offered my help if there was something with which I could help them or volunteer to do. Mostly this meant sharing ideas of feminism, and how action around it was proceeding in Finland. Furthermore, I took part in voluntary work, sharing knowledge with the activists or cooperated with them in various ways, took part in organizing events and sometimes helped them to apply for foreign grants in order to make their work more enduring. However, taking the role of researcher while participating in feminist actions sometimes demanded a balancing act. A key decision I made was not to take sides between the different groups, but rather stay neutral in relation to the feminists’ internal struggles. In the course of the research, and as the field ultimately opened up to me as fragmented and at times conflictual, I realized that my position in relation to feminism and the movement enabled me to take a broader look than would have been possible for someone situated in a very specific realm of the movement. My position thus enabled me to move between different feminist spaces and build an understanding of the movement as a whole. I was interested in understanding the different groups and the activism in which they engaged. It was not my place to make moral judgements, but rather to understand the rationales of the variously situated activists themselves. The question of navigating the terrain of feminism with unequally distributed resources puzzled me throughout the research process. Whose stories did I want to tell? Ultimately, I chose to bring to the fore individuals who often functioned at the fringes of the movement, as in my view they played a pivotal role with regard to the future of the movement as activists who aimed to go against the grain and break the fragmented nature of the movement. Another key choice was to focus not only on the loudest of activists, but also on those who were less visible and vocal.

164

Notes Chapter 1 1

The text on the banner was written in Russian.

Chapter 2 1

While women were in many ways the key group that suffered from the changes brought about by glasnost, the ‘man question’, and particularly men’s ‘demasculinization’, were also observed and debated in public. Conservative discourses suggested that Soviet ‘equality politics’ had in fact weakened Soviet men and caused their marginalization by supporting the development of ‘over emancipated superwomen’ (Posadskaya, 1994; Rotkirch, 2000). In this discursive configuration, Russian men were accused of becoming weak, degenerate and passive as a result of Soviet gender politics (see, for example, Temkina and Zdravomyslova, 2013).

Chapter 3 1

Another novelty was how the activists discussed a particular form of sexual violence, which they termed ‘corrective violence’ as its aim was to ‘correct’ the sexuality of non-​ heterosexual non-​males, or in other words turn them into heterosexuals. Many suggested that this particular form of violence was gaining popularity, and was a new manifestation of the ‘culture of violence’ that left victims alone with their painful experiences. The suggestion that this form of violence was gaining popularity was thus implicitly connected with the state’s encouragement of homophobia through the ‘homo propaganda’ law that indirectly legitimizes such behaviour.

Chapter 4 1

2

As Laurie Essig has pointed out in the context of post-​Soviet Russia, ‘coming out of the closet is coming out of the underground’ (1999: 96). This dynamic was echoed, for example, when Vera, identifying as bisexual, discussed “coming out of the closet of feminism”, referring to being open about one’s feminism as some kind of compensation for not being able to come out of the closet as a bisexual in some contexts, for example in her workplace. There were similar echoes in Vania’s narrative, who identified both as a feminist and gay. He stated that he felt it was too dangerous to take part in public LGBT activism under the current legislation, and suggested that this was one reason why he engaged in public feminist activism instead, feminism thus offering a way to remain in one closet (not coming out as gay in public and politically), while coming out as a feminist. Safe space is also a common feminist and activist term relating to the negotiation of rules for a space or a feminist meeting to make it as comfortable as possible for the participants (Roestone Collective, 2014). Rather than discussing feminism as safe space, I choose to 165

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3

discuss it as a shelter for contextual reasons, in terms of how the feminist ‘shelter’ was produced based on the ‘culture of violence’, non-​normative identifications and sheltering from the conservative values and context in general. According to Nira Yuval-​Davis (2011), belonging tends to be naturalized and invisible as long as it is not threatened, but becomes politicized when it is. This was the case for many of the feminists interviewed for this study, as their national belonging was questioned in conservative and nationalist discourses owing to both their non-​normative gender and sexuality (Persson, 2014). Indeed, they became marked as foreign in such projects of belonging, as the values they supported and promoted –​those that would guarantee them equality and safety –​were marked as Western imports and opposite to what constituted Russianness, according to its conservative political framing.

Chapter 5 1

2

This did not mean that all the participants uncritically incorporated this kind of thinking. Following the rehearsals, as we went to eat falafels at a nearby corner cafe, some participants engaged in a lengthy debate over whose cause feminism ultimately advocated –​that of overall equality or that of women (Field notes, 17 September 2015) Although many had become engaged in feminism only recently, the amateur actors had various views on the issue. These non-​academic considerations, I suggest, also reflect the fact that there was a shortage of local feminist knowledge, among other things, due to the dismantling of gender studies centres and the repression of alternative political discourses in public space. They also reflect the overall shortage of resources such as money and support for the movement.

Chapter 6 1

The ‘scandal’ in which Rapoport was involved took place in 2015, when the independent online news outlet Meduza consulted Rapoport on an article about how men should treat women. However, the published article was very different from what Rapoport had been led to believe. Rapoport published her own statement on the issue, criticizing the sexist and disrespectful language in the article, and drawing attention to how, among other things, it called women telochki, a slang word that combines chicks with cows. Meduza later publicly apologised for the article.

