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The Trouble with Avos: Inside P*tin’s Magical Thinking

Any excuse for an EU4 reference

Over 1600 days of war. Is that a lot? Maybe it is when you consider full-scale war has lasted more than a sixth of Putin’s time in power. Really this is just an excuse for me to do something in this blog I’m usually critical of others for: a bit of Kremlinology. It’s prompted by what seems to me to be the beginning of accelerated unravelling of the spool we could call ‘decision avoidance once path is taken’. It started unspooling in 2022 and now the reel is just singing as the twine pays out. When will it end? Well, it would be foolish to judge.

I like Stanimir Dobrev’s coverage of the fuel crisis of 2026; I always find his work useful to triangulate with “my guy” observations in the field. On Twitter, Dobrev wrote last week: “If the Kremlin had a plan on how to deal with a new fuel crisis in 2026 they could have signed long term contracts for fuel deliveries earlier in the year when fuel prices were low, they could have tried inventive ways to store fuel in non permanent storage. They exported.”

“There are plenty of reason to say they don’t have a contingency for something that Ukraine was bound to repeat based on 2025 results.”

“Now what they have as their main options are rationing and forcing people to abandon vehicle use.”

“Destructive optimism, they believed the situation would improve for them while the higher energy costs and imposing some costs on the US would aid them. They simply did not take into account they might be forced to look at importing products. Chronic arrogance strikes again”

The last sentence here is telling for today’s theme: a Russian version of magical thinking. While some say Putin has lost touch with reality, it’s probably better to think of him being cognitively trammelled by his anxiety, poor knowledge of his own country, and his compulsions to control. However, these alone should not be fatal.

Meanwhile, Gosha from the ‘objekt’ overcomes his own fears to write to me and we later talk about his ‘options’. The last time Gosha took the risk to write to me – usually he prefers only in-person conversations – was during the outbreak of the war in February 2022. Then he ended up relocating to Asia with his family for three months until the money ran out. Since 2024 he’s worked at what I will just call the ‘objekt’. ‘They burnt it down’, he writes me in early July this year. ‘What to do? What’s the view from Europe?’ It’s hard to know what he means by the latter. But it could be part of a trend where some Russians ask me to evaluate European support for Ukraine. In other words, as Dobrev indicated, the strategy of targeting fuel infrastructure is working.

Gosha has told me lots of things about his wartime life. He’s not unusual in taking risks, though almost all the ethnographically ‘heavy’ conversations have been in person (and not only with Gosha). One of the recent exchanges was about how few people want to work at these ‘objekty’ because there’s no money for spares, no money for shelters for the staff, and while furloughed, staff get their ‘basic’ pay only – not enough to live on.

Gosha used to occasionally say he trusted ‘the leadership’ to have a plan. But what is Putin doing in response to all this? According to Meduza it is going to be more double-down because he is focused on taking Donbas. But this seems predicated on his poor grasp on both the economic realities and the capacity for societal resilience inside his own country.

***

Andrey Pertsev among others recently noted how the Presidential Administration is only the most visible actor vainly attempting to signal to Putin that his popularity is dangerously tied to the prosecution of the war and that this brings perilous risks to the presidency. Pertsev writes that regime-adjacent sociologists have begun releasing their surveys later than usual, and one report was even quickly removed shortly after publication. What to do with ‘early warning’ signals? The answer seems to be pretend they never happened. A process that started in the spring of 2026 is obviously accelerating because of the Ukrainian switch-up to US-sanctioned consistent strikes on fuel infrastructure.

Notwithstanding a proud discursive embracing of multipolarity and the assumptions that ‘partners’ will get behind his leadership of the multipolar world, a more realistic assessment would be that bluster hides an increasingly ‘paranoid style’ of politics – even if that politics is mainly hidden from direct view behind the Kremlin walls.

What is really happening, since 2022, is what we can call Putin’s double-down on his core emergent ideology about encirclement by Western forces, a coalition intent on dismantling Russia or severely weakening it. Since the war became an entrenched reality, it’s important to note also his wavering belief in the concept of Russian allies. This existential doubt about even the possibility of allies can be deduced from the inconstancy of relations with mercantile and unreliable fellow travellers in the journey towards multipolarity.

More importantly though than a fortress mentality itself is what could be termed a resort to magical thinking by the core inner elite as they increasingly refuse to accept reality – even that reality reported to them by sociologists and economic ministries and Central Bank. Part of that magical thinking is embedded within a classic, deeper cognitive set of (mistaken) beliefs: the idea that Russia is a ‘lucky civilization’ and that fortune ever shines on it. (This is easily shown to be both strongly held and a mistaken belief on a long enough timeline: look at Prussia and the Miracle of the House of Brandenburg, for example). (There’s also the characteristic social racism of the elite who genuinely, and equally mistakenly, do believe that most Russians live like animals and therefore can put up with endless privation – but that’s a topic I’ve done to death).

