Facilitating Dialogue in the Shadow of War: Reflections from Russia’s Worldwork Forums
Illustration by Ed Dingli for Fine Acts
Introduction: Speaking Where Silence Reigns
In the spring of 2022, shortly after Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, I began hosting a series of facilitated dialogues called Open Forums, later known as Worldwork. These gatherings weren’t protests or strategic interventions. They arose quietly—almost hesitantly—in response to a collective condition that was easier to observe than to name: the growing inability of Russian society to talk to itself.
Back in the 2010s, I already held a clear political stance: I opposed the annexation of Crimea, Russia’s role in the Donbas conflict, and the country’s authoritarian drift. I spoke out about it—but that’s where it ended. I kept to what felt like safer ground: informal education, psychology, grassroots community work. Like many others, I believed there was no real way to influence the state directly. So we focused on changing culture, building islands of meaning, and raising a new generation. In that sense, I was politically aware—but also, in practice, disengaged.
That changed through a series of ruptures. I met Ukrainian colleagues who had lost loved ones. I witnessed hatred—up close and personal. I spoke with peacebuilders who worked in other war zones. These encounters broke something open. At some point, I realized: I couldn’t not respond. I had to do something directly connected to the war.
That’s when I began searching for antiwar initiatives and exploring peacebuilding work at the intersection of group facilitation, psychology, education, and social transformation. It became clear: the kind of facilitation that called to me most was the kind rooted in conflict. And nothing brings conflict closer to the surface than war.
By the time the full-scale invasion began in 2022, I had already been involved in a few small antiwar and peacebuilding initiatives. Still, the invasion brought a profound shock. Societal polarization simmering for years suddenly crystallized. Mass protests flared briefly before giving way to fear and retreat as the state intensified its pushback. But it wasn’t just repression—it was something deeper. Not indifference, not consensus, but fragmentation. Disorientation. The collapse of shared space.
In contrast, Ukrainian civil society—despite bearing the brunt of violence—was creating spaces for internal dialogue, mutual support, and collective healing. I watched this with both admiration and grief. I chose to stay in Russia, even though many were leaving. That meant working quietly, underground, in a landscape of fear and surveillance—but it also meant staying close to the emotional and political reality of those who remained. Out of this space, Open Forums emerged—not as solutions, but as experiments. As a response to a society that had become speechless.
These forums weren’t designed to persuade or convert—that no longer felt possible—but to create space: for tension, contradiction, grief, and complexity. For something to be spoken and heard. In the time when political agency felt out of reach, perhaps the act of honest, vulnerable speech and listening could itself become a form of civic resistance. Perhaps, I hoped, a society that remembers how to speak across differences might one day remember how to act.
This article is a reflection on that work. I will describe how and in which context this project was born. Then I will introduce the method: its theoretical ground and key principles. I will go on to tell the story of a selection of Forums out of the ones I held–highlighting the recurring patterns, themes and observations, and reflecting on both the limitations and successes of this work. These Forums, I believe, show potential for bridging and democracy building in Russia and other places where society is not at peace with itself.
The Birth of Open Forums
The first Open Forums began in the summer of 2022, a few months after the Russian invasion. The idea was simple, though far from easy: to create a space where Russians—both inside and outside the country—could speak honestly about the war, its impact, and how to relate to it in meaningful, active, and inclusive ways—even when that relationship was ambiguous or unclear. At its most ambitious, the hope was to bring together people from across the ideological spectrum—including both supporters and opponents of the war—so that the depth of social polarization could be surfaced and explored. I had worked with this format in therapeutic settings before, within the framework of process-oriented psychology, but this was my first attempt to apply those tools to the raw, unresolved tensions of a society in active conflict.
The early sessions were held online. Sometimes I collaborated with colleagues who also had a background in deep democracy and conflict facilitation. One of them, the experienced Swiss psychologist Reini Hauser, co-facilitated the first gatherings with me. These meetings were modest in many ways: no public announcements, no campaigns. Invitations spread by word of mouth. Participation required trust, and trust took time.
The Forums quickly confirmed the need for such spaces—even though the responses were often contradictory and mixed. Participants showed up with uncertainty, curiosity, or caution. Some found comfort in being able to speak out difficult truths in a shared presence. Others explored conflicting perspectives. Many touched on unresolved tensions—though rarely the most polarized ones directly. For many, these forums were among the few spaces where the war could even be acknowledged—beyond the confines of their closest circles. Participants described the experience as strange, intense, disorienting—and, repeatedly, necessary.
