Russia’s Declaration of War on Literature

Anna Aslanyan, a journalist and translator known for her work on literature and politics, has sounded a warning that a declaration of war on literature in Russia is unfolding. This could have troubling consequences for writers, publishers, and readers alike. In her recent commentary, she outlines how a combination of state censorship, restrictive laws, and the chilling effects of self-censorship is converging to shrink the space for free expression.

Since Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022, Aslanyan and others report that government authorities have stepped up efforts to control literary content. Works that engage with themes the state finds ideologically unacceptable, such as LGBTQ+ rights, dissent, Ukraine, or criticism of the Orthodox Church or Stalinism, are increasingly being removed from shelves, banned, or, in some cases, never allowed into print. Laws once vague have been sharpened or expanded.

Some authors are labelled “foreign agents” or accused of spreading “false information” about the war, which carries severe legal risks. This crackdown isn’t just about formal bans. Aslanyan emphasizes that self-censorship, writers, translators, and publishers quietly shelving or toning down controversial topics, is becoming pervasive.

In her view, fear of legal sanctions, social ostracism, or being targeted as politically suspect encourages many to avoid risky subjects altogether. The result is that literature loses its role as a forum for exploring difficult truths.

Legalities play a key role. For instance, laws around “extremism” and “foreign influence,” or expanded powers of government regulators, are being used to criminalize specific literary material or target those involved in its production. Some bookstores have had books removed; publishers face raids; specific titles are reclassified as extremist or otherwise illegal. The vagueness of laws means that disregulated enforcement, fear, and confusion are rife.

Readers and writers inside Russia are adapting in various ways. Some new publishing efforts (“tamizdat,” the tradition of publishing abroad or underground) have re-emerged. Others mask authorship, avoid sensitive topics, or use coded language. Literary events or festivals may be constrained or avoid contentious works to stay within acceptable boundaries. But Aslanyan warns that as this trend deepens, what’s lost goes beyond individual works; it’s the vibrancy and moral imagination that literature uniquely provides.

Why should people outside Russia care? For one, literature has long been a conduit for empathy and insight into other societies; what happens in Russia shapes global conversations about war, identity, culture, and human rights. When writers are silenced or when books are banned, large swaths of society, especially minorities, dissenting voices, or marginalized perspectives, are cut off from participating in public culture.

Secondly, it sets precedents: once suppression of literature is normalized, it becomes easier for state power to expand over other arts, media, education, and personal life. Ultimately, the international literary community, publishers, translators, and scholars may recognize both the risks and responsibilities of supporting Russian authors under pressure, finding ways to preserve at-risk works, raising awareness abroad, and defending freedom of expression universally.

Anna Aslanyan’s message is urgent but not despairing. She suggests that resistance takes multiple forms: protective legal strategies, international solidarity, creative publishing models, and the courage of authors and translators to continue telling stories, even in constrained circumstances. Literature’s power, and its capacity to question, to imagine alternatives, to humanize, remains essential.

Aslanyan’s warning about the declaration of war on literature in Russia isn’t hyperbole. It is an attempt to sound the alarm: literature is under attack not just as art, but as a space of freedom, with more to lose than simply the cost of a book.