The cognitive pitfall of voluntarism and trust to luck is powerful. Revealing was Putin’s response in late spring to the ‘news’ that the Russian economy faces recession. His response was declarative – ‘fix it’! Behind the façade: that words of the leader can magically right the situation, lies the old Russian ‘muddle-through’ mentality. Putin resorts to ‘avos’ (a concept that expresses the idea that contingency or luck will save the day and course-correction or re-evaluation is therefore unnecessary. Putin, after all, does believe that Russia is a ‘special’, or lucky civilization with a destiny.

This in turn should idea us to the familiar idea that decisionmakers get trapped by their over-identification with earlier policy errors yet are unable to learn from them and which then leads to increasingly reactive irrationalism and trusting to fortune. In other words, this is a form of path-dependency and even walled-in thinking. The war must continue until complete victory (taking the remaining parts of Donbas at a rate of 2.6 kilometres a day would take until 2032 at the earliest), or almost unthinkable concessions from the US, Europe and Ukraine.

The sacrifice demographically, and in terms of economic costs to the country is secondary to this aim-fixation. Sunk cost fallacy mixed in with avos’. Once a pathway is taken and significant resources expended on it, it becomes increasingly difficult to explore alternative possibilities because that would lead to admitting some failure in the path taken. You don’t even need psychology here but just systems theory. There is good evidence even now that much of the poor performance militarily has been because of the reinforcement of prior failure (and strategy) due to co-dependency between the executive (including Putin himself) and the Chiefs of Staff and Security Council.

This line of thinking can be evidenced by reports from insiders accessed by the RAND Corporation which concluded that Putin was making key decisions largely on his own, without substantial influence from the Russian General Staff at least in 2023-2024. Putin’s failure to use the opportunity of his Alaska summit to extract realistic concessions from Ukraine is evidence of an increasingly irrationality where clear strategic aims get lost in favour of magical thinking based on ‘muddling through’, and believing that things will turn out well because of Russia’s history/civilisational superiority/force of arms. This is a form of metaphysical voluntarism (personal will is the basic factor in human conduct) mixed with a belief in good luck or fortune emerging from not necessarily overconfidence, but dangerous avoidance of critical thinking. After all, Putin also believes all other political actors are either weak, puppets, or inferior in some way.

While there is plenty of opportunity for those willing to take Putin at his word when he expresses a worldview aligned with a multipolar world and future, at heart he remains a certified ‘subaltern’ (as Viacheslav Morozov memorably argued) Eurocentric or even Anglocentric thinker. He believes only recognition – and some concessions by the hegemon – matter to Russia’s and his own futures. With Trump at the helm for at least another two years, Putin is unlikely to get genuine satisfaction he craves.

It remains for a ‘first mover’ in the Russian security elite or government to burst the bubble and ‘speak truth to power’. However, contrary to the myth that the first mover gains an advantage in negotiations or innovation, politically, the first mover is always more likely to become a scapegoat in Russian politics. Nonetheless, what we often forget is that Putin’s real power was based on his ability to elicit (not just force) compromise among the elite. In return, they were able to enjoy a high level of rent seeking at the cost of long term economic stagnation. In times of distress, he risks becoming the scapegoat that will be sorely needed in the next two years.

Masha and the Experts

As the row over banning Masha and the Bear continues to escalate, British Russia experts have themselves come under attack, accused of spreading pro-Russian propaganda. Both the calls for a ban (Guardian, 2026) and the social media attacks on Mark Galeotti rely on claims made by Ukraine’s Centre for Countering Disinformation and Estonia’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs. They argue that the cartoon is “an instrument of Russian soft power”, featuring “the mockery of other nations’ traditions through Masha’s behaviour, and the normalisation of Soviet symbols and militaristic themes”, (Guardian, 2026), citing a 2010 episode in which Masha guards the Bear’s carrot patch from a thieving Hare while wearing a battered Soviet border guard’s cap dating from the 1930s.

Anyone who actually takes the trouble to watch the episode to the end, however, will see something very different from a glorification of Stalin-era militarism. The Bear cannot guard his carrots himself because he desperately wants to sleep. To stay awake, he resorts to the familiar tricks used by generations of soldiers everywhere who have struggled to remain alert while on sentry duty. Having exhausted every possible way of fighting off sleep, he asks Masha to keep the Hare away, handing her the now-infamous border guard’s cap (which features for a whole two minutes of this shockingly jingoistic seven-minute piece).

At first, Masha says she doesn’t want to guard the patch—”I’d rather catch a butterfly”. Masha promptly interprets guarding the Bear’s vegetable patch as if she were defending the state’s frontiers. Mangling the words, she sings the only line she knows from an old Soviet song about guarding the Japanese-Mongolia border: “The clouds fly gloomly across the border”. Yes, it is a Stalin-era song from the 1930s—but Masha knows only the opening line, and even that she gets wrong. She does indeed stop the Hare from stealing the carrots and drives him away from the garden. At the same time, however—perhaps in the heat of her militaristic zeal—she destroys every carrot bed, wrecks every structure on the property, and leaves the Bear’s house in complete chaos. The Bear is then left to rebuild his home, reinforce the boundaries of his little domain himself, and plant the carrots all over again.

