Gender
Yulia Artsiomava’s novella “I Am the Revolution” is neither a sterile chronicle of protests nor a poster-style propaganda piece. Published in the “Pflaumbaum” feminist series, this book has become something of a time capsule for Belarusians, buried just a second before a social explosion. Artsiomava wrote it in the deceptively calm year of 2019, yet managed to capture with surgical precision the state of collective affect that would soon sweep the entire country.
This is a story of internal breakdown. At the center of the plot is a young photojournalist suspended in an existential limbo: between the icy professionalism of a “neutral observer” and a fierce civic instinct, between the euphoria of the crowd and a ringing solitude within it.
In this major interview, Artsiomava uncensoredly dissects the anatomy of 2020, explaining why contemporary literature must stop coddling the reader and how hardcore individualism unexpectedly becomes the primary fuel for collective resistance.
— The title “I Am the Revolution” sounds like an assertion of identity. At what point did the revolution stop being an external event and become an internal state of being?
— To be honest, I didn’t invest such a deep meaning into that phrase. It is spoken by my protagonist, a rather young girl, at a very specific moment in her life. In my view, the phrase even sounds a bit too pretentious.
Within the context of the book, it is justified, but I would never say that about myself. No matter how immersed I was in political activism, it is only a part of me. And probably not even the most interesting or deep part.
I think everyone answers this question for themselves. Looking back at the events in Belarus, I often wondered: could I have chosen not to join the protests in 2020? Every time, I concluded that I couldn’t. At that moment, I felt a profound loneliness—not just political, but personal. That is exactly what brought me out into the streets.
I went out to find an answer to some unasked question. In my case, participating in the protests was not a political decision, but rather an existential one. It just happened to coincide with the major events in the country. I can’t say that 2020 changed me—some changes began in me long before that and are still ongoing. The title I came up with, to some extent, reflected what was happening to me as well.
— You write about revolution not as a slogan, but as an experience. Was it important for you to move away from journalism and maintain an artistic distance?
— I don’t entirely agree with the premise of the question. My book, though it contains that word in the title, doesn’t actually talk much about the revolution itself. I finished the text back in 2019, when the situation was politically passive. The title is more of a play on the reader’s expectations.
Revolutionary events are traced there only in outline. The protagonist herself, due to her impulsiveness and a certain superficiality, doesn’t offer a coherent political reflection. It is an entirely fictional story written against the backdrop of historical events, but it is not political at all. There is simply no room for publicist journalism here.
The revolution appearing on the pages serves only as a backdrop for a human story: of growing up, friendship, and love. It’s a common thing: some “action” is happening outside the window, while we are busy living our own internal lives.
— There is a lot of loneliness within collective action in the text. Why are mass protests often experienced as a deeply personal ordeal?
— Because we experience everything in the world as a personal experience. It’s very hard to separate: “here I am feeling political emotions,” and “here I am feeling personal ones.” When I talked to loved ones about the events of 2020, I saw that we all took to the streets with very different motives. Someone had lost hope, and in 2020, that hope was refueled. Someone’s internal sense of justice was violated. Someone went along for company and then got drawn in. Someone felt lonely and found their people and their answers at the protests.
We perform the same actions with completely different motives: we go to revolutions, write books, have children, get tattoos. All of this stems from our depths, even if we don’t always understand ourselves why we are doing it.
— The protagonist balances between observation and participation. Is this a trait of a generation, a professional characteristic, or your personal temperament?
— I think it’s more of a sign of our times. When we read journalists or bloggers, we aren’t interested in mere narrators reciting facts; we want those who express a position and empathize. Today, we expect this stance from everyone: from the media to musicians and actors.
I have a personal example—my husband. He is a photographer working in the documentary genre. In reportage photography, it’s important not to interfere; your task is simply to shoot. But until 2021, we lived in Minsk in the very courtyard now known as the Square of Changes. We were activists in that community, and Zhenya documented a lot of our life: protests, performances.
I remember at one protest, he said: “Attention! I’m about to take a photo, so please put on your masks and hoods.” From a photojournalistic standpoint, he was acting incorrectly; he shouldn’t have interfered. Но from a civic standpoint, his actions were logical. He began calling himself a “citizen journalist.” With one hand he was shooting, and with the other, he was expressing a position.
