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Moscow: Snow will melt when the sun rises 

by Hai Yen Ho| July 11, 2025 | Literature

Photo © by Hai Yen Ho

The phone vibrated gently, reminding me that it was time to wake up. In Moscow, I have no other way to know that a new day has begun except for the rough sound from the phone. On the other side of the window, everything remains the same: bright yellow lights glitter on the white snow, and the sky is not yet totally dark but has turned a deep blue, the dense blue that reminds me of the bitter cold here. The wind blew. The snow fell. The sound of the wind whistling came from afar. Touching on the frosty bar of the windows, I swayed back and forth like a matryoshka doll, while widening my eyes to cover all of the scene unfolding in front, as if afraid that in the blink of an eye, everything would vanish as a fleeting dream — a frozen moment of the memory. If I hadn’t had to work and arrange my schedule that day, I could have stood like that all day without getting bored. So what? In the tireless race against time, I have proven myself to be an enduring athlete. Enduring to try, enduring to fight, and enduring to enjoy. This moment, like countless precious moments in life, deserves my attention and time more than usual.

The previous night, the snow fell heavily. The snowflakes fell gently yet fiercely, floating through the night like magical creatures. The cold crashed on me suddenly as soon as I stepped outside, aggressively occupying all the corners in my body, sneaking into every inch of carelessly exposed skin. The cold froze on the skin, piercing my brain, aching with every breath. On cold winter nights like this, the best thing to do is to stay in a cozy room, drink a cup of ginger tea, and talk about everything — except politics, of course. Politics in Russia these days is taboo. Russians avoided the subject like a terminal illness. “War in Ukraine? No, don’t worry, we are fine.” They changed the subject. Except Varf Labec. 

What can I say about Varf since I had just known him for a few brief days during a troubled business trip? I met Varf for the first time at Domodedovo Airport. He was still a 19-year-old student, not yet graduated, who had signed up to volunteer to strengthen his extracurricular activities. At least, that’s what he told me. The program that Varf signed up for was the same program that invited me to join as the sole representative from Vietnam, the BRICS+ Fashion Summit. To put it simply, this is a week-long series of activities, from fashion shows, presentations, discussions, cooperations, parties, and cultural exchanges from countries in the BRICS region. It has nothing to do with Vietnam. I still don’t understand the reason why they invited me to be the media representative, and I also don’t know why they chose me over other colleagues. Obviously, compared to the other names in the industry, I’m not a celebrity, nor a big name on social media or at parties, nor a veteran. The reason why they chose me and the magazine that I was working for is a mystery. Ignoring that mystery, I rushed to do all the paperwork and procedures in a week and flew to Russia for the first time in my life. There, I met Varf. 

Like I said, Varf is still very young. He has such a chubby face — I can see every thin hair and vein — and round body that the first time I saw him, I thought of him as a juicy peach. I think Varf would burst into laughing if he knew that’s how I pictured him. Wearing a dark suit over a white shirt and formal shoes, Varf feels like a young boy trying to step into the outside world. Suddenly, I feel closer to Varf than to other people. 

Varf greeted me, shook hands with another representative from the UAE, and told us to wait for a few more representatives from India, Brazil, and Tanzania. I pulled my suitcase back to a safe distance, silently counting the faces that kept appearing. South East Asia, South Asia, Middle East, South America, East Africa… How many more guests did they invite? I couldn’t imagine the huge expense the organizers had incurred for this. Not only the round-trip airfare, but also all the meals, accommodation at five-star restaurants and hotels, and countless activities and parties held throughout the time of the event. No matter how I tried, it was a tremendous amount of money that exceeded my ability to calculate. 

Sometimes I find it hard to understand how the media and fashion worlds work, despite having worked in them for nearly a decade. The opulent parties where hundreds of people dress up and behave in a certain way just to celebrate the host’s acquisition of a rare item; the multimillion-dollar events that take a few dozen guests to a glamorous island to witness the creation of a masterpiece; the outfits that take hundreds of hours to conceptualize and execute, and are one of a kind, and worn once in a lifetime.… They used a significant amount of money, time, and brainpower solely to please one or a few people. Sometimes I get the feeling that this earth doesn’t really rotate around an internal axis, but rather around such people. 

On this axis-rotating earth, I’m just one who witnesses and records. Not an important or special position – with or without me, everything will still operate the same way, except that with me, things will be recorded, re-enacted in some way, so that people inside and outside that world know what’s going on, and future generations will know what happened before. It seems not important at all, indeed. Still, I prefer my current position, that of a person who is not relevant, staying on the sidelines of everything, maintaining an objective attitude, and always remaining silent. After all, there must be someone who does these kinds of things, and I like it. I think I’m the type of person who doesn’t want to show off too much, just silently do what I really want, day by day, month after month, year after year. The reward for my dedication is these kinds of journeys, the business trips to faraway places, and witnessing people and things that I would perhaps never know if I had another job. And even though I don’t fully understand the operation of the world rotating around that axis, I still feel satisfied. I decide that I don’t have to overthink; I just need to focus on doing my work. At the end of the day, I’m not paid to explore the core of how this crazy world works, where everything keeps pressing start, end, and reset buttons several times a year.