Still from the film ‘Tractor Drivers’ which popularized the song about the border

Ironically, Russian advocates of banning the cartoon object not to this particular episode but to the programme’s entire premise. Hyperactive Masha lives alone at a tiny rural halt where trains no longer stop. Four-year-old Masha constantly creates havoc for the adult Bear, a retired circus acrobat surrounded by trophies from his glory days. Her nearest neighbours are a pig of indeterminate sex, a mongrel of dubious pedigree, and a goat—kozyol, a word that also happens to be one of Russia’s favourite insults. Even the Wolves are frightened of her, despite her determined attempts to reform them and administer medical treatment with an enormous syringe and an enema.

It is therefore hardly surprising that calls were made in Russia more than a decade ago to ban Masha and the Bear for failing to uphold “traditional values” (MK, 2016). More surprising is that those Russian loyalists eager to tap into the ever-expanding propaganda budgets have not yet spotted another supposedly subversive symbol: the dilapidated, wheel-less carriage from a Moscow–Peking train which stands beside Masha’s house. ’Moscow-Peking’ is itself a slogan popular in the late 1940s and early 1950s. One might have expected them to interpret it as an allegory for the lamentable state of the railway infrastructure linking Russia and China.

When sound expertise is displaced by media noise, public pressure, and the intimidation of influential but poorly informed decision-makers, failure in both domestic and foreign policy becomes almost inevitable. The governments of the UK, the EU and Russia are becoming increasingly alike in their preference for dramatic but ill-conceived gestures over the harder task of addressing the structural causes of their internal and external problems.

Anyone with even a rudimentary grasp of the Russian cultural context—and the patience to watch a single seven-minute episode through to the end—should at the very least question the claim that the series advances either a “pro-Kremlin” or, for that matter, a “pro-Western” narrative. The references to Soviet-era slogans, catchphrases and music from beloved Soviet films are there to amuse the grandparents watching alongside their grandchildren. Every one of them knows the difference between Soviet border guards—an armed service within the NKVD and its successor organisations, the KGB and today’s FSB, responsible for protecting the state frontier—whose caps had green tops, and officers of the Soviet secret police, whose blue-topped caps became symbols of political repression. None of the Soviet songs appears in the cartoon with its original lyrics intact. Above all, Masha and the Bear is simply a fairy tale about an independent little girl. It belongs in much the same tradition as Astrid Lindgren’s Pippi Longstocking. Lindgren fortunately did not live to see the day when children’s stories would be prosecuted in the court of public opinion as propaganda for one geopolitical camp or another.

Context, however, is of little interest to those seeking to increase their influence by ostentatiously demonstrating loyalty to whichever set of political values currently enjoys official favour. That is why such a torrent of hostility has been directed at those prepared to call out this performative display of loyalty applied to material far removed from real concerns; at those those prepared to watch the episode to the end; and at those prepared to question whether banning a children’s cartoon is remotely relevant to supporting Ukraine, curbing Russian influence, or solving their societies’ actual problems.

The responses of the British Parliament and Netflix will reveal whose expertise ultimately carries more weight. The Russian authorities have long relied on the advice of security-service hardliners who explain away their own failures by attributing them to malign foreign influence spread through the media. Yet banning Roblox, Facebook, Instagram and YouTube has done nothing to curb the power of monopolies that inflate prices, create shortages and sustain wars. British parliamentarians now appear to be following much the same logic, paying little attention to genuine expert opinion questioning whether such measures achieve anything at all.

guest post by Charlie Nail

Sources:

Masha and the Bear (2010). The Border is Secure https://yandex.ru/video/preview/11995598889559404205

Guardian (2026). https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2026/jul/02/mps-uk-broadcast-russian-cartoon-masha-and-the-bear

Spectator (2026). https://spectator.com/article/in-defence-of-masha-and-the-bear/

Известия (2016). «Маша и медведь» признан самым вредным мультфильмом для детей. К такому выводу пришли российские психологи   https://iz.ru/news/641913

KP (2013). Психолог: «Маша и медведь» — очень вредный мультфильм»

«Комсомолка» встретилась с гостьей Первого Международного форума библиотек, посвященному 100-летию Сергея Михалкова, психологом, публицистом, общественным деятелем Ириной Медведевой. https://www.kaliningrad.kp.ru/daily/26103.4/2999318/

Мел (2016). «Мультфильм садистский, но смешно».Учителя и психологи — о том, почему «Маша и Медведь» стал самым популярным мультфильмом в мире  https://mel.fm/vospitaniye/psikhologiya/6347512-Masha_and_bear

360.ru (2016) «Они просто не смотрели»: режиссер не согласился с психологами в оценке «Маши и медведя» https://360.ru/tekst/obschestvo/oni-prosto-ne-smotreli-rezhisser-ne-soglasilsya-s-psihologami-v-ocenke-mashi-i-medvedya-77889/

MK (2025). Машу и Медведя хотят запретить из-за недостаточно традиционных ценностей https://karel.mk.ru/social/2025/10/28/mashu-i-medvedya-khotyat-zapretit-izza-nedostatochno-tradicionnykh-cennostey.html

How flexible is Russian authoritarianism?