My protagonist also balances between professional ethics and the desire to join the “movement.” On a deeper level, it’s a story about her gaining accidental fame for a lucky photo, and now she needs to prove—to herself and others—that this success wasn’t a fluke. I put my own fear into this: if you write one successful book, will you be able to write a second?
I believe a modern author cannot have a purely observational stance. A writer doesn’t write with words, but with their personality and experience. When you don’t just observe but participate, events become a part of you. This makes the author deeper, which is always reflected in the texts.
— The violence in the text is not hyperbolized, yet it is present. The text has been called “nerve-pulsating.” Was this a conscious form and a careful approach to the reader, or did this language emerge in the process?
— Oh, my favorite question about being “careful.” I have a negative view of the modern vision of humans as something fragile that is “barely holding together.” A reader will close a work of fiction and open the news, YouTube, or Telegram, where war has been broadcast almost live for several years. Everything is documented and shown naturalistically. What could possibly be written in a book that would be so terrifying as to traumatize a modern person to such an extent?
I see the problem in our assumption that an adult needs “soft pillows.” Humans are the most terrifying predators on the planet; they are much stronger and more mentally resilient than they seem. I learned this from my own experience. Having gone through the events of 2020 and 2022, I realized and saw that I can handle a great deal.
We live in an era of universal psychotherapy. Previously, there was a tilt toward “suck it up,” now it’s the other way around, where everyone is traumatized by everything. We need to think about how to increase our moral strength, not how to coddle ourselves.
Regarding the text, I don’t think about being “careful.” If the text’s task is to be naturalistic, I will describe scenes of violence. You cannot pull the teeth out of a work of art. The reader is capable of making their own decision: if something disturbs them too much, they can stop reading. That is their zone of responsibility.
As for the language: I don’t experience writing as a choice; it’s more like a form of doom. The text itself dictates how it should be written. In this case, it’s an imitation of live speech: as if a young protagonist is sitting with you, drinking a beer, and retelling her life. Hence the compressed descriptions of some events and detailed ones of others that are important to her. In the creative process, there is much that is intuitive. It’s as if you enter a cave and explore it with a flashlight. The cave already exists with all its drawings and stones; you are simply discovering it.
— Should a writer feel responsible for how protests will be recorded in literature? How much room is there for fantasy?
— Everything is determined by genre. Documentary or journalistic genres require immersion and accuracy. But there is fiction or autofiction, which permits almost anything.
As an individualist, I don’t perceive this through “obligation.” Having gone through a series of historical events, I felt my own scale in relation to the world: I am a tiny grain of sand in it. I write texts not to convey something to someone, but because I want to. It’s my way of coping with reality. If I write nothing, it won’t affect anyone but me. There are many ways to record reality today.
I would take the responsibility for recording away from writers and instead place the responsibility for reflection on them. Many can record—people at the front, journalists. For reflection, however, a certain mindset is required.
Right now, I am writing a text about my emigration and life in Ukraine during the full-scale war. I chose the rather “irresponsible” genre of fiction, which allows for subjectivity. The story knocked on my door itself. It is one of the most vivid experiences of my life, and I have the strength and skill to wrap it in the form of a text.
— Has your own tone and attitude toward the book changed over time?
— I look at the book from two positions: as a finished text and as a process. As an author, I am interested in observing how my writing method has changed.
I recently reread an excerpt and was surprised. It’s as if the book was written in a previous life by a different person. I have changed very much. If I were writing this story now, I would make it more voluminous, larger in scale, and give the protagonist more political reflection.
Stylistically, it also looks surprising to me: I remember how meticulously I worked on it, polishing every sentence. Now I write much more carelessly. I am interested myself in how much my attitude toward the text and the work process itself has changed.
This book is a child of its time—pre-war and pre-revolution. It is filled with a calm, peaceful life. Different books are needed now, but this one is like a window into that world.
You can purchase the book “I Am the Revolution” by Yulia Artsiomava by emailing us at: nottodaysocialmedia@gmail.com