—

I arrived at the Four Seasons Moscow just as it was growing dark. It was a classic hotel, magnificent and humble at the same time, situated right next to Red Square, where I could simply pull back the curtains to see one of the most important places in modern history. As I would expect from a Four Seasons luxury hotel, the grand lobby was lavishly decorated with silver pine trees, studded with sparkling silver crystals and silver stars. A vision of a dreamlike wedding flashed through my mind and was quickly dismissed — I didn’t think I needed anything so extravagant. But I couldn’t help but admire the beauty of this place: perhaps the organizers had seen it that way, so they blocked the entire hotel for their guests. I looked around and everywhere I looked, there were groups of people newly arrived from far away, wearing dozens of layers of clothing, which at a glance was enough to distinguish them — including me — from the natives.

To be honest, Four Seasons Moscow is not a place that I would choose on my own, especially on solo trips. There are too many details, too many procedures that require my interaction with too many people, and moreover, the price is too high. However, this trip was different; everything was meticulously planned and fully prepared, and my role was simply to dress appropriately, present myself to everyone, maintain a professional demeanor, and write positive reviews about the event. These kinds of assignments don’t exceed my current ability. 

Upon entering my room, I took off my high-heel boots, spread my wool coat on the back of a chair, put my luggage in the closet, and then lay down on the glamorous red sofa. Looking around, I thought this room must be larger than my entire apartment in Saigon, with a host of amenities, including a living room, a working space, a bed, a dressing room, and a bathroom with a bathtub and a giant heating system. It was beyond fully equipped and spacious to everyone’s needs. On top of that, I found a dozen gifts from the organizers and sponsors, a welcome letter and cake, and a large writing table with a stack of papers and pens that, with just a glance, I could tell were meant to write smoothly like butter. The carpet was thick, smooth, and of such high quality that I didn’t need to wear the provided slippers to have my feet feel soothed, warm, and extremely comfortable. After admiring it all, I quickly came to the balcony to see the snow. On this most icy of days, everything was soaked in a gloomy gray mist, but pure. From afar, the opulent museums and churches with their colorful domes appear and disappear under the snow like giant cakes covered in cream. Everything was like a surreal dream. 

Due to the full schedule provided to me before the trip, my days there passed in a frenzy of activities. The locations were spread across the city, requiring numerous commutes through harsh weather conditions, traffic jams, and chaotic situations. After our transportation got stuck in the snow more than once for over 90 minutes on a route that could be traversed by foot in ten minutes, I decided to skip the shuttle and instead use Google Maps to find my way on foot. But it turned out that was not a good idea, as everywhere was covered in white snow. The snow melted, leaving slippery roads and treacherous, slushy mud puddles that made it difficult to avoid falling. With the cold wind blowing countless snowflakes into my scarf, coat, and hair, I felt like my face was tensing up, and only my gloves were preventing my hands from immediately blistering and turning red, as if they had been burned. If someone asked me why an Asian girl would go out in the kind of weather that would keep every Russian indoors, I couldn’t find a reasonable answer. 

Photo © by Hai Yen Ho

Nevertheless, no one even looked at me or asked about me. I started to feel like I was invisible everywhere I went. I walked into the metro station, crossed the Kremlin, entered St. Basil’s Cathedral, and wandered around the GUM shopping mall and Christmas market on Red Square without anyone saying a word to me. I encountered only emotionless faces, hurried footsteps, and slamming doors. No one felt the need to greet me, nor did anyone show the friendly face I usually see as a tourist. It’s not enough to say that Russians are cold, but rather, they are the type of people who are always in defensive mode. Around me, it appeared to be business as usual, but beneath the routine, beneath the icy indifference, I knew something was going on. An underground current was bubbling under every crack it could get into, just waiting to explode. 

That moment happened earlier than I expected. 

That was when Varf impatiently lit a cigarette, took a short drag, and flicked it onto the snow below. It was the sixth time I had seen him doing this that night. “To feel less cold,” he said casually, meeting my judgmental gaze. Suddenly, I saw Varf had aged. He was no longer a chubby boy like a juicy peach in a suit pretending to be an adult. 

“In a way, I am still Ukrainian,” Varf said, not relevant to the previous conversation and the surrounding context. We had just attended the lavish show of an Indian fashion brand, accompanied by traditional singing and trumpeting by a supposedly very famous artist. Sequins, tambour embroidery, silk ribbons, sparkling jewelry, singing, trumpeting, laughter, clapping. All burst into an endless dance. 