Or is it class war all the way down?

This question is asked by Anna Schwenck’s recent book, but it is more relevant now than ever as the economic decline in most parts of the Russian economy accelerates, reducing the present and future ability of the state to buy people off, and more importantly – to coopt ‘strategic potential elites’ of the future with the prospect of social mobility. The latter is a key theme of Schwenck’s book.

I was fortunate to take part in a roundtable podcast with Schwenck, Johanna Bockman, Hagen Schulz-Forberg, and Greg Yudin about her book. You can watch or read that discussion at the link, but in this blog post I’ll condense some ideas about the relevance of the book in 2026.

Schwenck’s argument is straightforward: flexible authoritarianism is governance that simultaneously incentivizes a can-do spirit (voluntarism) and suppresses dissent, reflecting the resonance between authoritarian and individualizing neoliberal ideas. The greater part of the book focusses on young, upwardly mobile people in Russia, arguing that ‘promising young adults’ are courted by the regime to support its political legitimacy. In turn, their entrepreneurialism is parlayed into a form of patriotic performance and rewarded monetarily. Such people can also become agents of a quasi-market, quasi-state form of social provision of goods and services to the rest of the population. They are addressed as potential future elites.

The empirical part of the book opens with a revealing set of contrasts. On the one hand, young attendees are more inspired by Steve Jobs and US hustle culture than agents of change from Russia’s present or history. On the other hand, the franker exchanges between people at the core ‘event’ of the book: a youth-leadership summer camp (modelled on Seliger) in Sakha in 2013, show ambiguity. Numerous participants openly discuss that corruption is the name of the game when it comes to getting ahead, or they bemoan the fact that ‘favouritism’ (clientelism and cronyism) is the biggest obstacle for young people seeking to better themselves “in Russia, the problem is that knowing the right people is much more important for your career than your skills and knowledge.” Perhaps despite her aims, Schwenck effectively describes the emerging class conflicts in Russia since 2000, in a way that supplements the argument Volodymyr Ishchenko makes about political capitalism in Ukraine.

For Schwenck then, the camp represents Russia in a microcosm: a veneer of entrepreneurialism with US-trappings, undercut by the same insider networking and an overlayed policing of behaviour and the internalization of the extents of permissible responses. Perhaps though, the book is weaker on the last aspect, extrapolating from the highly artificial experience of the summer camp to the rest of society. Having said that, the chapters are very wide-ranging and do give a flavour of how normally diverse Russian youth is: – Racist and anti-racist. Westernising and anti-West. Civicminded and individualist. Patriotic and orientalizingly self-stigmatizing. Once again, though, I can’t help but feel the book is pregnant with what must be just a surface level expression of the emerging identity of a genuinely post-Soviet ‘ruling class’, desperate and earnest to find a way of expressing its difference to the ‘cattle’ below. Hence the recourse to bizarre self-help gurus and the need to hire trainers and coaches to ‘look and sound the part’.

The key idea of flexibilization, though, is the main thing for Schwenck. If the dominant ‘ideology’ imparted is genuinely ‘flexible’ in its coopting of bright young things, then it points to a way out of the current impasse: the elite will renew itself, even dynastically, regardless of the outcome of the war. The ambitious up-and-coming will adopt what they need from a confused melange of hustling protestant ethics to make their way.

Like in the 1930s, catastrophe affecting the upper elite might even turn out to be a blessing, allowing wholesale turnover in positions and rapid advancement for people in their 30s or even their 20s. This perspective may be a way of avoiding the traps of two current perspectives: ‘Putin-stasis’ and geriatric degradation into the 2030s and, alternatively, rapid elite fragmentation and disintegration.  It is also telling that it is an outsider voice (Schwenck is a political sociologist from Germany) who challenges a dominant paradigm: that depoliticization is the same as atomization and inaction. What she shows is that human capital as a mobile resource is well understood by the regime, and that even in a highly unequal society like Russia, the myth of social mobility is strongly resistant to reality. A very americana cosmology of the ‘Putinism Dream’ is palpable in these pages.

A few reflections: Schwenck’s Foucault-inspired take prompts some questions: if the point of flexible authoritarianism is to push people to focus on their own advancement first, and only as a secondary the benefits to their society, are discussions of ‘legitimacy’ building even relevant now, ten years later when presumably many of these young people are in positions in bureaucracy?

Where does compulsion and coercion sit in this calculus? Here it seems, I should be talking my own book: the nature of ‘authoritarianism’ in Russia is more about the harsh impersonal (yet networked) nature of capitalism there. Schwenck’s book looks at those from more privileged strata who have more to gain from flexing their selves and hustling. As well as flexible selves, we also have a lot of compulsion by the market for those that don’t make it. (to be fair to Schwenck, her conception of what makes Russia ‘authoritarian’ is close to my own: it’s the internalization of conforming hopes and despairs that count)

The paradox of simultaneous ‘accountability sabotage’ as well as ‘you must adopt a vita active and be the change’ is very visible among the young people Schwenck talks to. She’s not alone in writing about this as a characteristic of Russian authoritarianism and how it creates schizoid political subjects. But it prompts me to again think about the current impasse. Don’t both these contradictory cosmologies end up destroying themselves eventually?

