BBCs Steve Rosenberg Stands Alone In Moscow

On a frosty Moscow street, Steve Rosenberg walks his dog through the snow, a rare moment of calm in a city where every day feels like a high-wire act. Rosenberg, the BBC’s Russia editor, is now the last BBC correspondent reporting from within Russia—a distinction that is both an honor and a heavy burden. His new documentary, Our Man in Moscow, recently aired on BBC1, offers viewers a gripping, intimate look at his life and work under the shadow of President Vladimir Putin’s tightening regime.

The documentary chronicles a year inside Rosenberg’s Moscow bureau, a place that has transformed from a bustling newsroom into a fortress of resilience. The stakes for foreign journalists in Russia have never been higher. According to the BBC, the Kremlin’s crackdown on dissent has created an environment where truthful reporting is not just discouraged, but severely punishable. The risks are painfully real: even a single misstep—such as calling the invasion of Ukraine a "war"—can land a journalist in prison for up to 15 years.

Rosenberg’s daily existence is fraught with tension. He is constantly followed, filmed, or questioned by police officers who, as The Times put it, "don’t do a great line in ‘friendly’." The sense of being watched is inescapable, and it takes a toll. “Every day is an exercise in turbo diplomacy and journalistic dexterity,” the documentary observes, as Rosenberg navigates the fine line between informing the British public and not provoking the Kremlin’s ire. Remaining calm and polite, even when situations become "tense," is not just a professional asset—it’s a survival skill.

It wasn’t always this way. In the 1990s, Russia felt like a vastly different place to Rosenberg. He recalls a time when the country "felt like Russia was part of this European family" and the world seemed poised for a happier, safer future. Back then, Rosenberg’s passion for Russia and its language led to some surreal moments: he was invited to co-present the Eurovision Song Contest in Moscow, and appeared on a Russian comedy show, singing On a Bicycle Built for Two while playing the piano. The footage of a younger, bespectacled Rosenberg smiling on stage is a poignant reminder of the optimism that once prevailed.

But the optimism has faded. Today, Rosenberg is a solitary figure among a shrinking pool of foreign correspondents in Russia. According to the BBC, his continued presence is not about bravery—at least, not in his own eyes. “Courage doesn’t come into it,” he insists. Yet, as The Times notes, many would disagree, with some online commentators admiring his "balls of steel." His modesty is as striking as his perseverance, and perhaps it is this humility that allows him to keep going when others have left.

The dangers are not hypothetical. The fate of Wall Street Journal reporter Evan Gershkovich, who spent 16 months in a Russian jail on what many believe were bogus spying charges, looms over every decision Rosenberg makes. Despite the risks, he remains committed to his mission. This commitment was on full display at Putin’s annual media event in 2024, where Rosenberg stood out in a sea of obsequious questions. While Russian journalists lobbed softballs—“Are you a happy person?” and “Do you have a dream?”—Rosenberg dared to ask Putin if he believed he had looked after Russia well, given the "substantial losses in the so-called special military operation in Ukraine, high inflation and demographic problems." The question itself was a bold act in a country where challenging the official narrative can have dire consequences.

The reaction from Russian journalists to Rosenberg’s question was telling. According to The Times, they were "semi-scandalised," as if he had committed a shocking breach of decorum simply by doing his job. Putin’s answer was less remarkable than the mere fact that the question was asked at all. In a media environment dominated by state propaganda, Rosenberg’s willingness to challenge the narrative is both rare and essential.

That defiance has made him a target. Kremlin propagandist Vladimir Solovyov has attacked Rosenberg on national television, calling him a "defecating squirrel" and an "enemy of Russia." While Rosenberg took the first insult in good humor, the second clearly stung. The BBC notes that he has become a frequent subject of vitriol from the Kremlin’s mouthpieces, who paint Western journalists as adversaries in an ongoing information war. Despite this, Rosenberg remains undeterred, continuing to report on the human impact of state repression and the erosion of Russia’s democratic space.

The psychological toll of this work is immense. To cope with the relentless negativity, Rosenberg relies on what he calls his "holy trinity": his wife, his dog, and his piano. The piano, in particular, is more than just an instrument; it’s a sanctuary. Rosenberg’s viral piano medleys, which blend catchy Eurovision hits with an undercurrent of melancholic hope, have become a subtle form of resistance. Through music, he seeks to create a sense of harmony in a city where discord is the norm. As The Times points out, he is an excellent pianist—though his modesty means he rarely mentions it himself.

His love for Russia and its people is evident. Rosenberg has lived more than half his life in the country, and his affection for its language and culture runs deep. Yet, he is painfully aware of the changes that have taken place. The documentary’s scenes of him walking his dog through the snow, or sitting at his piano, provide a glimpse of the man behind the headlines—a journalist who, despite everything, remains fascinated by the country he reports on.

Our Man in Moscow is more than just a documentary; it’s a testament to the enduring struggle for truth in the face of overwhelming control and manipulation. Rosenberg’s reporting serves as a lifeline to the outside world, a challenge to the Kremlin’s manufactured reality. As foreign correspondents continue to disappear from Russia, his presence is both a symbol of resistance and a reminder of what is at stake.

In a moment that feels like the end of an era, Steve Rosenberg’s story is a poignant soundtrack to history—a melody of hope, resilience, and the unyielding pursuit of truth.