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Authors: Masha Gessen
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on the tape said STABILITY —the buzzword of the Putin years. Cinematically, however, the action once again turned out unimpressive and they never released it. After a while, they had another idea: they would kiss cops. They would kill them with kindness, smother them with love. The action was tied to another in a long line of President Medvedev’s symbolic but substanceless actions: he had ordered that the Russian police, which had since the early days of the Soviet Union been known as
militsiya
, or militia, be renamed
politsiya
, or police. As though that would magically render the police less corrupt and brutal, less likely to rape, pillage, and terrorize, and more likely to protect. As though it would magically make them human. To test this transformation, Nadya and assorted Rodchenko students they drafted would approach police officers and ask them for simple directions. If the officer responded helpfully, one of the actors would go into paroxysms of gratitude, culminating in a kiss—on the lips, when possible. The kisses, it was decided at the outset, should be same-sex. The reasoning behind this decision was, as often happened with Voina, opaque, but the organizing itself proved an interesting experiment: the men of Voina turned out to be no more capable of administering same-sex kisses than the men of
militsiya/politsiya
were of receiving them. They would abort the action a day or a few hours before it was planned, pleading exhaustion, ill health, or nothing at all. So it was by accident that
Buss the Buzz
became Voina’s first women-only action.
Or perhaps it was not entirely accidental. Nadya’s self-education course had taken her into feminist theory. During the production of
Buss the Buzz
, Nadya carried Julia Kristeva’s
Revolt, She Said
with her—to read on the Metro and, it turned out, to quote from when the unhappy object of an unwanted kiss searched her. “We are happy because we are revolting,” Nadya proclaimed, but the attempt to quote Kristeva fell flat, in part because the play on words was lost in translation, so it came out simply “rebelling,” or “rioting.”
Since
Buss the Buzz
had turned into a women-only action, it made sense to release the video clip on the eve of International Women’s Day, March 8, 2011. It went viral and was generally liked, though some people—I was among them—found the nonconsensual physical interaction disturbing. Two years later, Kat assured me there had been no force or coercion involved and only the choppy video editing had made it look like the women of Voina had forced themselves on unsuspecting cops. At the time of the action, though, Kat had sounded pretty aggressive: “A cop’s face is communal property, just like his or her nightstick or your personal belongings, of which he can conduct an illegal search,” she told a reporter. “A cop’s face, as long as he is wearing a uniform and a badge, is but a tool for communicating with citizens. He can use it to demand your documents and . . . to tell you to come to the precinct. And you have only one way of responding: ‘Yes, sir/ma’am, officer, I obey you and I am coming.’ We are proposing a new way of interacting with this tool, we are introducing variety into the relationship between the people and the police.”
Nadya’s message to the same reporter was simpler: “The decision to become a cop is a hugely serious decision, and it should be made responsibly . . . I say to her, ‘Madame Officer, have you heard your boss the mayor’s speech in which he said that ‘Moscow does not need gays’? No? That’s reason enough for me to suck your face.”
Queer theory and feminist theory was teaching Nadya, and Nadya was teaching Kat, that things should be done differently—not just differently from the way they were done in Russia but also differently from the way they had been done in Voina. It had been a group of men aided by their wives. It had also been a group in which the women
militsiya
, or militia, be renamed
politsiya
, or police. As though that would magically render the police less corrupt and brutal, less likely to rape, pillage, and terrorize, and more likely to protect. As though it would magically make them human. To test this transformation, Nadya and assorted Rodchenko students they drafted would approach police officers and ask them for simple directions. If the officer responded helpfully, one of the actors would go into paroxysms of gratitude, culminating in a kiss—on the lips, when possible. The kisses, it was decided at the outset, should be same-sex. The reasoning behind this decision was, as often happened with Voina, opaque, but the organizing itself proved an interesting experiment: the men of Voina turned out to be no more capable of administering same-sex kisses than the men of
militsiya/politsiya
were of receiving them. They would abort the action a day or a few hours before it was planned, pleading exhaustion, ill health, or nothing at all. So it was by accident that
Buss the Buzz
became Voina’s first women-only action.
Or perhaps it was not entirely accidental. Nadya’s self-education course had taken her into feminist theory. During the production of
Buss the Buzz
, Nadya carried Julia Kristeva’s
Revolt, She Said
with her—to read on the Metro and, it turned out, to quote from when the unhappy object of an unwanted kiss searched her. “We are happy because we are revolting,” Nadya proclaimed, but the attempt to quote Kristeva fell flat, in part because the play on words was lost in translation, so it came out simply “rebelling,” or “rioting.”
Since
Buss the Buzz
had turned into a women-only action, it made sense to release the video clip on the eve of International Women’s Day, March 8, 2011. It went viral and was generally liked, though some people—I was among them—found the nonconsensual physical interaction disturbing. Two years later, Kat assured me there had been no force or coercion involved and only the choppy video editing had made it look like the women of Voina had forced themselves on unsuspecting cops. At the time of the action, though, Kat had sounded pretty aggressive: “A cop’s face is communal property, just like his or her nightstick or your personal belongings, of which he can conduct an illegal search,” she told a reporter. “A cop’s face, as long as he is wearing a uniform and a badge, is but a tool for communicating with citizens. He can use it to demand your documents and . . . to tell you to come to the precinct. And you have only one way of responding: ‘Yes, sir/ma’am, officer, I obey you and I am coming.’ We are proposing a new way of interacting with this tool, we are introducing variety into the relationship between the people and the police.”
Nadya’s message to the same reporter was simpler: “The decision to become a cop is a hugely serious decision, and it should be made responsibly . . . I say to her, ‘Madame Officer, have you heard your boss the mayor’s speech in which he said that ‘Moscow does not need gays’? No? That’s reason enough for me to suck your face.”
Queer theory and feminist theory was teaching Nadya, and Nadya was teaching Kat, that things should be done differently—not just differently from the way they were done in Russia but also differently from the way they had been done in Voina. It had been a group of men aided by their wives. It had also been a group in which the women
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