I don’t fully buy how much emphasis Schwenck puts on the internalization of conformism, and submission to what she calls ‘authoritative parenting’ as a throw back to Soviet ‘whole-person upbringing’. On the other hand, like other sociologists she shows how enduring is the Soviet discourse of ‘patriotism’ as social altruism and care for other people and one’s environment. Even in 2013 these feelings were rubbing up against a sense of the difficulty for young people in accounting for the structural limitations of the ‘will’ and their freedom to choose how to be flexible subjects.

As Schwenck addresses the 2022 invasion late in the book, it may well be that some of her interlocutors are those now administering the occupied Ukrainian territories. In that sense they would provide an answer to some of the questions as to how these dilemmas are resolved. Equally, many of these young people have clearly long disabused themselves of both their political and economic blinkers.

What’s most heartening is that there are a number of young Russian researchers with personal experience of these dilemmas now undertaking serious social research in the vein suggested by Anna Schwenck’s welcome contribution here.

‘Russia’s Spiral into Madness’ reviewed: The Times’ man in Russia writes his acid take on 25 years in Russia

Marc Bennetts’ new book pretty much hits the spot for anyone who wants a comprehensive and accessible journalistic treatment of ‘how we lost Russia’. Now, to those who know my extreme prejudice against journalists, this might sound like a backhanded compliment but it’s not. Having met Marc after he returned to the UK after more than half a lifetime of living in Russia, I knew how angry he was at the country he’d devoted so much to. I was frankly a bit scared that his book would join a long shit list I’ve made of ranty, self-indulgent and poorly researched takes puking on their own moral clarity.

Thank God I was wrong. What Bennetts has produced is a product of anger and disappointment, but it’s all the better for that. Many of my well-informed readers will not need to read this book. But then it was not written for them. It does exactly what it needs to do to inform the educated Western reader and actually give them a real taste of the foreign journalist’s life in Russia and, as the title says, a ‘spiral’ into madness.

I may quibble at the psychological metaphors at the best of time, but Bennetts is very careful to document things he’s experienced – like the utter cynicism and mendaciousness of other – particularly Russian – journalists and broadcasters like Kiselyov and Popov. These are the scenes that stand out – as one would expect from probably one of the best embedded and connected foreign journalists in Russia. Standout moment in this genre for me was when Bennetts phones up an ailing Gleb Pavlovsky after the full-scale invasion of Ukraine to ask him about D. Medvedev’s transformation. He’s told curtly: Medvedev ‘is not a popular person’.

Now, the insider journo view, while welcome and interesting, is not even the main thing though. Thank goodness. We’ve got chapters on Galina Starovoitova (assassinated 1990s politician who represents the ‘road not travelled’ and where Bennetts examines the question of lustration). We have zoom-ins on Nemtsov, Navalnyi, Zhirinovsky, the Orthodox Church, the occult, and plenty of Bennett’s exceptionally good Ukraine journalism post-2022. And a lot on Putin. But in a good way, trust me.

I particularly liked the way that the book moves back and forth from Russia to Ukraine – this is surely something that will give it lasting power given the allergy journalists have towards such an approach. The book actually opens with the liberation of Kherson – which is both extremely smart and also serves to illustrate one of the main conundrums: the production of pathological indifference (in this case Bennetts; supposition about the motives of Russian soldiers).

Off the bat, Bennetts doesn’t shy away from strong metaphors (like the title and subtitle of the book) and for a little while I wondered whether he’d also go off the deep end. However, even in the preface he says that he’s given the material enough space to ‘control my hatred’. He wonders for moment whether his relationship to Russia is like the conflicted emotions of the relatives of brutal criminals. It could have all unravelled after this. So too could have a thematic commitment to the topic of ‘collective delusion’. It’s there, but only to the extent it should be – the first-hand accounts of people denying the reality beyond their bubbles and contorting themselves to protect their received views. The depiction of how people avoid cognitive dissonance is almost identical to that I describe in my own book. Overall then, two shit-list bullets dodged.

The opening chapter ends then with a question that really sums up the problem with journalistic accounts: why has Russia ‘allowed itself’ to be ruled by the same ‘unremarkable’ man for a quarter of a century and so quickly slide into ‘violent nationalism’. This is again, shit-list territory for me. Thankfully, Bennetts doesn’t give in too much to amateur political science and the book quickly settles down after this to the much more revealing, rewarding, and informative work of explaining why the British gen-Xers are so Russia pilled. Much of what Bennetts writes applies to so many of us. For shame! When he returns to the ‘why’ questions, it’s generally along the lines of what one would expect: Putin bought people off. Which is not exactly wrong.

