Vacation Under Sirens: Where Russians Holiday During the War

The host begins on a personal note. As a child, she went with her parents almost every year to Sochi, on the Black Sea, the most popular holiday destination among Russians. Crowded beaches, amusement parks and new friends became her main childhood memories. Holidays in Eastern Europe, she says, are more than just a vacation: as a child, they felt like a whole life, and today they make many people nostalgic.

Sochi remains the country's main resort, "Russia's answer to the Côte d'Azur": beaches, palm trees and promenades without having to go abroad. The host notes that Russia's resort towns are now under constant attack. State television, however, paints a completely different picture. As an example, she cites a report about Sochi preparing to harvest "the first Russian bananas." The report emphasizes that they were planted on May 9, 2025, Victory Day.

Today, according to the host, sending a film crew to Sochi is practically impossible. So she shows footage shot in the second year of the invasion of Ukraine. The correspondent, who later had to leave the country, filmed anonymously and explained why himself: in Russia, working with a foreign media outlet can get you labeled a foreign agent "at the very least." He wanted to find out how Russians spend their weekends when a war is being fought literally on the neighboring coast.

The first answers sounded almost identical: "everything's wonderful, everything's great, simply fantastic." Asked whether they missed Italy and France, vacationers replied that it was fine, people were coming, and "where else would you go?" Someone mentioned Turkey. One person put it this way: "If the gates are closed everywhere, we have to cultivate things here now."

The correspondent admitted that what he saw "doesn't fit into the overall picture." He couldn't understand how the St. George ribbons all over town and the mobile recruitment points for contract military service fit together with vacationing. He described the logic of the people around him like this: everything runs in parallel, and if the motherland calls, people will get up off the beach and go. On the beach, he came across some border guards celebrating. One of them told a comrade that "now, during the SMO, isn't the time" to organize something among brothers and that "the situation isn't right now."

On his very first day, the correspondent went straight from the beach to a concert celebrating City Day. From the stage came words about how the loved ones of the defenders are "nearby, always with us," and how an eventful summer holiday awaits the children. Two audience members dismissed the concert as "nothing special." The correspondent decided they were his kind of people. They were Alexander Petrovich, who introduced himself as a producer with 46 years of experience in show business and a well-known figure in Sochi, and Valentin Ivanovich, an ethnographer, local historian and architect.

The correspondent put to them a common reproach: there's a war going on, "our people" are being killed, while everyone else parties, drinks and relaxes, and "nobody gives a damn." The two men objected that life goes on. To make their point, they recalled that even during the Great Patriotic War, people sang songs and sat around in their kitchens.

A couple from Moscow, Artyom and Olga, called Sochi "practically our home town," where everyone is "chilling, kicking back." The correspondent pointed out that the singer at the concert had performed a song by Loboda, and Loboda, he noted, is from Ukraine. The couple replied that it's a classic and everyone loves it. Asked whether they could feel any changes here, they said: "Everything here is the way it was," "everyone just doesn't care."

Then the conversation took a different turn. The woman admitted that the war had put them in a bad mood and that they were worried. In the same breath came "well, we'll win," and then: "I was born in Kyiv myself." After this, the correspondent concluded that people actually do care. In his assessment, behind the mask of merriment and the liters of alcohol, people here are most likely hiding anxiety and unease.

The host stresses that this summer the situation is much more serious, and things are far from carefree everywhere. In 2026, Tuapse was attacked by Ukrainian drones several times. The target, she says, was the oil refinery: the strikes were meant to cut off fuel supplies to the Russian military and shake the economy. The fires burned for several days, and leaked oil polluted the coastal zone.