Chapter 7 1

2

Naval’nyi was poisoned in August 2020. Owing to his severe condition, he was evacuated to Germany for medical care, where his condition gradually improved. Naval’nyi returned to Russia in January 2021 in order to participate in the upcoming elections, but was arrested on his arrival at the airport for allegedly violating the terms of his probation. The Kremlin has denied involvement in Naval’nyi’s poisoning, and Russian prosecutors have refused to open an official investigation into the poisoning. They claim to have found no sign of a crime having been committed. Vladimir Putin’s position was strengthened by pushing through changes to the Russian constitution, which secured him further terms as president. As Greene and Robertson (2019) point out, at the end of the day his position is as strong as the will of ordinary Russians to settle for it and remain in the quiet majority, supporting or at least not openly opposing and resisting him.

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182

Index A abortion  3, 37–​8, 57, 139 absurdity  139–​41, 146–​7, 149 academia  33, 110–​15, 121–​2, 124, 146, 150 accessibility issues  85–​6 actionism  58, 131 activism  anti-​authoritarian activism  28 arrests/detentions/imprisonments  27, 31, 57–​8, 60, 66, 129, 154, 162 art activism  28, 29, 74, 84–​5, 125, 131 burnout  150 civic activism in Russia, history of  23–​9 combining with parenthood  58–​9 discursive opportunities for  17, 126–​7 documentary plays/​theatre  52–​3, 102–​6, 109, 136–​7 do-​it-​yourself (DIY) activism (delai sam)  29 feminist awakening narratives  42, 63–​7 goals of  12 local activism  28–​9, 81 mediatized manifestations of feminism  123–​47 mobility  18, 116 new manifestations of  1–​2 reactive  132–​3 relational space  72 research participants’ backgrounds  11–​12 resource issues  99–​122 safe spaces  91–​5 spatio-​temporal conceptualizations  19 on the streets  82–​90 see also protest; resistance Adamson, M.  46, 48 agency  13, 16, 59–​60, 62, 65–​6, 113–​14, 119, 121 Agnew, J.  112 Ahmed, S.  120, 152 Aivazova, S.  29 Alexander, J.  136 All-​Russian Women’s Congress  30 alternative self-​making  16, 42, 45, 60, 68 anarchism  13, 56, 60 anarcho-​queer feminism  12, 14 anonymity  76 see also invisibility

anti-​feminist sentiments  2, 42 Apakhonchich, D.  154 appearance  45–​6, 109, 127–​8 appearances, politics of  5, 127, 139–​45 Arab Spring  125 Arendt, H.  87, 127 arrests/detentions/imprisonments  27, 31, 57–​8, 60, 66, 129, 154, 162 art of femininity  46 art of the weak  140 Article 31  26 arts  accessibility issues  85–​6 art activism  28, 29, 74, 84–​5, 125, 131 camouflaged resistance  15 counter-​cultural projects  13 as dialogue  84–​5 embodied knowledge  108 festivals  79 as ‘new streets’  82–​6 politicization  125 queer art projects  107–​8 as tool for resistance  125 Ashwin, S.  30, 32 asylum seekers  77 atomization of the political sphere  96–​7, 98 atomized self  48, 67, 68 Aune, K.  2, 125 austerity  2 authoritarianism  absurdity  139 counterpublics  71, 73 digital media  71 early 2000s  49 in families  44 hidden resistance  15, 148 postfeminism  42 resistance  7, 15, 27, 139, 147, 148 in Russia  2, 3, 149, 155 underground movements  73–​4 B Baaz, M.  15, 62, 71, 144–​5, 146 Baer, H.  126, 134 Bayat, A.  82

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beauty norms  46 Bernstein, A.  7, 39, 57, 59, 128 Bhabha, Homi K.  145 bias, researcher  9, 163–​4 birth rate  3, 30, 36, 37, 39 Bode, N.  13, 17, 28, 71, 144 body positivity movement  153 Bolshevik Revolution  30, 131 Borozdina, E.  36, 39 bourgeois lifestyles  30, 32 Brooks Platt, J.  131 Brygalina, J.  25, 26, 32, 35 Buckley, M.  24, 31, 66, 124 Butler, J.  16, 47, 87, 88, 90, 127, 136 C Caiazza, A.  7, 33, 35, 57, 59 carnivalesque, a line of action  127, 139–​41, 146–​7 cathedrals as sites of activism  1, 87, 88, 127, 131, 143 chains of action  21 Chechnya  35, 54, 112 Children 404 (Deti 404)  77 church-​state relationships  3, 67, 88 civic activism in Russia, history of  23–​9 civic infrastructure  23, 25 Clément, K.  28, 81 Cloud, D.  53, 105 cognitive praxis  20, 99–​122, 107 Cohn, C.  6 collective healing  52 collective knowledge production  102, 104 collective trauma  51, 67 commercial spaces  70, 78 Committee for State Security (KGB)  31 Committee of Soldiers’ Mothers (CSM)  35, 54, 59 Committee of Soviet Women  30 communist citizens  67 Communist Party  30 confrontations  16, 81–​2, 88–​9, 118, 127–​8, 129, 132, 135 Connell, R.  38, 140 conservativism  feminism  55–​60, 61 neoconservativist turn  36–​7, 40 patriarchal self  49 resistance  7 rising across the world  151 in Russia  3, 139 Russian Orthodox Church  3 shelter metaphor  90, 94 see also neoconservativism constant movement  76, 77–​8, 160 copycat movements  28 counter-​conduct  16 counter-​cultural projects  13, 24, 28, 46, 131