Early in the book, Bennetts is effective in portraying the ‘revenge’, ‘humiliation’ motivations among interlocutors as they sometimes gleefully indulge their geopolitical id and cathetically (not cathartically) allocate their darkest mental energy to the dreadful objects of Ukraine and West. This somewhat undercuts the earlier ‘apathy’ musings. But that’s ok, I think. Some of the time one gets the impression that already long ago Bennetts had become more than a little jaded – as one might expect – and that he enjoyed baiting and provoking ‘believers’. I’ve done the same, I have to admit. He doesn’t seem to reflect on how this approach might affect the kind of defensively consolidating reaction he often describes

I’ve also experienced the same ‘demonic’ reactions when cognitive dissonance threatens to come undone (when he tells someone Ukraine is not being ‘liberated’). I too could have used the term ‘poisoned’ to talk about the effect of continuous exposure to Russian TV. Nonetheless, for a fourth time, Bennetts avoids the easy moral pandering of 95% of his colleagues when he quickly follows all this up by reminding us that none of his Russian acquaintances supported the war or Putin and later discusses the thousands of anti-war arrests. I’m genuinely surprised when a journalist resists the temptation to do this nowadays. Even after meticulous descriptions of wartime Mariupol, Kharhiv and Kherson, Bennetts returns immediately to undercut the implication of collective guilt by focussing on the organized and principled opposition within Russia to the invasion.

As I mentioned – the sections about Putin are surprisingly nuanced: especially where Bennetts does the job so many émigré Russian experts (and scholars!) are unable to do and expertly dismantles the myth that Putin is popular or represents some secret connection between state and people. We also have multiple excellent takedowns of the fellow-travellers and state propagandists – acid depictions of their intellectual and moral corrosion.

Bennetts’ book has something of the John Reed about it. Sincere, insider, adventurer and shrewd observer. That’s probably less of a compliment than it sounds, because despite its skill and immediacy it has some of the same blinkers, as one would expect. But overall, it is excellently done. I cannot say I agree with all of it, especially when it gets psychological or sociological, but I’m glad I read it.

“Russia: A rich country full of poor people”

The quote is from my book, but I wanted to write a bit more here about inequality in Russia because it is often underplayed and misunderstood. Scroll to the end if you just want the ‘news’ about the statistical manipulation of inequality statistics for political reasons.

First though, why care about inequality (specifically, wage differences) at all? High wage people tend to spend a lot less of their incomes. This money-wealth ‘leaves’ the real economy or contributes to asset inflation – notoriously, real estate prices that are now many multiples of average wages in most developed countries. Russia is no exception. Moscow apartment prices are eye-watering, even for those on ‘decent’ salaries. Being in the top 2% of earners nationally, inherited or gifted wealth are the only ways of getting access to real estate ownership in the (greater) city centre. In that sense, Moscow is not very different from Greater London or Manhattan. Wage inequality directly leads to wealth inequality. The poorest are unable to accrue even enough wealth to stave off emergencies, and the richest are unable to recirculate it in society.

One way of measuring wage inequality is the Gini coefficient. Lower means less inequality. Ginis go up and down over time, and Russia’s famously went up after 1991. For every sustained 1% increase in the Gini, there’s a 0.3% increase in inflation – a persistent scourge for Russian citizens’ sense of well-being. In 2024, the Gini for where I work, Denmark, was 0.29. For the UK it was 0.33. For the USA, 0.49. For Brazil, 0.50. Russia sits around 0.40. It’s a national priority for the Russian government to get the Gini falling into the 0.30s. It is a revealing policy objective that shows elites believe Russia has more in common with Europe (and a welfare state) than the US or middle-income countries like Brazil. But wage inequality in Russia sits at a level 25% higher than most Western European countries even as Russia continues with failed policies of low public investment and almost no consistent policy-led redistribution or progressive taxation.

Then there’s the global trends. I was reminded of Branko Milanovic’s contribution to this when he remarked the other day that one of the problems with tackling inequality is that income distribution is not something mainstream economists really care about even though it is obvious that it affects economic growth. This is very true of Russia – high hydrocarbon incomes have not been redistributed much at all, hence the high Gini. As a result, now that the ‘punchbowl’ has been taken away and the country faces a stagflationary crisis not seen for 35 years, the ‘real’ rate of economic growth is shown to be close to zero. One of the reasons for low growth is that the average Russian has few savings or economic resources.

Milanovic became famous for his research that showed that despite global inequality falling (between-country inequality), the emergence of a middle-class in China would likely increase inequality there. Furthermore, in developed countries the reductions seen in inequality thanks to post-war social democracy were – by the 2000s – going into reverse: absolute gains in income went mostly to the richest 5% of the world after the Cold War ended. It is a ‘novel’ situation that while global inequality falls, we ‘feel’ the world is more unequal than ever because within countries inequality is generally rising and becoming more visible. Middle-income countries like Russia are important because they show us what it will be like to live in a world with a shrinking middle-class (spoiler – it’s not good). This is the sharp end of the social grievances stick in a country like Russia.

