Author Anya Gillinson on ‘Dreaming in Russian,’ Remembering Her Father’s Heroism and the Immigrant Journey That Shaped Her Voice
…I’ll tell you, ever since I lost my father, I’ve always wanted to establish something that works specifically with children who have lost their parents. I always wondered about it because I remember exactly how it felt for me during that time — what it felt like being without a parent. And after the initial days passed — a week, two weeks, three — I counted those weeks. I remember there was a time when another girl, who was about my age, lost her father from natural causes. I wanted to go to her and talk to her because I just wondered what she felt like, what her mother felt like. It was just her, this particular person. For me, my life felt like it was over. I thought it would never begin again, that it would never restart. It seriously felt like that, physically even. I thought, nothing will ever happen again with my life. I didn’t want to go to school. It was summertime, and I thought, how will I ever step back into school? How will I ever look at my classmates again? Who will ever be my friend? There were specific questions running through my mind. I felt limbless. Even today, whenever any tragedy happens anywhere in the world, and they say a boy or a girl lost their parent, I always think, what is that child’s first reaction when they’re told? That’s what stays with me…
I had the pleasure of talking with Anya Gillinson. Anya is the author of Dreaming in Russian, a memoir that examines the intersection of personal loss, immigration, and cultural identity. Born and raised in Moscow during the final decades of the Soviet Union, Gillinson grew up in a relatively privileged environment, despite the pervasive antisemitism and political oppression of the time. Her father, a renowned physician specializing in pulmonology, and her mother, a concert pianist, created a “bubble” that allowed her to experience aspects of Western culture and education largely inaccessible to most Soviet citizens.
Gillinson’s father, who developed a method for diagnosing and treating asthma in an era when such illnesses were often poorly managed in the Soviet Union, became well-known for his work. Despite the legal risks associated with private practice, he built a discreet but widespread network of patients, ranging from laborers to members of the Soviet elite. His work allowed the family a relatively comfortable life and exposed Gillinson to a wide cross-section of society.
From an early age, Gillinson’s father emphasized pride in her Jewish identity, a notable stance in a country where Jewish citizens often faced systemic discrimination. He insisted that she understand and embrace her heritage rather than assimilate into the broader Soviet identity. These early lessons shaped Gillinson’s sense of self and framed many of her later observations on culture and belonging.
In 1990, shortly after the Soviet Union began to loosen restrictions on travel, Gillinson’s parents visited the United States as tourists. During their stay in New York City, a mugging in Queens ended tragically when her father was shot and killed while shielding Gillinson’s mother. He was 47 years old. The loss marked a defining rupture in Gillinson’s life, one she describes as both sudden and life-altering. Two years later, she immigrated to the United States herself, carrying with her not only the memory of her father but also the complex legacy of her Soviet upbringing.
Dreaming in Russian is, in part, an effort to memorialize her father’s life and values. But the memoir also explores broader themes, including the cultural dissonance Gillinson experienced upon moving to the United States. She writes candidly about the contrast between her expectations of America — largely shaped by her father’s idealized vision — and the realities she encountered.
The book also delves into Gillinson’s reflections on gender roles, particularly the tension she perceives between feminism as it is often articulated in the West and the version of femininity she inherited from her Russian background. Rather than presenting a prescriptive view, Gillinson invites readers to consider multiple perspectives shaped by differing cultural and historical experiences. She emphasizes that identity is often far more layered and contradictory than broad societal narratives allow.
Throughout her memoir and in interviews, Gillinson speaks about the lasting impact of her parents’ lessons, particularly regarding the importance of education and intellectual curiosity. She notes that her father’s insistence on learning English at a young age prepared her for her eventual transition to life in the United States. Despite arriving as a teenager, she pursued advanced studies, including earning a law degree, an accomplishment she attributes in part to her early academic training and resilience forged through personal hardship.