counter-​history  63 counterpublics  71, 73 counter-​spaces  81, 98 covert activism/​resistance  15, 24, 72–​82, 127, 132–​5, 146, 148 see also invisibility cracks in everyday life  43–​4 crisis centre movement  36, 51, 92, 104 cult of war  55 culture  counter-​cultural projects  13, 24, 28, 46, 131 cultural appropriation  85, 110 dissident movements  24 gender  6 hidden feminism in popular culture  133 popular culture  133 therapeutic culture  2, 42, 52, 53–​4, 60, 68, 150, 160 as a tool kit  4, 20, 21, 120, 122, 124 culture of suffering  135 culture of violence  5, 41, 50–​5, 85, 88, 148 Curtis, A.  139 Cvetkovich, A.  51, 53 D Daphi, P.  18, 71 Davis, K.  160 Day of the Defender of the Fatherland  1, 55, 87 De Certeau, M.  15, 19, 71, 78, 79, 140 De Lauretis, T.  96 Dean, J.  2, 125 Decembrists  141 decriminalization of simple battery (poboi)  40, 41, 153 Della Porta, D.  16, 17, 126 democracy  27, 34 demographic crisis  3, 30, 36, 37, 39 de-​Westernization of feminism  37, 43 see also Western bias, challenging Diani, M.  16, 17, 126 digital media  blending the digital and the real  138, 143, 159 digital activism  1–​2, 17, 126 as means to bypass government media  128 networking via  18, 76–​7 as space of feminist activism  71 street metaphor  90 see also internet; online social networks; social media disability  86 disciplinary power  17 Dissenters’ Marches  26 dissident movements  24, 30, 72–​3 do-​it-​yourself (DIY) activism (delai sam)  29

184

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domestic violence  40, 41, 54, 55, 87–​8, 130, 154 Dzhibladzhe, J.  24, 25, 26, 111 E economic crisis  2 Edwards, B.  7, 16, 20 Einwohner, R.L.  4, 14, 16, 17, 18, 101, 127 Elder, M.  3 elections  3, 26, 57–​8 see also ‘For Fair Elections’ protests (2011–​2013) elites  4, 25, 27, 35, 84, 86, 112–​13 emancipation of women  2, 30, 39, 61, 62, 63, 97 embodied knowledge  104, 105, 108, 130 emotional cultures  135 emotional expression  21, 135, 140, 142 Engel, B.  30 English  76, 77, 116, 129, 158 Enigbokan, A.  29 Ensler, Eve  102 environmental movement  25 epistemic insurrection  63 epistemic practices  20, 34 epistemic resources  20, 24, 42, 99–​122, 150 Erpyleva, S.  81 escaping the system without leaving it  79–​82 essentialist gender roles  3, 31, 33, 35, 40, 47, 61, 62, 67, 88 Essig, L.  31, 36, 47, 73, 75 ethical research questions  161–​3 ethnic appropriation  13 ethnography  6, 7–​14, 43, 86, 156–​64 Evans, A.  23, 24, 28 Evans, E.  111 everyday experiences as epistemic resource  103–​5, 115–​20 everyday resistance  15, 19, 76, 132–​3 exhibitions  74, 78, 84–​6, 125 expertise, politics of  5, 101, 121 Eyal, G.  63 Eyerman, R.  20, 51, 100, 101, 136, 160 F fading pickets  137 family  abolition of the  30, 62 domestic violence  40, 41, 54, 55, 87–​8, 130, 154 family history and feminist awakenings  44 gender roles  30 government policies  39 heteronormativity  90, 94 marriage  43, 62 Family Code  33 far right  2 Farris, S.  2, 114 fashion shows  79, 134, 140