At first, I hoped a small community might grow out of the practice—one that could sustain itself and spread, with different people hosting similar spaces around the country. That didn’t quite happen. Instead, there were periods of collaboration with those who had energy at a particular moment.
Over time, the Forums became more diverse in format and focus. Initially, the topics were directly tied to the Russo-Ukrainian war. After the October 7 Hamas attack and the subsequent war in Gaza, we felt a strong need to dedicate a Forum to that event—especially since many Russians who had fled to Israel to escape one war now found themselves amid another. Soon after, the renewed escalation in Nagorno-Karabakh added another layer of urgency. These developments gradually expanded our scope to include war and violence more broadly, though the invasion of Ukraine remained central.
As the Forums filled a vacuum for honest, complex civic dialogue, the range of topics widened—loosely framed as societal tensions. Some themes were chosen in advance, sometimes in response to external events—such as the death of Alexei Navalny or Russia’s Victory Day, when we explored what "victory" might mean in the context of today’s war for different groups. At other times, participants proposed themes that resonated with them, and the group chose the one that felt most charged. Sometimes the topic emerged spontaneously—as if the field itself selected what needed to be voiced.
By 2023, the format had grown. We began experimenting with in-person Forums in partnership with cultural venues, especially Theater.doc in Moscow. We also explored intersections between Worldwork and participatory theater—creating hybrid sessions where public dialogue and embodied expression met on stage, reaching wider audiences. In parallel, I helped launch a training course on civic facilitation, aiming to share tools and build the capacity to hold similar spaces in other settings.
Still, the Forums remained fragile. Participation was voluntary and emotionally demanding. Groups were small—typically 8 to 30 people—but usually intense. The work was unpaid. As of May 2025, we’ve held over 35 Forums. What kept me going was the sense that even these small islands of dialogue mattered—that in a time of collective disintegration, speaking together, even briefly, might begin to weave something back.
What is Worldwork
Worldwork and Open Forums are group process formats rooted in process-oriented psychology, a discipline developed by Arnold Mindell. While technically distinct, in our practice the two terms often overlap—and I use them interchangeably throughout this article.
Process-oriented psychology emerged in the 1970s and 80s, a time of experimentation in both psychology and social movements. It drew from Jungian ideas about the unconscious and collective processes, integrated insights from Taoism, indigenous knowledge, bodywork, and—importantly—responded to the civil rights movements, peace activism, and political upheavals of the time. From the beginning, it refused to stay within the confines of therapy. It reached toward the social field. Worldwork was born out of that impulse: the idea that individual, group, and societal dynamics mirror one another and can be worked through systemically.
Over the years, Worldwork has been applied in many conflict-affected regions—Northern Ireland, the Balkans, South Africa, Israel-Palestine, and others—where facilitators engaged with communities divided by violence, history, and trauma. A compelling example of this is the film For the Next Generation, which documents Worldwork sessions held as part of post-genocide dialogue efforts in Rwanda.
Worldwork doesn’t offer a single technique or formula. Instead, it’s a flexible, open-ended approach to working with groups. This can be disorienting—especially for those who prefer strictly evidence-based methodologies or highly structured dialogue formats. But its strength lies precisely in that openness. There’s no fixed script, no mandatory setting, no required tone. A session might begin with a meditation and speak of group energies and fields, or it might take on an organizational tone, focusing on systemic dynamics and social roles. It can resonate with activists addressing structural oppression, or unfold on a theater stage as a kind of social performance. Participants don’t need to be “converted,” trained professionals, or even familiar with psychological language.
One of my own challenges was introducing Worldwork beyond its usual circles. In Russia, the method was often practiced within tight-knit communities of process-oriented psychologists, or framed as a therapeutic format. I wanted to bring it into broader public spaces—including among people skeptical of therapy or psychology altogether.
Since this format is not confined to particular guidelines or mandatory steps, it instead relies on understanding, as well as embodying and applying the core principles I describe below: following the process and deep democracy.
