Moldova’s government and its independent art scene are tussling over competing visions of the country’s European future. As artists create for themselves a messy, participatory democracy with room for criticism, the country’s leaders appear more focused on maintaining their image.

The five-hectare ruins of Chișinău’s Republican Stadium, once a Cold-War era football arena in the centre of Moldova's capital, were overgrown and degrading when the US embassy stepped in, offering to pay. The space was perfect for a new embassy location: historic, central, and huge, with ample space for security. But artists and civil society groups wanted it to be made into a public park – a space for everyone that would pay homage to the city’s past. In the end, however, Moldova’s legislature struck a deal with the Americans with, according to detractors, little to no public consultation.

Since 2020 Belarusians have fled en masse from growing repressions inside the country. Civil society and independent culture are now only possible in exile. The stories of Belarusian artists and cultural activists illustrate the resilience and creativity of a community determined to preserve its identity and proceed aspiration for freedom.

Belarusian artists and cultural figures have found themselves increasingly targeted by a regime that views independent thought and creativity as threats to its control in recent years. As a result, the cultural sphere in Belarus has become one of the battlegrounds for the suppression of dissent. The government’s efforts to control and politicize culture have led to censorship, forced closures of cultural institutions, and the persecution of artists who challenge or fail to align with the state's ideological narratives. Yet despite these obstacles, Belarusian culture continues to evolve, with artists voicing their messages at the international level; integrating into a new environment; forming new communities and connections; and spreading the culture.

The Russian-Italian sculptor Jurij Tilman shares his memories of a exhibition he visited as a child and discusses the surprising effect the experience had on his work.

There is an ongoing "total purge" to cleanse the world of sensitive people capable of love. It is my conscious choice to engage in socio-political art. This is my feeble attempt to make a change.

At the age of 36, Vladimir Miketa retains few memories of the war and his past. However, what bothers him most is people’s attitude towards the environment in his area and how authorities manage waste in the region. As a passionate mountaineer and nature lover, he often explores the surrounding area during his hikes. It was during one of these excursions that he discovered a road leading to the village of Lončari.

Before the war in Croatia between 1991 and 1995, the small village of Lončari, situated in the central part of the country and belonging to Zadar County, was home to approximately 120 people, primarily of Serbian nationality. After they fled in 1995 following the military operation “Storm”, during which the Croatian army liberated a significant portion of territory previously under the control of Serbian rebels, the homes inhabited by Serbians remained abandoned for years. Many of these homes were used as stables by local residents, who kept goats and sheep in them.

: The collapse of the Soviet Union meant more than just the fall of a government. For many, it also brought about the end of a way of life. This includes the artist Murivat Beknazarov, who through his work fought to defend the memories of Soviet Tajikistan’s unique cultural life.

When I went to meet Murivat Beknazarov in his studio in Dushanbe for the first time, on a warm autumn day in 2018, he explained to me the location by phone. Since street names are rarely known due to frequent renaming, he told me to find the so-called “artists’ house” in the north of the city. “Just ask around, everyone knows this place,” he said. That was probably the case in Soviet times, but not anymore. As it turned out, no one knew where this place was, not even people living in neighbouring buildings.

The Belarusian experience of exile has left many wounds for those affected. Exposing the trauma caused by separation from home, artist Darya Cemra’s latest exhibition explores the prospect that such pain may never truly heal.

The story of violent clashes that broke out in Sibiu in Romania during late December 1989 is one that many have forgotten since the revolution and regime change. Tudor Giurgiu’s latest film Libertate revisits that turbulent event in Romania. The film not only acts as a reminder of the ruthless terror and chaos of the time but also as a chance for Romanians to reassess their own history.

When Nicolae Ceaușescu's brutal regime collapsed in Romania 34 years ago, Tudor Giurgiu was 18 years old, living in his home city of Cluj-Napoca, in central Transylvania. “For many days and weeks, the country was directionless,” the 51-year-old Romanian film director explains from central Sarajevo, Bosnia, where he is showcasing his latest film Libertate. “People were not talking normally, they were going nuts and there was a lot of shouting, paranoia, and violence.”

Ukraine’s recent Eurovision victory has shown the world its vibrant music industry. This is especially true given the ongoing Russian invasion, with the contest providing a platform for the country to promote its own unique identity.

On the morning of February 24th, Kate woke up to the sound of explosions and air-raid sirens. She nudged her boyfriend to wake up and start packing: "The war had started". It felt like she had never been more afraid of anything in her life.

In post-war Sarajevo a war is waged to win the future which had been taken away by the living ghosts of the past. The frontlines are nonetheless changing and now different people are pushed underground, stigmatised and treated as if they do not belong to the community. The ethnic and religious war has been replaced by a new culture war.

Some time ago, when the bloody Balkan war was still raging in Sarajevo, poet Izet Sarajlić, editor Čedo Kisić and professor Zdravko Grebo were explaining their world to me. None of them is alive anymore. Neither is Isak Samokovlija, a prominent Bosnian Jewish writer, whose stories took me to the most hidden corners of Sarajevo’s historical centre, Baščaršija, as well as the Grbavica and Bentbaša districts. I was listening to the stories of the writers and artists who had left Sarajevo, but who were still under its influence. They included Dževad Karahazan in Graz, Josip Osti in Ljubljana, Miljenko Jergović in Zagreb, and Nino Žalica in Amsterdam…

A conversation with Grzegorz Kwiatkowski, a Polish poet, and Trupa Trupa, songwriter, vocalist and guitarist. Interviewer: Jacek Hajduk

JACEK HAJDUK: During the 2019 SXSW Music Festival you dedicated the performance of your group, Trupa Trupa, to the memory of the late Gdańsk mayor, Paweł Adamowicz. Let us then start with Gdańsk. How much of this city is with you today? And how was it before? Which faces of this multi-layered urban centre are close to your heart?

GRZEGORZ KWIATKOWSKI: Today, Gdańsk is a big part of me, unlike in the past. Back then I was more interested in self-isolating myself and creating a kind of enclave in one of its districts – Gdańsk Wrzeszcz. This actually is still my ideal, but now I also understand the impact that this city has on me and my poetry. This is mainly because of my family stories.