feeling rules  135, 146 Femen  125, 131, 134 femininity  deployed as political tool  57 feminine experience as epistemic resource  104 narrow beauty norms  46 performing traditional  87–​8 private sphere as feminine  86–​7 queer tango get-​togethers  107 queering of  89–​90 as weakness  38, 57, 140 feminist alliances  13–​14 feminist electoral candidates  57–​8 feminist ethnography  7–​14, 156–​7 Feminist Pencil collective  84 Feminist Topical Dictionary exhibition  85–​6 femonationalism  2 festivals  78, 79, 91, 99, 125, 136 fieldwork  8, 9, 156–​64 Flacks, R.  11 flash mobs  28, 53, 136 Flikke, G.  139 ‘For Fair Elections’ protests (2011–​2013)  13, 26, 56, 71, 81, 82–​3, 84, 135, 147 foreign funding  25–​6, 27, 34–​5, 92, 124 Foucault, M.  16, 44 Fraser, N.  71, 73, 82, 86 free spaces  81, 98 freedom of assembly, right to  26 funding  for activism  16–​17 declining  124 foreign funding  25–​6, 27, 34–​5, 92, 124 post-​Soviet civic infrastructure development  25–​6 women’s NGOs  34–​5 G Gabowitsch, M.  3, 26, 27, 28, 71, 81, 83, 84, 86, 131, 144, 148 Gal, S.  6, 86, 90 Gapova, E.  7, 38, 39, 59, 113, 125, 138, 144 Gayropa  37 Geertz, C.  9 Gelman, V.  3, 27 gender, definition  6 gender binary  47 gender norms  16, 46, 61, 102–​3, 107 gender politics in Russia  29–​32 gender roles  conservatist politics  36 essentialist  3, 31, 33, 35, 40, 47, 61, 62, 67, 88 heteronormativity  43 LGBTQ  75–​6 playing with  130–​1 in public  87–​8

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seeing through new eyes  44 Soviet era  39 gender studies  33–​4, 35, 63, 115 gendered knowledge  104 gendered violence  culture of violence  50–​5 decriminalization of simple battery (poboi)  40, 41, 153 domestic violence  40, 41, 54, 55, 87–​8, 130, 154 epistemic resources  102, 104 feminist vocabulary of  2 future legislation on  154 media  128, 129 shelter metaphor  92–​3 shock, a line of action  130 women’s organizations in the 1990s  35 genderqueer feminists  11, 93 Gill, R.  2, 42, 48, 66, 68, 149 Gilson, E.C.  53 glasnost  24–​5, 31, 124 Glassman, J.  80 global issue, feminism as  79–​80, 82, 151 global therapeutic culture  2 Goodwin, J.  21, 140 Gorbachëv, M.  31 Goscilo, H.  142, 145 Gould, D.B.  135 grassroots initiatives  25, 27, 28–​9, 32, 57, 83, 154 Greene, S.  24, 73 Guerrilla Girls  131 gynocentric epistemic resources  101, 104, 118 H Haenfler, R.  80 Hakala, K.  9 Haraway, D.  9 Harvey, D.  18, 72 Hazleden, R.  49 Hemment, J.  7, 25, 26, 34, 39, 111, 124, 140, 142, 163 Hemmings, C.  109, 114 Henderson, S.  7, 25, 32, 34, 35, 124, 163 Henry, L.  25, 27 heteronormativity  43, 61, 62, 90, 94 heterosexual matrix  47 hidden activism/​resistance  76, 133–​4 see also covert activism/​resistance; invisibility hierarchies  9, 56, 75, 107, 113, 150 hijacking publicity, a line of action  138 Hill Collins, P.  104 Hirsjärvi, S.  159 historical materials, access to  63 history of feminism in Russia  23–​40, 61–​4, 66, 97, 112, 123–​5, 152–​3 Hochschild, A.  135

Hollander, J.A.  4, 14, 16, 17, 18, 101, 127 home as metaphor  94, 96 ‘homo propaganda’ laws  38, 39, 47, 52, 89, 134, 139, 140 homophobia  37, 38, 45, 133–​4, 140 homosexuality  38, 89 see also LGBTQ; sexuality hooks, bell  101–​2, 112 human rights groups  25, 26, 37, 38 Hurme, H.  159 Hutchings, S.  3, 37 Huttunen, L.  158, 160 Hynninen, P.  9 I ‘I am not afraid to tell’ (Ia ne boius’ skazat’) campaign  53, 136, 153 Iabloko party  12 identity  fluid  47 hiding  47, 76 Illouz, Eva  53–​4 inclusivity of spaces  90–​7 independent civic sphere  26 independent media  45, 128, 144 individual responsibility versus structural change  66–​7 individualized self  2, 42, 43, 67, 68, 149 inequality  35 institutionalization  12, 25 internal struggles within feminism  5, 7, 100–​22, 150–​1 international cooperation  34 international media  129, 154 international solidarity  151 International Women’s Day  123, 137, 141 internet  activism  17 art activism  28 atomization of groups  151–​2 epistemic practices  117 international reach  77 invisibility  76 as ‘new streets’  82 performance  87, 88, 90 ‘sovereign internet’  154 as space for civic activism  28 as space of feminist activism  71, 126 staging protests  137–​8 state restrictions on  154 virtual ethnography  158, 162 see also digital media intersectionality  85, 86, 111, 114, 116, 118, 161 intersexuality  14 interview methods  8, 156–​7 invisibility  15, 19, 56, 72–​8, 89, 152 Iukina, I.  23, 24, 29, 30