To follow the process means to trust that the group’s unfolding dynamic carries its own kind of intelligence. Symptoms, disruptions, even technical problems are not just noise—they may be meaningful signals. The facilitator’s role isn’t to control or fix what happens, but to help reveal what’s already trying to emerge. This stance invites curiosity toward discomfort. It assumes that what the group marginalizes or avoids may hold the key to what needs to be addressed
Deep democracy is the commitment to welcoming all voices—both mainstream and marginalized; and not only socially silenced ones, but also those that may be taboo, shameful, or suppressed within a group—or even within an individual. It also includes a range of ways of knowing—not just rational arguments or clear opinions, but also emotions, dreams, body symptoms, intuitions, and what some might call spiritual or transcendent experience (called “the essence” in Processwork). In deep democracy, all of these have value. All of them matter.
Then, there are a few unique concepts and attitudes guiding the Worldwork process.
Roles
A central tool in Worldwork is role work. Roles are not just social positions or identities, but shared energies or perspectives within a group. Someone might speak not only from their personal experience, but from a broader voice—“the silent bystander,” “fear,” “war itself.” Unlike some dialogue methods that encourage only personal “I-statements,” Worldwork invites participants to speak from roles when that helps deepen the process. This can make it easier to express complex or ambivalent feelings. It also helps acknowledge that we are all shaped by larger forces—cultural narratives, systemic pressures, historical trauma. Roles are not fixed; they are fluid and collective. Several people may take up the same role, expand on it, and then let it go. A role is always more than one person—and no person is ever just one role.
Closely related are ghost roles: voices or forces that are not physically present, but are strongly felt in the room. They often show up as “them”—the state, the soldier, the oppressor, the absent other. These ghosts can create tension if they’re not named. Naming them—or temporarily embodying them—can bring relief or clarity. But this isn’t always easy. In our context, roles like “the Ukrainian voice,” “the Russian state,” or “the front-line combatant” were literally absent but powerfully present. Their absence shaped the conversation as much as their presence might have. At the same time, when less expected participants did appear—former residents of Donetsk and Luhansk, refugees, self-identified patriots—they added complexity, friction, and a sense of grounded reality.
One of my tasks as facilitator was to introduce this kind of work to people who had never experienced it—and who might be unfamiliar with facilitation, psychology, or group dynamics altogether. I found that working in a theatrical setting helped. The stage made embodiment more intuitive. The language of performance gave people permission to explore roles without feeling exposed or strange.
Conflict
In Worldwork, conflict is not a failure—it’s a necessary part of the group process. The model recognizes four general phases of conflict:
Suppression or denial
Polarization and escalation
Softening and mutual recognition
Integration and meta-awareness
Unlike traditional mediation, which often tries to move quickly past conflict toward resolution, Worldwork takes the opposite approach. It supports each phase as it unfolds. Escalation is explored, not avoided. Groups may stay in phase two for a long time—especially when deeper emotions or identities haven’t yet been voiced. The facilitator’s task is to help each position deepen and clarify—creating space for the unspeakable to be spoken. Only then does the process begin to shift. The transition toward phases three and four usually happens not through decision, but through subtle signals: a change in tone, a shift in body posture, a softening in voice. The facilitator’s role is to notice these moments and gently support the transition—without forcing it. In this way, Worldwork makes room for authentic transformation, rather than premature agreement.
Facilitation
Facilitators are not above the process. They are part of it. Facilitation itself is a role—one that can be held lightly, shared, or even set aside temporarily. Facilitators may, at times, step into the circle as participants, voicing their own positions. Neutrality, in this model, doesn’t mean detachment. It means being able to hold multiple perspectives without collapsing into any one of them. This quality is called eldership: the ability to care for the whole without needing to be right.
This model was essential in our context. In a society at war, no one is truly neutral. The fantasy of an outside expert who can heal social trauma from above doesn’t hold. Those who care enough to hold these spaces are already part of what’s unfolding. Worldwork offers tools to navigate that involvement—not by pretending to be neutral, but by acknowledging one’s position and working from within it.
What the sessions looked like
Over time, the format of the sessions settled into a recognizable structure. Each Forum lasted about three hours. We usually began by briefly introducing ourselves—sometimes in small groups, especially if the circle was large. I would give a short overview of the process and its intent, without diving into the full theoretical background. I then set a few basic ground rules: confidentiality, and physical contact only with consent. I emphasized that each person was responsible for their own legal and psychological safety. That meant choosing how much to share and how fully to engage—especially since we did not aim for a completely “safe” space free from discomfort. On the contrary, tension was welcome. The rest of the guidelines remained intentionally open. People could speak in any order, interrupt, raise their voices, curse, sit, stand, lie down, or move around.