Today, Gillinson lives in Manhattan with her husband, Sir Clive Gillinson, the executive artistic director of Carnegie Hall. Their marriage and life together in New York City mark a full-circle moment for Gillinson, whose father once viewed America — and New York in particular — as a beacon of freedom and opportunity. Yet, her writing underscores a complex relationship with her adopted country, reflecting both admiration and critical distance.
In addition to writing, Gillinson has expressed interest in supporting children who have lost parents, citing her own experience of profound loss at a formative age. She has discussed her hope to one day create initiatives aimed at helping bereaved children navigate the aftermath of tragedy — an ambition that remains a deeply personal and ongoing concern for her.
As an immigrant who retains vivid memories of her first culture while adapting to a new one, Gillinson offers readers an account that challenges simple narratives of assimilation or belonging. She invites audiences to consider the ways in which early cultural foundations persist, even decades after resettlement, shaping perceptions of gender, freedom, and identity.
Through Dreaming in Russian and her broader engagement with readers, Gillinson advocates for a more nuanced understanding of the immigrant experience and the enduring impact of loss and memory. Her perspective, forged by personal tragedy and cross-cultural transition, brings a layered, often introspective voice to contemporary discussions about identity and belonging.
Yitzi: Anya, it’s a delight and a pleasure to meet you. Before we dive in deep, our readers would love to learn about your personal origin story. Can you share with us the story of your childhood and how you grew up?
Anya: I always say that even though I’m a Russian Jew, a Soviet Jew, I grew up in a bit of a bubble. I’m probably not the exact representation of a typical Soviet Jew, and my parents are a bit to blame for that, thank God. My father was a renowned physician in the Soviet Union. He specialized in treating and curing asthma, bronchial asthma, which was a major illness in the Soviet Union during the ’70s and ‘80s.
At that time, nobody could really detect the illness, diagnose it properly, or treat it effectively. My father’s original specialty was cardiology, but he later moved into pulmonology. In the Soviet Union, especially back then, private practice was a taboo. Anything private was basically illegal, particularly for Jewish people. Doctors might have had a few private patients here and there, but not enough to make a living, and it was risky.
My father practiced in one of the most prestigious hospitals in Moscow, but they didn’t allow him to really do research or fully develop his methods. Nevertheless, he pursued it on his own. He read a lot, especially in English, and little by little, he worked out a method for diagnosing, treating, and curing asthma. He started building a patient base quietly. People would come to our apartment, and over time, he became immensely popular.
You have to imagine — this wasn’t like finding a favorite tailor or someone to type your work. This was a doctor. People who were seriously ill spread the word fast, and soon, patients were coming from all over the Soviet Union. His patients included peasants, workers, famous Nobel laureates, actors, inmates, and even members of the government hierarchy.
Even though it was all technically illegal, he never assigned a set fee. People paid what they could — sometimes money, sometimes food, sometimes gifts. But the truth is, people paid, and it made him quite powerful. Those people needed him more than he needed them. I even have a line in my book about that. He created his own niche, and we lived in an oasis of wellness during a time when the country was otherwise stagnating.
That’s how I grew up. My mom is a concert pianist. We lived a very privileged life. My father made sure I went to one of the best specialized English schools so that I could get the best education and learn English from an early age.
On top of that, my father was an ardent anti-Soviet. There was nothing about the Soviet system he liked, except for the best parts of its culture. He raised me to despise and loathe the hypocrisy of that system. He managed to live as a free man during a time when hardly anyone was free.
That’s why I say I grew up in a bubble — privileged, really having everything one could possibly want. Another unusual thing he did, and we can talk about this more later, was that he very clearly told me I was not Russian, but Jewish. Everyone knew who was Jewish in the Soviet Union — your passport said so. Nationality-wise, we were Jewish, not Russian, even though our citizenship was Soviet.
But my father said it with pride. He told me I wasn’t like everyone else, and if anyone had a problem with that, I had his personal permission to slap them in the face. I didn’t fully understand what he meant when I was six, but I grew up feeling it was a cool thing to be Jewish in a country where it definitely wasn’t considered cool. I sincerely didn’t understand why anyone would think otherwise.