186

Index

K Kay, R.  7, 34, 124 Khachaturian sisters  154 Kharkhordin, O.  48, 67 Kirill, Patriarch  3, 37 Kligman, G.  6, 86, 90 Klimova, L.  77 knowing otherwise  109 knowledge resources  20, 24, 42, 99–​122, 150 Kollontai, A.  62 Komaromi, A.  31, 73 Kondakov, A.  7, 12, 39, 100 Kryzs Acord, S.  108

neoconservativism  38 networking online  77 often in the same space as feminists  74–​5 Russian Orthodox Church  37 safe spaces  96 Soviet era  31, 36, 73 spatialities  74–​8, 79 street spaces of protest  83 as a Western import  37 liberalism  10, 17, 24, 30, 36, 39, 40, 56, 123–​4 see also neoliberalism Lilja, M.  16, 17, 42, 45, 59 Lissyutkina, L.  89 lobbying  32–​3, 57 local activism  28–​9, 81 local feminist knowledge and history  119, 151–​2 local media  128 Lonkila, M.  71 loose networked movements  13, 17 Lorde, A.  4, 49, 68 Lucy Lippard collective  84 Luhtakallio, E.  140

L Lakoff, G.  160–​1 language, feminism as a  2 language barriers  77, 116 Lapina, V.  39, 75 Lassila, J.  140 Lawler, S.  113, 160 leadership  97 Lefebvre, H.  71 leftist movements  13, 40, 56, 58 legislation  absurdity  139 ban on hurting religious feelings  40, 131, 139 conservativism  3 decriminalization of simple battery (poboi)  40, 41, 153 foreign agent law  154 ‘homo propaganda’ laws  38, 39, 47, 52, 89, 134, 139, 140 lobbying by women’s groups  33 restrictions against protest  26, 27, 60, 71, 78, 82–​3, 125, 154 Leitner, H.  18, 72 lens metaphors  44, 62 Lerner, J.  48 lesbianism  31, 75 LGBTQ  covert resistance  15 exhibitions  74 feminist alliances  13–​14 hidden activism  133–​4 invisibility  74–​8 LGBT movements  36, 58

M Mackay, F.  10–​11, 47 Mahmood, S.  4, 15, 16, 17, 46, 101, 109 Makarychev, A.  13, 17, 28, 71, 144 male feminists  55, 61 Mamonova, T.  31 March of Millions, Moscow (2012)  27 Maria (dissident group)  30–​1 marriage  43, 62 Martin, D.  18, 71, 72, 96 masculinity  cult of strong men  55 deployed as political tool  57 masculine experience as epistemic resource  104 performing traditional  87–​8 political discourses of  55 politics  6, 38 public sphere as masculine  86–​7 queer tango get-​togethers  107 ‘real man’ (muzhik)  39, 55, 57 war  54–​5 masking, a line of action  127, 134 Mason, J.  4 Massey, D.  18, 19, 72, 116 Matero, J.  104 Matza, T.  48 McCarthy, J.D.  7 McIntosh Sundstrom, L.  7, 33, 34 McNay, L.  16, 44 McRobbie, A.  42, 48, 66, 149 media  feminism in the mainstream media  153 government control of  3, 126

J Jamison, A.  20, 100, 101, 160 Jäntti, S.  96 Jasper, J.  21, 63, 131 Johansson, A.  71 Johnson, J.E.  4, 36, 51, 73, 92, 148 Johnson, M.  160–​1 Johnson, O.  28, 141 Jonson, L.  7, 125, 137 Juris, J.  136

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independent media  45, 128, 144 media skills  128, 144, 145, 154 mediatized manifestations of feminism  123–​47 neoconservativism  3 political opportunity structure  17 politics of appearances  5 samizdat  24, 30–​1, 73 shocking  127–​32 speed of events  131–​2 television  3, 126, 129 see also digital media; social media Medina, J.  63 meeting places  72 Melnychenko, A.  136 mental mobility  116 Meretoja, H.  160 Messerschmidt, J.  38, 140 #MeToo  53, 136 Meyer, D.  13, 72 migration  77, 80, 134 military politics  35, 88 Miller, B.  18, 71, 72, 96 mirroring of the power politics  139, 141, 144–​6 Mirza, H.S.  73 misogyny  alertness to  49 internalized  44, 45, 46, 47–​8 Mizulina, E.  153 Mohanty, C.  96 morality  37–​8, 45, 63–​7, 68 Moscow  78, 79, 83, 84, 85, 123 Moscow Association of Sexual Minorities  36 Moscow Centre for Gender Studies  31–​2, 33, 34 Moscow Fashion Week  140 ‘mother capital’  39 motherhood  3, 35, 58–​9 movie nights  133 Murdoch, J.  72 Murphy, M.  104, 105 mutual support groups  54 My own stranger (Svoia Chuzhaia)  136 N Nagar, R.  9, 163–​4 Narodnaia Volia (People’s Will) movement  66 narratives  41–​69, 160 Nartova, N.  36, 38 Nash, J.  49 Nashi  140, 142 nationalism  37, 141 Naval’nyi, A.  154 neoconservativism  3, 23, 36–​40, 73, 88, 139, 140 neoliberalism  2, 42, 43, 49, 66–​7, 68, 149 networks  18, 71 see also online social networks

