Epistolary romance

Petriychuk’s 2021 play Finist the Brave Falcon, which focused on several Russian women who were recruited by radical Islamists after entering into long-distance relationships with Muslim men, was initially acclaimed in Russia for its powerful depiction of radicalisation and was awarded Russia’s most prestigious theatre award, the Golden Mask, in 2022. 

However, shortly afterwards, the still relatively liberal political climate suddenly changed for the worse in the months following Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. By mid-2024, Petriychuk and the play’s director Yevgenia Berkovich were sentenced to six years in a penal colony in the first case since the Soviet era of a play leading to prison. The outcry from many of those in the Russian theatrical establishment — pointing out the absurdity of the charges given the play’s strong anti-terrorism message — made no difference at all. 

Petriychuk’s husband, Yury Shekhvatov, now lives in Hamburg, having chosen to distance himself from Moscow’s theatre world, which he now holds in contempt for its tacit acceptance of his wife’s imprisonment. “At best, they are silent, and at worst, they condone it.”

Home to Shekhvatov has always been something of a vague concept, and is simply anywhere, he says, “where I feel happy”, adding that he only feels happy “when a letter from Svetlana makes it past the censor, around once every two weeks”. 

Since Petriychuk’s arrest, Shekhvatov has sent her 956 letters, some of which, inevitably, never reached their final destination. He ends every letter with a quote from the novel Maidenhair by Russian author Mikhail Shishkin: “Any news? — Yes. I love you even more.”

“I think the word ‘love’ is not enough to describe what we feel now. It’s bigger than any word,” Shekhvatov says. “We don’t have the opportunity to call, see each other, or hug. But we know what our love is.”

As a show of support and as a way of keeping Petriychuk’s persecution in the public mind and to ensure her name is not forgotten, readings and performances of her work continue to be staged around the world. Greek director Konstantina Palli staged the first ever Greek production of Finist the Brave Falcon in September, Dan Ershov’s production of Petriychuk’s Tuesday is a Short Day premiered in Tallinn late last year, and the BBC’s English-language audio adaptation of the play has done the most to raise the profile of the work. 

Shekhvatov, who currently doubles as Petriychuk’s agent, says he appreciates each and every performance or reading of Petriychuk’s work, and though he says he has little interest in mainstream Russian theatre, he says he’s aware of several independent projects in Russia which continue to stage Petriychuk’s work in secret, but chose not to name them for their own safety.

But while some theatres in Russia stage clandestine productions of Petriychuk’s plays at their own risk, others simply removed her name from their playbills when she was arrested but continued to perform her works, something Shekhatov says made him feel “disgusted”.

“But I really don’t care at this point,” he says. “Just leave our family alone, I don’t want to hear any explanations. If people choose to conform, that’s their business.”

Shekhvatov describes himself as “eternally grateful” for the support that he and his family have received since Petriychuk’s arrest, having finally begun to accept online donations from well-wishers after Petriychuk’s long sentence was announced. Before that, he had refused all offers of financial assistance.

Perhaps the most significant financial support has come from the publication of a collection of Petriychuk’s lesser-known works by Freedom Letters, a Russian-language publishing house which publishes content banned in Russia. All proceeds from the sale of the book go directly to supporting Petriychuk’s family. 

Shekhvatov says letters are what sustains his wife in prison, even if she is unable to respond to each one, and warmly encourages people to write to her. “People often don’t understand what it means to be in prison. And that’s okay, that’s how it should be,” Shekhvatov says. “I envy those who do not know what it means to be in a locked room for a year and a half, to only be able to call loved ones every 12 days for 15 minutes.” 

Shekhvatov worries that by the time Petriychuk completes her sentence and returns home, their pet dachshund Assol may no longer be alive as she is already 13 years old. 

Given that the case became one of Russia’s most high-profile political trials, Shekhvatov admits he had secretly hoped Petriychuk’s name would figure among those included in a list of prisoners exchanged in a swap the Russians negotiated with the West in August, despite realising that it was highly unlikely, not least as Petriychuk had never mentioned anything about it.

In December, Russia’s court of appeal upheld Petriychuk’s conviction though it reduced her sentence by two months from six years to five years and 10 months. According to Shekhvatov, while this decision is typical of appeal courts in Russia, he had dared to hope for a more lenient decision in this case.

“It feels like we’re on a boat and a storm has started. When the downpour increases, it is impossible not to feel it. There’s no point in getting angry at it. The only thing you can do to make a difference is to keep water out of the boat, dump ballast, and direct the sail, and one day the storm will die down.”