Ielena Kostiutxenko: "I'd like to meet those who poisoned me. And ask them questions."

BarcelonaThe day is very red, but Russian reporter Yelena Kostiuchenko says she finds the Barcelona spring very pleasant. It's the theory of (journalistic) relativity. And it's inevitable to think that a little rain and wind must be nothing for her, brave and coming from the cold, forced to embark on the path of exile. And that, even as a fugitive, she experienced a poisoning attempt in Berlin. La Segunda Periferia publishes her magnificent book My beloved country and we took advantage of it to have a close conversation about journalism, his country, the war, the strangeness of someone wanting to kill you, and the heartbreaking pain of seeing how Russia has descended into fascism.

The book is titled My beloved country and I understand that it is not an ironic title.

— Not at all. It's really a book about love because it's a good time to talk about feelings and the things we feel for our country, which aren't the things we're told we should hear. I keep my love for Russia very much in mind, among other things, because it hurts me a lot. But I don't want to deny it, cancel it, or shy away from it because I believe love isn't what Putin calls patriotism. He says if you love Russia, you have to go kill Ukrainians. That you must obey, lie, or remain silent. And no, love doesn't require this, but rather a very different perspective on what you love.

You love Russia, then. But do you think Russia loves you, given your current circumstances?

— I think so. Because when I talk about Russia, I don't think about the territory, but about its people, united by a common destiny. And yes, I love them, and they love me back.

In English, it's accompanied by the subtitle: "Reports from a Lost Country." Why "lost"?

— It's a play on words. First, because Russia has lost itself, and we understand less and less who we are, what we want, and where we live. But also because I have lost Russia, since I live in exile.

What is your current situation, since they closed the Novaia Gazeta?

— I'm currently part of the Nieman Fellowship at Harvard University. It's a fellowship for journalists mid-career, but I think they also rescue lost people: people who have worked hard but now don't know where to turn because they've hit a dead end. They invite us to Harvard for a year, and we can teach classes, communicate with other journalists, and be in a safe environment.

Do you feel ready to be a reporter again?

— Now, after the health problems that happened to me in Berlin, I was very weak and tired quickly, so it was unimaginable to think about working in the field again.

"You might have been poisoned." When doctors tell you this, your reaction is to laugh and deny it.

— Ah, yes, totally.

Why didn't it occur to you that this was a possibility?

— It's something you don't even think about, something you see in movies. But yes, it had happened with Navalny, with Dmitry Bykov, who was a colleague of mine, or with Vladimir Kara-Murza, another Russian journalist. But I thought: OK, these are important people and they think they're dangerous. I'd never considered myself dangerous; I'm just a reporter who writes what I see and hear. I don't even think much about it! I never thought that being a witness to events could be dangerous, but it's clear that maybe it is.

You were the first journalist to report on the presence of Russian troops in eastern Ukraine, but someone warned you that a Chechen unit of the Russian National Guard was waiting to kill you. How were you able to escape?

— Well, it wasn't that difficult. They were waiting for me on the road leading to Mariupol, but since my contacts had warned me, I thought I'd find a detour. The problem was that many roads were already occupied by the army, so in the end, I realized the best option was to take the train to Kiev and, from there, also by train to Poland.

So you must have sensed that maybe they did see you as a danger to the regime...

— I don't know... At the time, I felt only anger because I really wanted to go to Mariupol to report everything they were saying about the city, which they described as a gigantic crime scene, a carnage. Not being able to tell it made me furious. But when I thought about it, and my head became clearer, I realized that perhaps they were upset because I had revealed the existence of a secret prison in Kherson, where captured Ukrainians had been tortured. Of course, if someone disappears in the middle of the war, it doesn't mean anything: anything could have happened to them. But prison exposed them. Now, I didn't expect these problems to follow me to Europe.

"I was furious," you say. It makes me think of the book. When you write about Anna Politkovskaya, you talk about the grief of not having had the opportunity, despite sharing an editorial office, to tell her that you became a journalist because of her. But you say that sadness gave way to hatred, which is what motivated you to work, work, work. Is anger a necessary fuel for committed journalism?

— There have been times when hatred has fueled my journalism. It eats away at your soul, but it gives you energy. But the best fuel for journalism is still curiosity about what's happening, about people, about their hopes and fears. This gives you stronger journalism. You can write angry, but then you need a good editor who can keep a cool head, because otherwise, you'll end up making mistakes.

And, as a survivor of an assassination attempt, how angry are you? It would be reasonable to be angry forever...