NGOs (non-​governmental organizations)  11, 17, 27, 33–​4, 92, 144, 154 Nikiporets-​Takigava, G.  17, 126 non-​compliance, as resistance  15 ‘Non-​ordinary panties’ (Neobyknovennye trusy)  134, 140 O Oates, S.  141 observation methods  158–​9 Omel’chenko, E.  65 online social networks  18, 26, 76–​7, 117 optics, feminism as  44, 63 Ortner, S.  9 Östman, S.  162, 163 othering  2 Oushakine, S.  54, 61 P paedophilia  38 Paina, E.  17, 126 Palmu, T.  158 paranoid readings  42–​3, 67, 68 parlour culture  97 Parviainen, J.  130 paternalism  39 pathologization of the self  48–​9 patriarchal self  43–​9 patriarchy  13, 31, 55, 56, 61, 65, 95 Pavlenskii, P.  28, 131 perestroika  24–​5, 31, 32, 124 performance  76, 78, 86–​90, 102–​6, 125, 130, 134–​6, 142 performativity  1, 52–​3, 136 Perheentupa, I.  48 personal as theoretical  120, 152 Persson, E.  38 picketing  125, 129, 137 Pietilä, I.  163 police  78, 84, 92–​3, 125, 129, 154 politics  atomization of the political sphere  96–​7, 98 concentrations of power  27 definition  4 feminism  4, 29–​32 gender as a tool of  6 military politics  35, 88 neoconservative turn  36–​40 political apathy  60 political opportunity structure  16–​17 political theatre  88, 137 politicization  105, 125 progressive politics  30, 61, 62, 63 queerness as a political position  47 reparative politics  4–​5, 41, 67–​9 resistance  15 sexism  56 spatial politics  18 state control of civic groups  25–​6

188

Index

therapeutic dimensions  15 women’s participation in  29–​30, 31, 32–​ 3, 57–​8 see also conservativism; liberalism; neoconservativism; neoliberalism politics of appearances  5, 127, 139–​45 politics of expertise  5, 101, 121 politics of sheltering  5, 71, 92, 96–​8 politics of veiling  127, 132–​5, 146 Polletta, F.  63, 81, 98 popular culture  133 populism  123 pornography  12 Posadskaya, A.  7, 24, 30, 31, 32, 33, 57, 124 Posadskaya-​Vanderbeck, A.  30 postfeminism  2, 42, 43, 48, 66–​7, 68, 149 post-​truth era  123, 142 power  challenging hegemonic discourses  126 concentrations of power  27–​8 ethnography  9 intangible resources  144 male-​female power relations  87–​8 mirroring of the power politics  139, 141, 144–​6 ordering of public space  82 of the powerless  140 relational space  72 remembering and forgetting  62–​3 resistance  7, 16, 17, 42, 101 Soviet underground movements  24, 72–​3, 80, 86, 89 strategy versus tactic  19 pre-​Soviet feminism  62, 63, 66 ‘primitive’ feminists  19, 64, 111, 114, 118 privacy  5, 18, 71–​2, 89–​90, 92, 95, 99, 153 private sphere as feminine  86–​7, 89 progressive politics  30, 61, 62, 63 protest  body as site for  125 counter-​protest  137 ‘For Fair Elections’ protests (2011–​ 2013)  13, 26–​7, 56, 71, 81, 82–​3, 84, 135, 147 flash mobs  28, 53, 136 against gendered violence (2019)  154 pre-​Soviet  62 punishment for  27, 60 state restrictions on  26, 27, 60, 71, 78, 82–​3, 125, 154 street spaces  82–​4 ‘protest ghettos’  83 psychologization of everyday life  48 Puar, J.K.  114 public/​private space negotiations  86–​90 punk  13, 24 Punk Prayer (Pussy Riot)  3, 39, 56, 57, 90, 128, 131, 138

Pussy Riot  3, 7, 28, 39, 56, 57, 90, 125, 128, 131, 134, 138, 143, 144 Putin, V.  26–​7, 39, 56–​7, 71, 128, 142, 155 Q queer activism  46–​7 queer culture in Russia  47 queer epistemic resources  42, 101, 106–​10 queer skirts  79, 109 queer tango get-​togethers  96, 106–​7 queer theory  108, 109–​10, 114, 118 queerfeminism  12, 14, 47, 111, 113, 134 Queering kitchen (2016) video  87, 89–​90 queering knowledge  42 R race/​ethnicity  114 radical feminism  12–​13, 58, 111, 118, 152 Rapoport, B.  130 Rastas, A.  163 ‘real man’ (muzhik)  39, 55, 57 Reay, D.  73 relational space  18, 72, 87, 88 religion  37, 40, 55, 110, 130–​1, 139 religious appropriation  13, 110 religious symbols  110 remembering and forgetting  62–​3 reparative acts  42–​3 reparative perspectives  53, 59–​60 reparative politics  4–​5, 41, 67–​9 reproductive health activists  49, 57 research methods  8, 156–​64 research participants  10–​14 researcher positionality  9, 163–​4 resistance  activism  14–​17 alternative self-​making  45 ambiguity  134 covert resistance  15, 24, 72–​82, 146 definition  14–​15 effect of resources on  148–​55 ethico-​moral context  15 everyday resistance  15, 19, 76, 132–​3 hidden resistance  81, 134 invisibility  74–​8 loud forms of  16 motivations for  15 against neoconvervativism  36–​7 overt resistance  16, 82 power  7, 16, 17, 42, 101 refraining from action as  16 Soviet underground movements  24 spatialities  17–​19, 71, 78, 79 subtle forms of  15, 71 therapeutic dimensions  15 through appearance  46 through art  28 tracing feminist resistance in Russia  14–​17