The host shows how propaganda uses these events. One report states that this is already the third attack on Tuapse since mid-April and that the previous strike caused a spill of petroleum products into the waters of the Black Sea. The same report cites a Kremlin statement: the oil was intended for export, which means the "Kyiv regime" is deliberately creating problems on global energy markets. Another report compares the Ukrainian Armed Forces' strikes on the refinery to World War II: "Tuapse is a City of Military Glory. Today it is once again on the firing line." A third example, according to the host, shows propaganda suggesting that ordinary citizens chip in to clean up the aftermath. On air, it was said that society and the state face a host of tasks not included in the budget, and the state has no way to spend money on them.

The host says the war is making itself felt more and more inside Russia itself, coming back there "almost like a boomerang." According to the propaganda version, nobody in Tuapse is unhappy: people are getting ready for the holiday season, and "everything is going as usual." The authorities have promised that the season will go ahead, but fuel oil keeps turning up here and there along the coast. The host cites media reports that fuel oil from Tuapse has reached even the beaches of Crimea.

According to the host, Crimea has other problems besides fuel oil. The peninsula serves as the base of the Black Sea Fleet and is under constant attack. Recently, the Ukrainian Armed Forces have also been striking the land corridor to Crimea, causing gasoline shortages there. On camera, a driver rails against the lack of fuel: "Where are we heading, and why? I don't understand."

The host explains that gasoline in the region is now sold with ration coupons, and lines have formed at gas stations. Before that, the authorities allowed sales of no more than 20 liters per person, but the daily limit runs out within a few hours. Still, she remarks, people get used to anything, even the bad. According to her, in 2026 hundreds of thousands of people will vacation on the Black Sea coast anyway, both in Ukraine and in Russia.

Under Putin, Sochi often hosts state visits. Meetings there look less formal than in the Kremlin, but they remain important. Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan has also visited Sochi, most recently in 2023. The host points out that Turkey has always been one of the most popular destinations for Russians: it's easy to get to and doesn't require a visa. At the same time, Turkey is a member of NATO. Erdoğan's closeness to Putin, she says, worries both Russians who have emigrated to Turkey and the Turks themselves. The mood in resort towns like Antalya, she says, has changed noticeably since the start of the invasion.

The report from Antalya is presented by a correspondent who vacationed here as a child almost 20 years ago. He returned to understand how Antalya and Turkey have changed since the start of the Russian invasion. He begins his journey at the Kremlin Palace hotel, which he calls the same age as Putin's regime: according to him, the hotel was built at the very beginning of Putin's first term, and over 20 years it has become a legend. According to travel agency estimates cited by the correspondent, several tens of millions of Russians have stayed here, including himself. He gives an ironic tour: the Pushkin café, a building styled after the Bolshoi Theatre with four horsemen "just like the original." The local Red Square, he jokes, is the only one where you can walk around naked without going to jail for it.

Russians came here in droves, the correspondent explains, because Turkey was always cheap. Only here could an average family from a Russian region, like his own, afford a vacation abroad. Now, though, a taxi costs 20 euros for 5 kilometers, which in his view is "too much" even by European standards, so he walks to the center of Antalya. He sees another sign of the times in the fact that Turkey has become one of the few countries where the flags of Russia and Ukraine hang side by side. Turkey, according to him, positions itself as a democratic state and remains neutral on the question of Russia and Ukraine.

The next day, the correspondent met with Russian-speaking women who have lived in Antalya for many years, some of them married to Turks. He recalls that such stories were already common back in the early 2000s, and that at one time women from Russia, Ukraine and Belarus in Turkey were all called "Natashas." The women he spoke with arrived before the war began. They themselves refer to the war as "the events," and the correspondent draws attention to this.

The women said that everyone here had felt comfortable and that even "after the events," Russians and Ukrainians got along calmly and treated each other with respect. According to them, Russian-speaking life in Antalya has become very active over the past two or three years: many communities, businesses and creative ventures have sprung up, and there are exhibitions, festivals, conferences and women's get-togethers.

The correspondent asked whether they had ever faced accusations that the newcomers had driven up prices. The women replied that Turks do indeed say this about "the people who've flooded in," but in their view it isn't actually true.