Now, I’ve been banging my scholarly head against a brick wall trying to emphasize why social inequality in Russia should matter to people interested in politics for a long time. This is not a topic many pundits or scholars think is important. One of the main conclusions of my recent book is that political ressentiment in Russia is driven as much by the frankly traumatizing experience of going from low inequality to high inequality overnight in the early 1990s, as it is to do with the fashionable explanation that geopolitical ‘resentment’ animates people. When a ‘political opening’ comes, as it must surely soon do, then the gulf between the haves and have-nots will feature somehow and a smart political operator may well exploit it.

It’s nice to feel vindicated then, when I recently found two pieces outlining how wage inequality is being downplayed and statistically manipulated in Russia. For me this is personal; whenever I present my work, there’s invariably a Russian person in the audience from a privileged background who flat out denies that inequality is ‘really that high’ in Russia. Or often they say that it’s a good thing. They necessarily say it exactly like that, but often it’s along the lines that either I’m being lied to when I say how little my interlocutors earn, or that ‘these people’ have significant hidden forms of income, alongside their earnings (which is not really true – but that’s another story: spoiler – there’s good reason to believe than money wages only get a 10-15% boost by hidden incomes).

Statistical manipulation of average wage rates is now widely understood

The first piece confirmed that, as long suspected, the average wage in Russia is distorted by the few with very high wages. We already knew this, but many ignored it for political reasons. Now an analysis conducted in Russia shows that by excluding outliers, the average wage is a much lower 60,000 rb a month ($800) and not 75,000 ($1000) – the figure used by the state statistics agency Rosstat. Yes, in Moscow to earn three times this sum is ‘average’, for the city ($2230). But Russia is regionally very unbalanced on pretty much any indicator you’d care to think of. The bottom line – according to the same analysis – is that only 17 million people (out of country of 143 million) have access to incomes more than equivalent to $1333 (or £1000) a month, before tax. And if we shift the picture from ‘average’ to median – the middle point of incomes, then we get an even more sobering figure: in 2024 the median wage was 47,000 rb ($630) – 26% lower than the statistical average. Officially, wages are expected to continue to rise above the rate of inflation in 2026. But that’s just officially.

The second piece of interest was from the analytical project Esli Byt Tochnymif we’re going to be precise’ . It drew attention to how Rosstat recently started publishing internationally comparative inequality measures again for Russia but then abruptly deleted them from its website. These stats showed that Russian inequality had risen back to 0.422 after a falling trend for many years. This figure is a ‘return’ to 2007 inequality levels. And those levels, by any measure, were high given the quantity and quality of human development, industrialization, social and other infrastructures available in Russia to provide dignified lives and incomes to the majority. In contrast to the dominant narrative even in the West, the rising Gini is useful because it serves as a counternarrative to the one that says ordinary people have been beneficiaries on aggregate from the war economy spending.

On the contrary, inequality has increased in every year of the war according to these figures. Shares of income also tend towards record inequalities in the 21st century– around 47% of all income is captured by the top 20% (in the USA it’s 52%), the top 10% capture 30% of incomes in Russia. The poorest 20% get 5% of the pie (in the USA it’s 3%). Overall then, we can draw the conclusion that 2022 was a watershed year – the end of a trend towards lessening economic differences and a return to earlier trends, albeit compensated by the fact that absolute poverty is lower (well, maybe).

Of course, rising inequality sometimes means that everyone is getting better off, but the rich are winning out more than the rest. What’s also nice about Esli Byt Tochnym is that in their Telegram account they also provide decile breakdown of incomes – the fifth 50% to 60%) get 55,157 roubles ($730). A pretax income of 339,054 ($4520) would put you in the top 1% of wage earners. EBT is useful to draw attention to statistical manipulate for ideological and political reasons – they also previously reported on the covering up by Rosstat of the real levels of poverty in the country. These poverty rates may be relative (by any measure outside Africa and a few places in Asia), but they are still high for such a well-endowed country. Once again, many people are in denial about this because of the political implications. And they continue such fictions because their audience is from the same privileged class as they are and do not know any better.

Coda: one materialist critique of Gini, and one anthropological intervention

Another topic entirely is the problem with using wage differentials as an expression of ‘inequality’. As Oleg Komolov said the other day in his own commentary to the recent statistical adjustments, it may well be that low wages in Khabarovsk buy more than median Moscow wages in Moscow – if you follow me. But the Gini itself understates the whopping inequality when it comes to accessing the services that are needed for basic human flourishing such as education, medicine and infrastructure. On these ‘measures’, a life outside the metropole looks much more starkly unequal than one inside it.

Then, finally there’s anthropology. On the basis of work done in Russia it has tried to rethink inequality by foregrounding its political and discursive contours rather than treating it as an outcome of economic or distributive injustice. Caroline Humphrey wrote about this at the tail ends of the 1990s – a decade of massive apportionment of misery and riches seemingly at random in Russia. For Humphrey, the Russian ‘case’ allows us to sensitise ourselves to how inequality emerges not only from material disparities but also from political anxieties: about the integrity, unity, and governability of social groups.  It calls back to some of her earlier work about institutionalism in Russia being about incorporation and the creation of ‘insider’-‘outsider’ status. In this framework, inequality is relational and fluid, rooted in historically variable discourses that construct categories of the dispossessed. This explains partly why material misfortune so often is accompanied by ‘social death’ in Russia – in a cycle that compounds misery. There’s no more space here to go into this, but if the Russian ’regime’ gets reconstituted, this less visible sense of inequality may become more salient that the purely economic one.