If the session didn’t begin with a predetermined theme, we selected one together. Participants proposed topics—ideally something personal, yet collectively resonant, with an underlying tension. We chose by voting, or sensing which proposals had more energy through a mix of gestures, voices, and sometimes even spinning a pen to let chance decide. The idea was that the chosen topic served as an entry point; other issues often surfaced naturally in the group process.
Then the main work began. Participants spoke and moved freely in the space, responding to one another, often gradually shifting from abstract ideas to more personal truths. When similar voices emerged, I invited those holding them to stand together and explore the shared role. If things escalated, I often slowed the pace—not to suppress conflict, but to deepen it: What does this voice feel? What does it want? What is its message to the group? I encouraged movement between roles, inviting participants to step into opposing perspectives—not as contradiction, but as exploration. Sometimes pausing and framing what was going on shifted the process (“looks like we’re cycling in blame-game” or “looks like this voice is dominant while the other one is marginalised”). I sometimes took on voices that seemed absent or avoided (i.e. “ghost roles”), voicing their essence and checking how the group responded. Beyond words, the spatial constellations, silences, and emotional currents told the story of the session.
The process had its rhythm—like waves rising and falling—with “hot spots” of tension and “cool spots” of relief. When the time felt right, we ended with a brief reflection, either together or in smaller groups, touching on what each person was taking away from the experience.
This appearance—more like a participatory workshop or artistic conversation than a formal political event—may have helped us stay under the radar, even when addressing sensitive or censored topics. We were cautious: publicity was minimal, but we didn’t screen participants. Inside the space, we did not censor ourselves.
At a time when public silence—born of fear, confusion, or numbness—had become the norm, these sessions offered a rare chance to be present together. With an underlying principle of Deep Democracy, Worldwork functions as a bridging tool and a model for democratic resilience in a polarized context. . It creates space for different voices to not just co-exist, but to potentially draw wisdom from differences, tensions and hidden dynamics, giving way for more wholeness, complexity and coherence.
Inside the Sessions: Voices, Tensions, Silences
Worldwork sessions were never recorded—partly for safety, but also because of the intimate, personal nature of what unfolded. My main sources are notes I took after each session, capturing group dynamics and moments in anonymous form, and as I witnessed them. Of course, these are filtered through my own perception, with all the subjectivity that entails. Still, I want to offer a few sketches—brief glimpses that might help you imagine what these forums actually felt like. I’ll return later to reflect on the broader patterns that emerged.
March 2024: "Fear"
The session begins with unexpected voices—not of fear, but defiance.
“I’m tired of being afraid.”
“People around me who panic throw me off.”
“Fear is useless—just assess the risk and act.”
“Yes, I get scared too—but I push through it, and so should you.”
A cluster of "fearless" voices forms, reinforcing each other. But slowly, tentatively, fear begins to surface. Not just fear of repression or war, but existential fear—trembling, numbness, the urge to flee. One participant admits, “Before this session, I was already looking up plane tickets. I was scared that after the terror attack at Crocus City Hall in March 2024, things would escalate”.
Another adds a deeper fear: “I can rely on myself—but I don’t believe anyone will stand up for me when it matters. That’s what terrifies me.”
Tension rises. Those expressing fear want the “fearless” to admit their own fear—which, of course, is there. The fearless want distance—they themselves are anxious they might get pulled into fear.
Then something shifts. They begin to see each other. A quiet, grounded voice speaks: someone who has lived through so much grief and fear that it no longer overwhelms them. There appears a different constellation: courage no longer means denying fear. It means feeling it fully—and acting anyway. And behind the risk-takers stand others, not ready to step forward, but ready to support.
March 2025: "Us and Them"
Despite the divisive theme, the room leans not toward polarization, but warmth. Most don’t know each other, but a current of solidarity and support emerges and moves through the room. One participant shares something vulnerable. Another replies with kindness. Then another. A wave of trust.
People tell stories of finding humanity in ideological opponents. Of reconciling across divides. Of keeping relationships alive despite conflict. One idea gains traction: “There are no strangers. Everyone is potentially ‘us’. Be curious, look for the human in others. If someone triggers you—pause, reflect, work on yourself. Or, simply set a boundary and step back”.