— I'm not angry that they tried to assassinate me, but about the situation in Russia. I know it sounds strange, but what really infuriates me is that the war continues. That people are dying. That Putin remains in power. That my Russia is succumbing to fascism. And I'm angry that I can't be near my mother, who's seventy-eight years old, and I don't know how much time she has left. I can't be at home, with my people, among those who speak my language. The assassination attempt? It just seems stupid to me. Journalists only describe reality. If you don't like reality, you have a problem with reality, not with journalists. It seems so obvious to me, doesn't it? I'd like to meet those who poisoned me. And ask them questions. Because I have.

Do you have any suspicions about who did it?

— No, none, and I'm trying not to rack my brains, because it's not my job to investigate it. The Berlin police and the Prosecutor's Office are doing that. But journalists are also looking into it. Insider and Bellingcat, who are the ones who identified the people who killed Navalny. In fact, I trust journalists more than the police, so we'll see.

We've talked about hate, but I'd also like to talk about fear. I don't know if you've ever thought, "Okay, they win. I choose to live, so I'm leaving journalism."

— I'm not too afraid, frankly. It's probably a biological thing, because I've made my life quite uncomfortable. And this means I have to mentally calculate all the risks, because my instinct sometimes makes mistakes. Now, in some situations this is beneficial. For example, in war: I don't get hysterical or get that adrenaline rush that some journalists end up addicted to. Let's see, I entered the Novaia Gazeta And shortly after, Anna Politkovskaya was murdered, so I always knew in the back of my mind that it was possible I'd end up dead myself. But I saw it as a perk of the trade. There are jobs, like police work, or soldiering, or firefighting, that are simply dangerous. And, unfortunately, being a journalist in Russia is a dangerous profession.

In one of the reports, we found you doing an internship as a criminologist at a police station. Were you really exploring becoming an investigator, or was it just journalism?

— No, I didn't want to become a police officer. I was only interested in them as a journalist. Because we talk a lot about the police, but we don't know what they're like. How do they live? How do they think? How do they feel? What are they afraid of? So I wanted to spend time with them to understand them better.

You also mentioned your mother, whom you miss. But some of the most painful moments in the book are precisely the conversations with her, when you realize she unquestioningly believes all the Kremlin propaganda, and a chasm opens up between you. Is there a generational gap between what young people and older people believe?

— It's hard to know what Russians believe or disbelieve, because we can't ask them without risking their freedom. We now have legislation that basically prohibits talking about war as a war. You have to say things like "Special Military Operation," and some words are off-limits, like occupation, either assault.

But this intra-family polarization must probably be in the air.

— In Russia, we don't like mundane elevator conversations. It's not part of our culture: we always address the big issues directly. But my friends who are still in the country, and my younger sister too, tell me they've never talked about the weather as much as they have in the last three years. They avoid the news and fear someone will report them. Or they avoid talking about the conflict because they know it has torn families apart. Parents and children, but also couples. I never cut off communication with my mother, and that has been beneficial: now she no longer justifies the war and doesn't support Putin as much as she used to. We've found common ground.

The book's reports give a voice to people who often don't appear in the media. People in mental asylums, prostitutes, children in orphanages, underage squatters. How do you approach them? I imagine many must be wary of...

— It's a matter of time. Try to share things with them and be close. If it's okay with them, live under the same roof. With the prostitutes, for example, I lived for a week and went to their vacant lot every night. That way, they forget you're a journalist, and you can get closer, a little bit closer each time.

And when do you see them in the article later?

— It depends. Some are happy to be talked about, others not so much. And, well, there are those who are simply not interested in the press. In the case of the police station, for example, the officers didn't know I was a reporter. I changed names, as well as some details so it wouldn't be possible to identify where I was talking about, but they obviously became aware of it once it was published. When they called me, I asked them if they were angry with me. They told me some were, but that they all admitted that things were as I had reported them. I think the main challenge is to write without letting your judgments infiltrate. Not to start classifying people as good people and bad people, because everyone is a mix of both.

As if everything you've been through as a journalist weren't enough, you've also suffered repression and violence as a lesbian. I'd like to understand how homophobia works in Russia. Would a change of regime be crucial to resolving it?

— I don't know, I hope so. I mean, do I think homophobia is caused solely by Putin and his absurd laws? No, I don't. There are homophobes in every society.

But what is the origin of Putin's hatred of homosexuals?