189

FEMINIST POLITICS IN NEOCONSERVATIVE RUSSIA

resourceful feminists  5–​6, 124, 143–​4, 150 resources  effect on feminist resistance  148–​55 epistemic resources  20, 24, 42, 99–​122, 150 intangible  124 media experience as  144 ‘resourceful feminists’  5–​6, 150 social movement scholarship  7 Reznikova, O.  112 Riabov, O.  38, 39, 57 Riabova, T.  38, 39, 57 Ries, N.  54, 59 rights  26, 30, 63, 97 Rimashevskaia, N.  31, 32 Riot Grrrl  13, 46, 131 Rivkin-​Fish, M.  3, 36, 37, 49, 57, 148 Road to the temple (2016) action  87–​8, 90 Robertson, G.  27, 137 Roestone Collective  98 Rossi, L.  16 Rotkirch, A.  30, 39, 62 Rottenberg, C.  2 Roudakova, N.  3, 135, 137, 141, 142, 147, 149 Routledge, P.  95 Russian Orthodox Church (ROC)  cathedrals as sites of activism  1, 87, 88, 127, 131, 143 Church-​state relationships  3, 67, 88 gender norms  3, 61, 67 male-​female power relations  88 morality  37–​8 self-​sacrifice  66 traditional ‘Russianness’  37 Rutsaild, R.  30 S Saarinen, A.  4, 36, 51, 73, 92, 148 sabotage, as resistance  15 safe spaces  98 Salmenniemi, S.  7, 25, 29, 30, 33, 34, 35, 46, 47, 48, 66, 112, 124, 125 samizdat  24, 30–​1, 73 scandals  130 ‘school of feminism’  102, 105 schools of feminism  10–​11 Scott, J.  6, 15, 76, 77, 81, 132, 134 second-​wave feminism  111 Sederholm, H.  19, 78 Sedgwick, E.  42–​3, 67, 68, 75, 89 self-​care  49, 68 self-​defence  91–​2, 154 self-​disciplinary practices  16 self-​education  34 self-​help literature  48 self-​making  16, 42, 45, 47–​8, 60, 68 self-​relation  49

self-​sacrifice  65–​6, 68 self-​transformation  44 Semukhina, O.  40 Senkova, O.  7, 148 sensuality  108 sex education  133 sex work/​prostitution  12–​13, 99, 100, 119, 153 sexism  56, 75 sexual violence  36, 41, 50, 51, 92, 132 sexuality  fluid  47 neoconservatism  37, see also LGBTQ in private  89 trauma  52 shelter metaphor  72, 90–​7, 153–​4 sheltering, politics of  5, 71, 96–​8 shelters  36, 92 shock, a line of action  129–​32, 134, 135, 145–​7 Simona (feminist café, St Petersburg) 153 simple battery (poboi)  40, 41, 153 single-​person performances  78, 125 Skeggs, B.  9, 18, 113, 114, 116, 160 SlutWalk  125, 134 smaller cities  76–​7 smuggling, a line of action  127, 132–​3 social class  36, 83, 84, 112, 113, 116, 119, 129, 151 social media  activism  1 art activism  28 epistemic practices  117 flash mobs  53, 136 fundraising  144 invisibility  76–​7 as means to bypass government media 128 networking via  18 rigging of Duma elections 2011  26 as site of research  8 spaces of activism  28, 71 transnational audiences  90 visibility  126, 129 social movement scholarship  7 social responsibility  65 socio-​spatial situationality  18, 100 solidarization  151, 154 Solovey, V.  6, 7, 13, 112, 152 Somers, M.R.  160 Soviet Union  civic activism  23–​4 feminism  61–​2 gender politics  29–​32, 39 lesbianism  75 LGBTQ  31, 36, 73 matriarchies  61 publics nested within the private  86, 89