There is truth here. But something is also missing. For all the talk of “them,” no one takes that role. The other side is absent. The massive societal divide—so present in the country—is invisible in the room.
And then it becomes clear: this solidarity, as real as it is, is also a refuge. A response to exhaustion. A way of avoiding conflict. The idea that “we are all one” has become a beautiful escape.
That’s when someone names a different truth: othering has its place. Polarization can be healthy—not to hate, but to draw lines. To say no to the unacceptable. To push for change.
The absence of that energy isn’t unity. It’s exhaustion, a lack of faith in collective power. A weariness so deep it silences even righteous anger. A helplessness still waiting for its voice.
May 2025: "Why Bother? Everything Feels Pointless"
The group chooses a theme that resonates deeply: the futility of action.
One side of the room speaks with resignation: “Every effort is a drop in the ocean. Resistance feels impossible. Everything else is hollow.” A few respond gently: “I feel that too sometimes, but I try to find new sources of strength. I do what I can.”
But other voices push back—not in argument, but through presence. One participant looks out the window and calls: “There’s life out there!” They begin dancing. Another circles the group, playfully interrupting: “You grown-ups always talk. Why not play?” Laughter. Others join the game. Someone stands up to say, “Look around—life is still happening.”
It feels like an embodied reply to despair: yes, the war exists, but it’s not the whole picture. These moments don’t deny suffering—they expand the field.
Later, guilt moved through the group like a wave. Some name it directly—guilt for the war, for others’ actions, for not doing more. Others object: “it doesn’t make sense, it’s manipulative.” Yet beneath both sides is something shared: helplessness, and a desire to stay connected through care. For some, guilt is a way to remain emotionally tied to horror—almost a fragile form of agency. For others, the only sustainable path is to focus on what can still be done, here and now. As these voices deepen, they begin to meet through a shared thread of compassion. Both are shaped by the same awareness of powerlessness, though finding different ways to deal with it.
Reflections and Recurring Patterns
Worldwork doesn’t aim to produce clear-cut conclusions. But across the many sessions we held, certain themes and polarities repeated themselves—revealing something about the deeper emotional and political landscape of Russian society. What follows isn’t a synthesis or summary, but an attempt to name some of the dynamics that showed up again and again.
Power
Polarity: Power vs. People / System vs. Individual
This polarity appeared in nearly every session, either explicitly or just below the surface. A deep sense of disconnection from the state was taken for granted by many participants—a vast, unbridgeable gap between ordinary people and those who held power. Interestingly, “power” rarely had a personal face. It showed up as a faceless, abstract force—remote, untouchable, and immune to accountability. Even participants who initially stepped into roles like “the official,” “the wealthy,” or “the person with status” quickly found themselves expressing powerlessness in the face of the real system. Activists and ordinary citizens felt it even more acutely.
This sense of a faceless, indifferent power doesn’t only reflect the authoritarian structure of the Russian state—it also speaks to a legacy of depoliticization. Loyalty isn’t rooted in shared ideology; it’s transactional. You can live, maybe even thrive, as long as you don’t step into politics. The concept of participatory governance may exist on paper, but emotionally it feels like a void. In sessions, that void was often filled with helplessness—either voiced directly or showing up as apathy. Such collective apathy became more pronounced at particular political junctures, such as the brief hope sparked by peace talks initiated by Trump in spring of 2025, followed by swift disillusionment.
Some of this may sound overly psychologized, but I believe the aggressive rhetoric and imperial fantasies expressed by parts of the population often mask something more vulnerable: a profound sense of political impotence. The desire for Russia to be “respected” or “feared” internationally isn’t just driven by propaganda or historical grievance—it can also be a displaced yearning for dignity and recognition at home, from a state that withholds both.
Focus on War vs. Private Life
Polarity: Engagement with War vs. Retreat into Personal Life
Paradoxically, large segments of Russian society have been able to tune out the war. Even when it breaks through—through mobilization, drone strikes near the border, or the arrest of someone close—it still feels distant to many. With enough psychological adaptation, even horror fades into background noise.
From this reality emerged a recurring figure: the apolitical citizen. For them, the war became a new normal, like bad weather—something to avoid, not confront. Sometimes this appeared as escapism, “internal emigration,” or refusal to “look up”. In more intentional form, it was a deliberate choice to focus on meaningful, peaceful action within one’s sphere of influence. This role emphasized the value, even the moral urgency, of preserving life, love, creativity, and joy in the face of destruction.
