Ad Astra | What Led You to the Stars?

Conversation with the cosmonaut Andrei Borisenko

My publication, which I launched last year, is called Ad Astra, as you are aware.

Every person has mentors, books, or films that shape their path and lead them to the stars.

What — or who — led you to the stars? And can artificial intelligence and high technology replace human presence in the space industry?

That was the question I asked Andrei Ivanovich Borisenko in Paris — Pilot-Cosmonaut of the Russian Federation, recipient of the Gold Star Medal of Hero of the Russian Federation, ROSCOSMOS Award, Gagarin Sign, NASA Space Flight Medal, and NASA Distinguished Public Service Medal. And I was genuinely happy to have the chance to speak with him. I have always believed that space has a rare power to unite. It brings together not only countries, technologies, and scientific ambition, but also something deeper and more fragile: our shared sense of wonder, humility, and common destiny.

Borisenko’s answer began with childhood. He spoke about seeing the film Taming of the Fire as a boy and being so deeply impressed by it that he immediately told his parents he would either become a cosmonaut or build rockets. Looking back, he said that was where it all began.

I loved that answer because it was so simple and so true. We often speak about great careers as if they begin with strategy. But often they begin with emotion — with a spark, an image, a moment that quietly decides something inside you.

When I asked whether artificial intelligence could replace human beings in space, he said that arguing about this is like asking

which hand is more important — the right or the left. Both are needed. Without automation, much in space would be impossible. But without a human being, there are situations that cannot simply be corrected by a machine, decisions that still require judgment, and responsibility that cannot be handed over.

It was one of the strongest things said that evening. Borisenko did not oppose technology and the human being. He simply reminded us that the more powerful our technologies become, the more important it is to understand what they cannot replace.

That felt especially meaningful because of the timing. This year, Orthodox Easter and Cosmonautics Day fell on the same date. There was something quietly symbolic in that coincidence: faith, light, renewal, and the human desire to rise beyond known limits meeting on the same day. In a strange and beautiful way, it made the whole evening feel suspended between two kinds of ascent — spiritual and cosmic.

That feeling deepened when the discussion turned to the icons visible on board. A question was asked about them, and Borisenko’s wife, Natalia, answered with great warmth. She spoke very personally — about family traditions, about blessing, about waiting, about daily calls from orbit, and about the emotional reality of staying on Earth while someone you love is in space.

That, too, felt important. The icons were not there as decoration. They were a reminder that even in one of humanity’s most advanced environments, people still carry with them signs of memory, faith, protection, and home.

Another moment I keep returning to is what Borisenko said about seeing Earth from orbit. Before flying, he admitted, phrases like “the Earth is small” or “we must protect it” sounded beautiful, but abstract. It was only after seeing the planet with his own eyes that he understood they were literally true. Earth, he said, is beautiful, round — and very small.

That is perhaps one of the greatest things space can do: it changes scale. It reduces noise. It reminds us how fragile the Earth is, and how small many of our certainties look from a distance.

And perhaps that is why space matters especially now. In our time of uncertainty, fragmentation, and geopolitical tension, we may have more to learn from space than we think. Not only because it represents scientific progress, but because it teaches discipline, interdependence, and perspective. In orbit, people cannot afford the luxury of constant division. They have to protect what allows them to live and work together.

Borisenko spoke about this very directly when describing life aboard the International Space Station. The crew, he said, is one crew. And to preserve that fragile unity, there are rules: politics is not discussed, religion is not discussed, family values are not discussed, and neither is any subject likely to cause psychological discomfort to another crew member. Just as importantly, astronauts and cosmonauts try to know each other as people — through family, habits, daily life — so that trust exists before tension appears.

There is something powerful in that. On Earth, we often think seriousness means insisting on every disagreement. In space, seriousness seems to mean something else: protecting the conditions that make coexistence possible.

Maybe that is one of the reasons space still matters so much, because it reminds us what humanity must preserve on the way.

When I think back to my question now — what leads a person to the stars, and what cannot be replaced there — the answer feels larger than it did in the room.

A person is led to the stars by wonder.

But they remain there through discipline, judgment, and responsibility.

As Andrei Borisenko said,

“The Earth is indeed very beautiful, round — but also small.”