The other side of the story comes to the correspondent through Cengiz, whom he learned about from the news. Cengiz founded the Antalya Tenants Solidarity Platform, a movement that defends the rights of Turks who can't afford to pay rent. Two years ago, Cengiz himself and his family were evicted because the landlord raised the price. The film also presents the opposite view: that the Turkish people supposedly welcomed the arrival of the new population, because "since the events, everyone has made good money."

Anna has lived in Turkey for 17 years and owns a real estate agency. She showed what kinds of apartments can be bought in Antalya, for example for 385,000 dollars. The correspondent explains that an apartment in Turkey isn't just for vacations: for a foreigner, it's also a path to permanent residency documents or even citizenship. About a year ago, migrants from Russia living in rented apartments began to be refused even temporary residence permits. They started leaving for countries where they have a better chance of legalizing their status. According to Anna, most of the Russian-speaking population has left, demand has fallen, and prices are now 20–30% below market, "so right now is the time to buy."

After these conversations, the correspondent was left with one question for Cengiz: what happened to the long-standing love between Turks and Russians? Cengiz's answer is not shown in this part of the film.

It is becoming harder and harder for Russians to find somewhere to vacation, and visa restrictions don't make things easier. On the other hand, the host says, new destinations are opening up, such as North Korea, which propaganda is actively advertising. She shows a flashy promotional video from the North Korean state travel agency aimed at young tourists from Russia: the sound of the sea, "a very clean beach, a great sea." Bikinis are banned in the DPRK as a manifestation of the "depraved capitalist lifestyle," but an exception is made for Russian tourists, according to the host. She calls it a "totalitarian paradise" and a good example of how politics influences the choice of vacation destination.

In the summer of 2024, Putin visited North Korea for the first time in 24 years. The host remarks ironically that this was a pleasant change for someone who is hardly welcome anywhere else in the world. He was greeted with Russian flags, portraits and cheering crowds, and there he signed a strategic partnership agreement. The host explains the point of the deal this way: Putin needs weapons and soldiers but doesn't want another forced mobilization in his own country, while North Korea is glad to get Russian protection in the event of a war. She then ironically lists the events of "the day of friendship between two dictators": a joint car ride, a stroll, feeding horses. The result of this friendship, she says, was North Korean soldiers in Putin's war. The film mentions unconfirmed reports that at one stage of their training, soldiers must tear apart a live pig with their bare hands.

The host says that, to cement the political relationship, ordinary Russians are now also being invited to visit "the most beautiful country in the world," going "from one dictatorship to another." She then quotes Russian state television. According to it, in February the DPRK opened its borders exclusively to Russia. Tourists are offered beach holidays, historical tours and mountain hikes. The Masikryong ski resort is advertised separately: a highest point of 1,363 meters, 10 runs of varying difficulty, modern lifts and a five-star hotel. The report stresses that Kim Jong Un personally oversaw the construction. On the east coast, where Koreans traditionally vacation, a giant resort is being built, with around fifty new hotels, dozens of shops and a long beach area promised.

The TV report also describes everything else: weekend bus trips, guides who sing for the passengers ("nature has gifted every other person with a voice"), and lessons in making kimchi and mandu. The report praises the Korean people for their "boundless industriousness" and "enormous thirst for knowledge." The host ironically adds tours of North Korean schools to this list. According to the report, there are already more than a dozen tour options.

The host then lists what, in her words, the state TV reporter keeps quiet about. Contact with locals and independent walks are, as a rule, severely restricted, and photographs and the trip itinerary are strictly controlled. That's why some describe it as showcase tourism rather than a genuine beach holiday.

This destination has not yet become popular with Russians. According to figures cited by the host, around 3,000 people traveled to the DPRK last year, while other figures put the number of tourist trips at around 5,000. The authorities allocated almost 1.5 million euros for direct flights from Moscow to Pyongyang, but, as the host says at the end of the film, there was simply no demand for them.