I proudly wore a Jewish star that he gave me then, and I wear it to this day. So, that’s the short version of how I grew up in the Soviet Union.
Yitzi: I really appreciate you sharing that, and you’re a great storyteller, Anya. Could you tell us the story that prompted you to decide to write this book?
Anya: In short, I wanted to bring people I lost back to life through my words. Whether my words are strong enough or beautiful enough for that is another question, but I think the people I’m writing about were giants who deserve to be remembered.
I lost my father, who was my true giant, when I was 13 years old, in a very tragic way. The irony is that he loved America so much. He saw it as the antithesis of everything wrong with the Soviet Union — everything unfree, hypocritical, corrupt. To him, America was an idea, a dream built on freedom and morality. He read every book he could find, knew what the Constitution stood for, and taught me all about it.
In 1990, after Perestroika, my parents came to America as visitors. They were among the first tourists from the Soviet Union. They were supposed to stay for about a month, but on the fifth night of their visit, something terrible happened. They were out with a group of people, and as they returned to their place in Forest Hills, Queens, a mugger jumped out of the bushes with a gun. My mom was attacked at gunpoint.
My father was right behind her. When he saw what was happening, he quickly grabbed my mom and shielded her with his body. The mugger chased them and shot my father point-blank. The bullet was likely meant for both of them, but because my father shielded her, it didn’t touch my mom. It went through his entire body — through his heart, lungs, liver — and finally stopped in his elbow. He died instantly, on the way to the hospital. He was only 47 years old.
My mom survived without a scratch, which even the doctors found miraculous. My sister and I were still in Moscow, staying with my mother’s parents. My grandparents learned about my father’s death through the Voice of America radio station in the middle of the night. It was devastating. My father was well-known in the Soviet Union, so news of his death spread quickly.
Losing him like that changed my life forever, and it’s still not the same. But beyond being a great father, he was a great man. Not just good — great. He touched and saved lives. Generations of people exist because he cured women who were too sick to have children. I spent my childhood sitting in the room with him, doing my homework while he treated patients, because he thought I would one day become a doctor too. I saw firsthand how he healed people, how much they loved him for it.
He was a master of his craft, a true healer who genuinely loved his patients. I always felt that someone like him shouldn’t just be remembered by his family. Other people, even those who never met him, should know that a man like that lived — a man who made a difference, who loved America, who knew poetry inside and out, and who shed light on other people’s lives.
When I eventually came to America three years after his death, life kept moving forward. The experiences of immigration, the hopes he had for us here, everything kept adding layers to my story. I always saw things partly through his eyes, but over time I developed my own perspective too. And I realized maybe all of it — his life, his dreams, my journey — was worth writing about.
Yitzi: What are the main messages you’re hoping that readers take away when they read your book?
Anya: I think that in America — and this isn’t new — people sometimes like to see things in a very one-sided way. I touch on issues of feminism and femininity, for example. There’s this belief that women should be only one way, and only that way. And it’s not just about gender roles — there are also ideas about culture, about how things should be looked at only from one angle.
What I want to do is bring a different perspective. I’m looking at things through the prism of two cultures. Even though I’ve spent most of my life here in America — I’ve been here over 30 years — I still remember my original culture very vividly. That’s why I titled the book Dreaming in Russian. That first culture formed me in ways that never left.
I want readers, especially those who tend to be dogmatic, to see how important issues can look completely different depending on where someone grows up or what experiences shape their life. I’m not preaching, and this book definitely isn’t a textbook. I just thought it might be interesting for people to realize that there are many ways to see the same thing.
Also, I want to encourage people to ask questions instead of jumping straight to criticism when they hear an opinion they don’t agree with. Sometimes, you need to stop and ask where that opinion comes from, what shaped it.
That’s a big part of the message. I don’t think books should necessarily teach; I think they should expose things and make people ask questions. At least, that’s how I see it.
Yitzi: You’ve written a very successful book. You must have learned a lot through the process. Can you share a few things that you’ve learned now after finishing the book, that you wish you knew when you first started?