190

Index

underground movements  24, 72–​3, 80, 86, 89 Soviet women’s organization  24 spatial brokers  91, 95–​7, 122 spatialities  17–​19, 28–​9, 70–​98, 105, 148, 153, 160 Sperling, V.  6, 7, 32, 35, 36–​7, 38, 39, 47, 51, 56–​7, 124, 137, 144 spill-​over movements  13, 72 St Petersburg  28, 78, 83, 84, 87, 130, 138, 153 staging, a line of action  127, 136–​9, 141, 145–​7 Stalin, J.  24, 30 stealing publicity, a line of action  127, 138–​9, 145–​7 Stein, A.  54 Stella, F.  36, 38, 77 ‘stiob’  142, 147, 149 Strategy 31 protests  26 strategy versus tactic  19, 78, 79 street metaphor  72, 82–​90 strong men, cult of  55 see also ‘real man’ (muzhik) Strukov, V.  126 subaltern counterpublic  71, 73 Sutherland, I.  108 svoi (one’s own people)  96, 117 Swedish model for sex work/​ prostitution  12, 13 Swidler, A.  4, 19–​20, 21, 120, 124, 125, 126, 127, 142, 146, 160 T tactic  19, 76, 78, 79 Tarrow, S.  16 Taylor, V.  54 technologies of the self  16 Temkina, A.  3, 25, 26, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 112 temporalities  19, 70–​1, 78, 79, 97–​8, 152 theatre  52–​3, 102–​6, 109, 136–​7 therapeutic concept of trauma  50–​1 therapeutic culture  2, 42, 52, 53–​4, 60, 68, 150, 160 therapeutic language  48 thick description  9 Tilly, C.  16 Tolonen, T.  158 Tolz, V.  3, 37 ‘traditional’ Russianness  37, 38, 40, 57, 61 transgender movements  13–​14, 93 translation  76 transnational feminism  80 trauma  50–​5, 67, 68, 92, 151 trolling  139 Tuller, D.  47 Turkey  125

turning the gaze, a line of action  127, 134–​5 Turtiainen, R.  162, 163 U Ukrainian war  55, 155 underground cafés  73 underground metaphor  72–​82 underground movements  24, 30, 72–​3, 80, 86, 89 underground publics  86, 90 universities, feminist politics in  33–​4 Unwanted Organization  89, 90 urban art activism  29 urban policies  86 urban spaces  81 V Vagina Monologues (Ensler)  102–​6 Vänskä, A.  42 veiling, politics of  127, 132–​5, 140, 146 Viennese Actionists  131 Vinthagen, S.  16, 17, 42, 45, 59, 71, 130 violence  culture of violence  5, 41, 50–​5, 85, 88, 148 domestic violence  40, 41, 54, 55, 87–​8, 130, 154 male victims of  55 norms of  53 performance of  130 self-​defence  91–​2, 154 sexual violence  36, 50, 51, 92, 132 systemic  54–​5, 67 violence against women  30–​1, 36, 40, 50–​5, 102, 104 war  54–​5 see also gendered violence viral, going  126, 128, 131, 136 Voina  28, 131, 141 W Waters, E.  30, 31, 32 wave model of feminism  118 Western bias, challenging  6, 14, 43, 112, 119, 163–​4 Western feminism  54, 61, 63–​4, 112, 119, 152 Western values  37 What about Love? exhibition  84 Whittier, N.  13, 72 Wiedlack, K.  6, 7, 112, 148, 151, 152 Wilkinson, C.  36, 37, 38, 61 Woman and Russia publication (samizdat)  30 ‘woman question’  29–​32 Women of Russia (WR)  33 women-​only spaces  94 Women’s Equal Rights Union  29

191

FEMINIST POLITICS IN NEOCONSERVATIVE RUSSIA

women’s movements  7, 29, 31, 32–​6, 37, 47, 51, 63 work on the self (rabota nad soboi)  48, 67 Y Yatsyk, A.  131, 139 Yurchak, A.  24, 80, 96, 98, 117, 147, 148, 149 Yuval-​Davis, N.  94

Z Zakharova, N.  31 Zald, M.N.  7 Zdravomyslova, E.  3, 7, 25, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 73, 80, 112 Zhaivoronok, D.  7, 12, 100

192

Gender and Sociology is a new series bringing together high-quality research. It includes different theories and approaches to questions of gender; debates and contemporary issues in the sociological study of gender; historical, cultural, social and political dimensions; and the relationships between continuities and change, inequalities and gendered identities. Series editors: Sue Scott, Newcastle University and Stevi Jackson, Centre for Women’s Studies, University of York

“This timely study brings a fresh perspective to the study of feminist organizing and contention in Russia. Analytically subtle and ethnographically satisfying, it adds substantial value to scholarship on contemporary Russian culture and politics, while contributing to literature on social movements and resistance studies more broadly.” Julie Hemment, University of Massachusetts

“This book reveals the inventive and some of the riskier strategies of feminist grassroot politics in the context of the Russian conservative authoritarian regime before the war in Ukraine. The text is empirically rich, methodologically relevant, theoretically profound, well-written and thought-provoking. It awakens the sociological imagination.” Elena Zdravomyslova, European University at St Petersburg

This is a nuanced and compelling analysis of grassroots feminist activism in Russia in the politically turbulent 2010s. Drawing on rich ethnographic data, the author illustrates how a new generation of activists chose feminism as their main political beacon, and how they negotiated the challenges of authoritarian and conservative trends. As we witness a backlash against feminism on a global scale with the rise of neoconservative governments, this highly relevant book decentres Western theory and concepts of feminism and social movements, offering significant insights into how resistance can mobilize and invent creative tactics to cope with an increasingly repressed space for independent political action. Inna Perheentupa is Post-Doctoral Researcher in Sociology at the University of Turku.

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