— I don't think he has any hatred himself. For him, it's a calculation. To build a fascism that people buy into, you need enemies. Internal and external. The external ones right now are Ukraine or Europe. They used to be the United States, but apparently not so much anymore. And, as internal enemies, he chose us. We're a minority, but a minority large enough to be seen. We're scattered throughout society and we seem like one of the crowd, but at the same time, we're different. It's like Trump and trans people. Does he hate them? I don't think so. What can you hate about them? He's simply instrumental.

How do you think the war will end?

— I hope Russia loses the war because, if we win, it will only make our fascism stronger, deeper. And it will only be a matter of time before another war starts, and another and another, until it becomes an endless nightmare. This would make us lose forever, as a country. It would make us disappear. But it seems that, for now, we are winning.

Europe wants to double its defense budget. Do you think this is a good move?

— This should be decided by Europeans. I'm not one. Now, I'd prefer that every cent that goes to weapons be dedicated to medicine or education. We'd live in a much better world. Instead, we spend fortunes killing each other and pretending there's a reason behind it. There never is.

Wanting to lose the war must be a difficult feeling to bear, one that tears at your core. If there are drone attacks in Moscow, for example, people you love could suffer the consequences.

— And whether it exists, that contradiction. And I don't take it well. [He pauses, his eyes moistening.] A couple of days ago, Ukrainian drones attacked a building in Moscow. They were trying to destroy a military base, but they missed and ended up demolishing the building next door to my sister's apartment. I hope the war doesn't end with an invasion of Russian territory, but I don't know how it will end either: I simply want people to stop dying, because 1,500 people die every day.

The book, with its courageous journalism, is a monument to the sacred mission of this profession, if you'll allow me a moment of solemnity. But, in the final lines, you assert that journalism never saves anyone. That it has only saved yourself.

— Journalism never changes things. It's people who change things. Our readers can change things.

Yes, but then they must be well informed.

— Yes, but that's not enough. And journalists should change things too. I don't know what's going on here, but in Russia, journalists believe we shouldn't get involved, that we should stay above the situation. Instead of fighting fascism, we're just describing it. And I think we describe it quite well. I think I've written a good book, honestly. But is it enough? Obviously not.

The prevailing view in Europe is that journalism should be objective.

— Yes, of course. One thing doesn't contradict the other.

But if you're fighting for a cause, no matter how noble, your rigor can be compromised. That's the theory, at least.

— Readers should know your perspective on things, yes. You don't necessarily have to deal with your journalism. You have free time. There are people fighting for freedom in the streets. The doctors who do it don't do it with their scalpels. And the bakers don't do it armed with loaves of bread. What we need to do is realize that we have political power. Because if we don't realize it, our political power will be used by other people.

""Any policy we don't implement will be implemented against us." It's by the beloved Valencian author, Joan Fuster.

— That's exactly it. We must be objective and honor journalism, but also be citizens. Professional duty doesn't override civic duty. I feel like a citizen who must do something against fascism in my country. But it's clear I've failed. As a citizen, I've failed.

It's hard to hear you say this. After surviving an assassination attempt and putting your life at risk, how can you feel like a failure?

— Because I have. Look at me: I'm in exile, my country is in danger, the people I love are in danger, and fascism is on the rise. My grandfather fought against fascism, and these days I wonder what he would say if he were still alive. Looking at Russia today, I think we've all failed. But I can only speak for myself, and that's why I say I've failed. And about this being in danger... I don't think it changes anything. It's not that difficult, getting into trouble, and it doesn't make you more valuable. These are risks you take, prices you pay. But it doesn't mean you win if you survive: you only win if you can live the life you want. And I don't live the life I want, so I have failed.

Do you think about the future? How do you imagine your life five or ten years from now?

— I hope I'm already in Russia. But it's hard to think about it, because then I harbor hopes. And hopes blind you.

But is it a hope that you see as feasible?

— Hope dies when the person dies. But yes, I hope to be in Russia, to return to Novaia Gazeta and sit behind my desk. I know I won't go back, and it will be a different country. And my diary, if it survives, will be different too, and so will I. I also hope to have had children by this point. That my wife and I can continue fighting for gay rights. And that we can get married in Red Square. Why not?

I raise my glass to that effect. Meanwhile, and finally, if you could interview Putin, what would be your first question?

— I would ask him how he's so afraid of dying. Because, to me, everything he's doing is to be immortal. He wants to enter the history books, which, to me, is an extremely stupid mechanism. Yes, I would ask him about his fear.