Anya: One thing is, it’s a very lonesome process. Very, very lonesome. You start with inspiration, but it’s frustrating too. You really have to find the strength within yourself to want to finish it. People say you need a support system — and you’re lucky if you have one — but honestly, had it not been for my husband, I probably still would have finished because I’m very stubborn. I have this thing in me, maybe it’s my ego, that tells me I have to finish what I start and get it out there. But for my own self-worth, my husband has been the one saying, “No, no, you have to do it. We’re doing this.” You really have to find the strength one way or another because you’re constantly doubting yourself. It took me three years to write it. Some people take longer — Bob Caro, for example, took seven years to write The Power Broker, and it was his first book. I know what he went through; you can go insane, especially when you have a family to support.
Another thing is, English is my second language, and I never forget that. Even though I’ve been here a long time, went to law school, and feel comfortable speaking and writing in English, it’s still a humbling experience. Linguistically, writing the book made me realize that no matter how much you know, there’s always more to learn. And the more you learn, the more humbling it gets. People say, “You have to write another book!” but honestly, I feel even more humbled and insecure now. I wonder if it’s because English is my second language, or if I would feel the same way if I were writing in Russian. I don’t know.
Another fascinating thing, probably specific to writing a memoir, is how much you can remember. I always thought I remembered a lot about my childhood, but as I wrote, more and more stories came back to me. I’d catch myself thinking, “Wait, what about that story?” and then it would surface from my memory. The more I wrote, the more memories kept coming. It’s an amazing exercise. Maybe when I get older and need to sharpen my memory even more, I’ll come back to this process because it’s such a great experience — the way your hand and mind work together when you’re writing.
Yitzi: It’s a great answer. This is our final aspirational question. Anya, because of your great work and the platform you’ve built, you’re a person of enormous influence. If you could put out an idea, spread an idea, or inspire a movement that would bring the most good to the most people, what would that be?
Anya: I’ll tell you, ever since I lost my father, I’ve always wanted to establish something that works specifically with children who have lost their parents. I always wondered about it because I remember exactly how it felt for me during that time — what it felt like being without a parent.
And after the initial days passed — a week, two weeks, three — I counted those weeks. I remember there was a time when another girl, who was about my age, lost her father from natural causes. I wanted to go to her and talk to her because I just wondered what she felt like, what her mother felt like. It was just her, this particular person.
For me, my life felt like it was over. I thought it would never begin again, that it would never restart. It seriously felt like that, physically even. I thought, nothing will ever happen again with my life. I didn’t want to go to school. It was summertime, and I thought, how will I ever step back into school? How will I ever look at my classmates again? Who will ever be my friend? There were specific questions running through my mind. I felt limbless.
Even today, whenever any tragedy happens anywhere in the world, and they say a boy or a girl lost their parent, I always think, what is that child’s first reaction when they’re told? That’s what stays with me.
That would be my thing. I don’t know exactly how it’s done. I know there are psychologists and different kinds of support, and I respect that. But a lot of those people have never actually gone through something like this. I don’t know if this answers your question, but that’s the one thing I’ve always known deep down. It really, really breaks my heart when I hear about a child losing a parent. I don’t know much else, but I know that.
Yitzi: How can our readers purchase your book? How can they support you in any possible way?
Anya: Well, it’s definitely out there. My book is on Amazon, Barnes & Noble online, and I think a few other independent sites. I’m also active on Instagram and other social media platforms, including TikTok. I share updates there. I do talks around the New York area and sometimes elsewhere too. I usually post announcements on Instagram and other places. But yes, the book is definitely available. And I just want to say, if someone reads the book and has an opinion on it, it really helps to leave a review.
Yitzi: Anya, it’s been a delight to meet you. I wish you continued blessings, and I hope we can do this again next year.
Anya: Thank you very much. Wishing you the best. Thank you.
Author Anya Gillinson on ‘Dreaming in Russian,’ Remembering Her Father’s Heroism and the Immigrant… was originally published in Authority Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.