Opposing that was the activist voice, saying this is not normal. We must not look away. Staying present requires effort: constantly reading the news, confronting others’ indifference, carrying guilt. When external action feels impossible, that guilt often turns inward, becoming self-punishment—refusing oneself joy or meaning as a way to stay “connected” to the suffering.
These two poles—activist urgency and private preservation—often held lessons for each other. One called us to remember reality and believe in change. The other insisted on vitality, resilience, and care. And even though within the sessions these two showed just the beginning of a reciprocal movement, one could imagine the power of them potentially integrating. While activists so often end up burned out in an endless battle against the “wrong” and implicitly push away those “who just want to enjoy their lives” – a different kind of activist is the one connected to the inner source of joy, fighting for what’s right and also inviting others to something inspiring. I guess all of us could be that activist a little bit more.
Silence
Polarity: Dialogue vs. Silence
Silence was embedded in the very foundation of this work. Sometimes we named it directly, but often it appeared in more subtle ways. The silences we encountered reflected larger dynamics in society.
Why do people stay silent?
Fear of repression. But that also gives courageous speech more meaning. In fact, some of the most powerful public statements in Russia in recent years have come from politically persecuted individuals during their final courtroom appearances—moments when they had nothing left to lose, and chose to speak anyway.
Despair: If speaking seems useless, why take the risk?
Fatigue: “Every sharp word leads to rupture. Dialogue feels impossible.”
Social convention: It may feel inappropriate to talk about anything light-hearted while war rages. While for others, small talk is the last thread of connection.
Distrust: “Everyone lies. Why should I speak or listen?”
Disillusionment: “Enough talk. Just act.”
Lack of safe language: “I refuse to echo dehumanizing narratives. Better to stay silent”.
One important dynamic came from the imagined or implicit presence of Ukrainians. For many anti-war Russians, this brought up guilt, anxiety, or the fear of saying the wrong thing. Some felt they had to first prove their solidarity before they could speak at all. Others felt that the suffering of Ukrainians left no room for them to speak of their own pain—whether related to repression, exile, or loss.
Silence often manifested literally—long pauses, frozen bodies, physical withdrawal. At other times, it appeared more subtly: abstract speech with no grounding, voices that said things while bodies remained silent. Sometimes, someone said something raw and true—and the group skipped past it.
That silence, in the Forums and in society, needed to be heard. It needed space. It needed to be slowed down, and sometimes broken through.
Children
Polarity: Child vs. Adult
Though metaphorical, this pattern was striking. Across many themes, a child figure would emerge—spontaneous, joyful, tender. This “child” brought presence, simplicity, and a reminder of what truly matters. For the child, war was absurd; compassion was natural. The child represented renewal: new systems, new culture, new generations.
But this energy often struggled to enter the space, blocked by an internalized adult voice: “Be serious. Grow up.” When explored, this conflict revealed something deeper—the dangers of collective “childishness”: naivety, dependence, escapism, and the longing for someone else to take responsibility.
Seen through this lens, society itself can appear as a collective child—its immaturity reinforcing the paternalism of the state. The call to grow up becomes a call for civic maturity and accountability.
And then, at some point, the emotional twist arrived: the state, once imagined as a protective parent, revealed itself as absent. The child was not protected. The child was abandoned. There were no adults. Growing up was something we would have to do ourselves.
This configuration—of a lost child and a missing adult—surfaced repeatedly. It pointed not only to present emotions but to a deeper intergenerational trauma: the legacy of literal orphans in Russia’s past—children who lost parents to war, repression, and catastrophe. And it still resonates today. It captures something essential about where we find ourselves now.
Challenges and Contradictions
The Myth of Neutrality
In the context of war and repression in Russia, the idea of a politically neutral facilitator simply doesn’t hold. As mentioned earlier, process-oriented facilitation replaces neutrality with the concept of eldership—the ability to move among multiple perspectives, including uncomfortable ones, without collapsing into a single position. This approach helped me stay open to voices I might otherwise have dismissed. The act of holding space changed me. It demanded, and gradually cultivated, the very qualities that the role of facilitator depends on.