“Just being born in Russia doesn’t separate me from the other Ukrainians. Both my parents are Ukrainians. My relatives are the same. Everyone is on the other side of the border. And they don’t have the freedom to enjoy themselves and have fun like this,” Varf said, when we stepped out into the snow to wait for the car to take us to another event. I began to understand why he said that. A wall started to build up between us. On one side was me, the girl who thought she was mature enough but actually didn’t know anything about love, death, or separation. On the other side was Varf. 

I wanted to say something to soothe him, but didn’t know what to say. I continued to scoop up snow and let it fall to the ground. Varf came towards me, took a long drag, then blew a cloud of smoke into the cold air. “What does it feel like?” I wondered. Varf slowly turned his head. 

“Not being able to contact your loved ones, not knowing if they are dead or alive, while trying to maintain a normal life, laughing, partying, working. What does it feel like?” I asked. 

“Just like the snow, beautiful on the outside, but if you put your hands on it, you will feel like getting burned. You will feel like your hands are being torn apart, bleeding, drying up, dying. The pain doesn’t come all at once; it kills you slowly, from the inside. That’s how it feels,” Varf said, trying to take advantage of all his language skills. 

“I don’t know how long can I suffer,” he said, then smiled. “I think I will find the way to go back to Ukraine and join the army. What do you think?” 

What should I think? We are not children anymore. Whether he chooses to live or die, on this side or that side, alone or with his family, whatever happens, it is his choice. Varf was among the few people for whom I have the most empathy on this trip. That sympathy even increased when I learned about what was causing him misery at such a young age. But war is something different.

I don’t think that it is suitable for Varf. 

“Think about your family. They must be relieved to know that you are still here, far away from the border and the sound of gunfire. Do you really know what it means to join the army? It means dropping bombs on the place that you know is heavily populated, it means shooting at the face of a Russian that you may have considered a friend, it means bayoneting another Russian that you may have considered a colleague. Your life or death means very little in the grand scheme of things; it makes almost no difference, but it does matter to your family. Be the only hope of survival in your family. Do you understand what that means?”

Varf seemed surprised by what I said. He looked far away at the snow. I closed my eyes. The snowflakes touched my eyelids, bumbling cold. The dizziness from the cold, the tight schedule, and the overwhelming noise from the last event must have affected me. I suddenly felt exhausted. It was just after eight in the evening. The night had been long, and soon, we would be in a place that was even more bustling, glamorous, and crowded. What would Varf do there? Suddenly, I felt terrible. I hope I hadn’t hurt Varf. 

But what should I say?

Perhaps I was too rational. I could have consoled Varf, saying that his decision to return to Ukraine and join the army was brave, that nothing was more valuable than family and country. That Varf’s sacrifice, if it ever came to that, would be noble. That’s what a citizen should do when their country is in danger. But I didn’t say that. Young or old, military or not, this side of the border or the other, it’s a harsh world out there. We all have to live with our own problems. But do we fully understand them?

Talking to Varf, I suddenly remembered being in a student uniform at a university considered the cradle of Vietnamese politics: I was walking on the vast concrete path that lead to the lecture hall, listening to teachers talk about the basic principles of international relations, where no nation is a permanent friend or enemy but is viewed through the lens of national interests. I was entering the editorial office of the country’s leading political newspaper, translating every line of news updated live by AP reporters from the Middle East battlefield whenever there was a fight in the middle of the night, with no way to change or interfere with the situation. Those news lines, as I remember, drained my energy, little by little, with no way to recover. If I had known that at that moment, all my reports were just an extension of the absurdities that were taking place, the smoke from the bombs that has just exploded, the blood stains that gradually spread from the skin that had just been torn, then perhaps, I would not have let my dreams and beliefs be crumpled and crushed. Surely. 

Silence.

“The snow will melt when the sun rises”, Varf said, as I pulled my scarf up over my ears and stuffed my hands in the pockets. He knew that I had never been so cold in my life. 

—

The clock fast-forwarded to the end of my business trip. I had a rare free morning before getting on the train to Saint Petersburg. I went out and wandered around, trying to figure out what I wanted. The hotel food was such a nightmare. Accustomed to the colorful buffets in hotels in Vietnam and elsewhere, I couldn’t help but be shocked when I saw some cold food for the guests in the Four Seasons Moscow, and what was even more horrifying was that the food was the same every day. After five days of languidly munching on butter toast and eggs, with the occasional sausages or soft vatrushki, I decided to go out to eat on my last morning. But after walking for a while, I didn’t feel hungry, nor could I find any place that interested me. Perhaps I went out too early. With nothing else to do, I randomly entered a place and ordered a bowl of fish soup with mashed potatoes and a warm strawberry juice. The soup was cold, not spicy, and the potatoes were plain. I only enjoyed the juice, since it made me feel better. Outside, the sky was just lit a bit, but there wasn’t any sunlight. No sun and no snow, I felt like the moment was frozen. Once again, a gray shade covered everything — the sky, the ground, the restaurant, my coat, and scarf. I looked at my breakfast — it was also covered in a gray layer. It was truly a day to say goodbye. 