Still, there were limits. Despite my efforts to make these spaces inclusive, most participants came from anti-war circles. Invitations spread mostly through word of mouth—for safety—and the way the Forums were framed, with emphasis on emotional expression, civic dialogue, and inner work, probably felt foreign or irrelevant to those who supported the war. Even if they were curious, it would have been reasonable to assume they’d be in the minority. My own public stance likely reinforced that impression, whether I intended it or not.
Though we did explore lines of tension that naturally occurred among the participants (including relationship to guilt, activism, soldiers, generational gap, etc,) the central political divide—between those who support and those who oppose the war—rarely materialized directly in the room. At best, it was symbolically addressed through role-play, simulating voices that weren’t physically present. While this technique can be powerful, it’s not a substitute for real dialogue. The absence of those voices was tangible. It sometimes left a sense of incompleteness, as if something essential had remained just out of reach.
Fear and Trust
Worldwork helped soften barriers between strangers—but it didn’t dissolve fear. The background anxiety of surveillance and repression was always there. Even without direct threats, a deeper cultural mistrust lingered. People spoke with courage—but always with some awareness of risk. A long-term, closed group might have provided more safety. But I deliberately kept the Forums semi-public, trying to create a space that reached into broader civil society—and that had a downside.
Usefulness and Doubt
Many participants found the Forums deeply meaningful. Some returned repeatedly. But a recurring doubt showed up: what’s the point, if we can’t change anything? The groups were small. The war continued. The system remained untouched. My early hope—that the Forums would spark a larger movement—hasn't fully come to life. Sometimes, this gap between the depth of the experience and the unchanged world outside led us to question whether any of it mattered. Still, people kept coming. Perhaps holding space for honest feeling and speech, in a time of silence and numbness, is a form of impact in itself—even if it remains open to questioning. And—especially when among other peace, democracy, and human rights activists—I feel that this work is an essential piece of a huge interconnected, complex puzzle of democracy-building, where no one thing provides the ultimate answer. Also, it is still a hopeful shock for those activists who left the country, that this kind of work is possible and is being done right in the middle of Moscow.
Theater as a Frame
One unexpected insight came from working inside a theater. While the Forums weren’t performances, the theatrical setting made something possible. Embodying roles felt more intuitive. The stage lent legitimacy. Participants could experiment with unfamiliar energies or positions without feeling exposed or strange. And in an authoritarian context, the arts are often perceived as less threatening than explicitly civic or political activity. Theater might offer a path forward—especially through hybrid formats where real dialogue inspires performed reflection, opening the work to broader audiences without sacrificing its depth.
Conclusion: Listening in the Fire
Worldwork was never meant to offer easy answers. It doesn’t resolve conflict through consensus or heal social trauma with a single breakthrough. What it offers is both more modest and more radical: a shared container for complexity. A space where contradictions can surface, where silence can be heard, where roles can be taken on and let go. A space where no one has to be right in order to be real.
In the Russian context—marked by fear, fragmentation and authoritarianism—that alone was already a form of resistance. The Forums created rare spaces for people to show up as they were, with everything they carried. They allowed for grief and numbness, fear and defiance, hope and despair. Even when voices were missing, even when no conclusion could be reached, the shared presence mattered.
But the potential of this work goes beyond Russia. Around the world, societies are becoming more polarized, institutions more brittle, and shared reality more fragile. In such conditions, dialogue becomes dangerous. And therefore more necessary than ever.
Yet “dialogue” is not a slogan. It’s not a technocratic solution or a polite exchange of views. True dialogue asks more. It requires us to stay in the heat of disagreement. To listen beyond what we want to hear. To risk being changed. It doesn’t try to mediate conflict away, but to enter into it more fully—to sense the field, to notice who and what is missing, and to make space.
In this sense, Worldwork is not just a method. It’s a practice of collective maturity. A way of cultivating eldership: the capacity to hold contradiction without collapsing into certainty or retreating into cynicism. It is slow. It is messy. It is often insufficient. And still, it may be part of what our fractured societies need most.
What remains is not a list of conclusions, but a commitment—to keep listening, especially when it’s hard, especially when there are no answers. To keep creating spaces where voices can meet, and where transformation, however uncertain, remains possible.
Even in the fire.
Author bio:
Vlad Sakovich is a group processes facilitator, psychologist, and peacebuilder. Co-author of the course on Civic Facilitation. Facilitator of Open forums on war for Russians.
Editor's note: The ideas expressed in this blog are not necessarily those of the Othering & Belonging Institute or UC Berkeley, but belong to the authors.