Photo © by Hai Yen Ho

Then I walked along the main avenues, looking through the glass windows with no intention, nothing to accomplish. There is no narrow alley suitable for my wandering in Moscow, or perhaps I haven’t been here long enough to find one. A pungent smell permeated the air, which seemed like smoke. Suddenly, I thought of Varf. I imagined him walking with me on the sidewalk, and I still didn’t know what to say to him. When my snow-soaked feet were starting to go numb, I walked into a cafe with red-framed windows, with two large pine trees on the front, chewing a multi-layer bread while reading Patrick Modiano’s “The Warehouse of Pain.” Patrick’s writing, with its endless search for identity in a beautiful yet melancholy setting, really resonated with my experience. After a while, the sun began to shine. But that was it, the air didn’t get much warmer. I sipped my drink and looked out the window. Killing time is not an easy task.

As Varf suggested, I went to the underground shopping area opposite the hotel and bought some souvenirs. Dried fish for my mother, vodka in a bottle that looked like a pure ice bar for my father, a matryoshka doll for my niece, a sandwich bag, a big bottle of juice, and cheese for me to eat on the way to Saint Petersburg. Not much, but I had unnecessarily filled up my already overstuffed luggage.  

What else can I do?

I suddenly felt an indescribable sense of frustration. I knew that it had nothing to do with me,  with the flashy group performance, not with these huge expenses, not with the bustling parties and the atmosphere of the Christmas season, not even what was happening on the other side of the border, not Varf, not his family and relatives, nor the cigarettes lit up at night then quickly extinguished in the snow. I was just a normal office worker, fortunate to have set foot in many places in the world, having such experiences that only the super-rich can have, and at the same time, respected in the place where I belonged. I had nothing to do with what was and is happening, inside and outside this country. 

All around, everyone was jostling as they moved about. The underground shopping area turned out to be more opulently decorated and larger than I had imagined. The scene was adorned with beautiful women in fur coats, fur hats, and fur boots, and men dressed more casually in dark puffed jackets. All seemed calm, or in a hurry for something. I looked at the bustling crowd and imagined this place a hundred years from now. Almost none of the people here would be remembered. The vision, a thousand years later, became even more pathetic. Nearly everything would have disappeared, including hopes and jealousies, lavish or modest, war and peace. No one can conquer time, so why are we striving to change everything?

In the blink of an eye, all the years had passed as in a movie about a hopeless character about to give up on her faith. Why did I let all these things make me feel down? I shook my head, tried not to think anymore. The only thing I could do was to focus on my reality, on the dusty books lying on the shelves, the cats lazing in the sun, the unfinished work, the awaiting beloved ones… It’s no use thinking of something else. 

Moscow, in my eyes, is an old soul in need of salvation. The oldness emanates from the indifferent eyes and voices of the people I met on the street, which seemed to permeate every traffic jam, dilute, and then gradually dissolve into the cold, damp air that shrouds the city in a grayish hue. Even though it is camouflaged by colorful lights strung everywhere and the energetic music blaring from every corner, Moscow still harbors within it an old, resigned energy. Moscow is very beautiful, indeed, but as is not often the case with travelers in famous cities, I see the beauty of Moscow through my own lens, that is, in the ascetic light distilled from the gray of cold winter days instead of the bright or dreamy shades in the usual postcards of this place. That perspective is closely related to my interests: architecture, lifestyle, behavior, and human nature. Amidst the solid, fortress-like buildings with somber tones, most of the Russians I met seemed to possess a strange lack of enthusiasm and vitality, as reflected in their cold, emotionless faces and the constant phrase “нет” (meaning “no”). The word of refusal was uttered softly as a strict defense, a cold rejection that Muscovites reserved for all travelers, regardless of who they were, where they came from, and what kinds of problems they were facing. 

It was not until I left on the train connecting Moscow and Saint Petersburg, passing through the snow-covered industrial zones, through the birch forest, and into the dense night in the vast whiteness as far as the eye could see that I knew that was how the Russians protected themselves, with the coldness, the frostiness, the contagious harshness that spread from the living conditions to the character of the people, which could not be said to have nothing to do with the city’s beginning as a small fortress. This city must have experienced warm moments before the destruction swept through, leaving behind wariness, anxiety, and doubt. A layer of defense — I hope this will not easily be seen anywhere else, except this cold city. 

I will return to Moscow when the snow melts.