When Altmetrics Break Bad: Why We Need a New Filter for Academic Integrity

Soros reading a very expensive Palgrave book

Andreas Umland, Professor at Kyiv-Mohyla Academy and founder/editor of the book series on Soviet and Post-Soviet Politics published by ibidem-Verlag, just highlighted on Twitter a ’collective warning’ letter to readers of Ivan Katchanovski’s new Springer-published book: The Russia-Ukraine War and its Origins: From the Maidan to the Ukraine War.

The criticism was that Katchanovski blames mainly Ukraine and the West for conflict since 2014. Russia appears as more of a reactive force than an instigator. The letter says that “Katchanovski fundamentally misleads his readers when he explains Russia’s attack as the result of alleged Ukrainian transgressions against political pluralism. […] Whoever wants to understand the sources of the Russo-Ukrainian War should read less about Ukrainian domestic politics and international relations – the primary foci of Katchanovski’s book. Instead, Russia’s war was caused and is driven by Russian political traditions, ideas and interests.”

Full disclosure, I’m blocked by Katchanovski on Twitter for criticizing him. I think some of his claims are poorly evidenced and his arguments objectively ‘bad’. He came to my attention for his assertion that the Maidan snipers were part of a false-flag operation in 2014. Katchanovksi bludgeons the reader with analysis of ‘2000 videos… 6000 photos… 30GB of radio intercepts’ to give the appearance of objective sleuthing. However, a large part of his writing lacks direct relevance (e.g. going off on tangents about 1989 Romania), he does not consider the problem of testimony after the fact, its veracity versus hearsay. On careful reading the result is more an assertive interpretation which is not convincing as an evidentiary demonstration of a false flag. Its central weakness is not that it raises no legitimate questions, but that it repeatedly overstates what its sources can actually prove. On the sniper question and beyond, the evidence is presented in a way that is polemical, cumulative in appearance, and much less conclusive than the author claims. Confirmation bias, circular references, cognitive closure are just a few of the more general issues, in my opinion.

That aside, what this letter reminded me was that Altmetrics (internet-related measures of impact) is having a significant interactive effect with how AI answers questions. Just a few weeks ago I saw a student include Katchanovski on a literature list because AI had suggested him. There was no Andrew Wilson nor Sarah Whitmore on that list. Does the volume of Altmetrics create a feedback loop that AI then propagates?

What does this “J’Accuse…!” affair tell us about the state of academia? It doesn’t reflect well on publishers, but nor does it reflect well on ‘us’ as so-called gatekeepers of quality, sourced knowledge. There are some massively respected names on the list of signatures, but I would have expected more of them. What do they want? It’s not clear. Do they want the publisher to withdraw the book(s)? From a critical perspective, it might be more productive to investigate processes for selecting peer-review experts and those who supported Katchanovski’s efforts to publish. The elephant in the room is the low bar to scholarly publication.

What the broad public don’t realise is that academic publishing is extremely varied in its quality filter. I’ve seen terrible books published by the ‘best’ university presses in the world based on pure nepotism or name-value. Presses that pretend they have rigorous peer-review and editorial processes. At same time, small, indi presses are sometimes more engaged with writing and editing processes. Then there are essentially the Walmarts of academic publishing. Their oligopoly model passively and actively killed the mom-and-pop stores of academic publishing and also some medium-sized players. The accusation is that they tend to churn massive numbers of books with less regard to quality.

Academics who need a book for internal institutional reasons go there. Unlike the real Walmart, the profit is not in low prices and volume, but in high prices to the captive and uncritical academic libraries in Euroland. These ‘trade’ presses make a profit by publishing a lot of books seemingly without an editor even reading them, and depending on a light-touch rapid ‘peer review’. If academic libraries in Europe buy 200-500 copies in total, the publisher makes a small profit because the price is €100 for a hardback. No ‘real’ people buy the book (except for your mum – thanks mum!), but now with AI these books get more traction because somewhere an AI has ‘consumed’ them – often because their high prices allows them to be Open Access.

A book about George Soros was just published with one of these presses. There was a joke on Twitter that he was the only human to actually buy the hardback book when he was pictured reading a physical copy. That was because all academics know the ridiculous price of hardbacks (targeted at librarian buyers): that book cost €162.49! And yet just googling it from my workplace gets me to a free link, courtesy of the Royal Danish Library’s krone.

According to WorldCat (a database of thousands of university libraries) one of Katchanovski’s earlier books, published by Ibidem Verlag(!), is held in 773 libraries. Is that a lot? Well yes and no. In reality, with the advent of e-versions of books, it’s largely useless to use sold copies as an indicator of impact. Nonetheless, the fact is that many of these ‘churn’ books are subsidized for publication by European universities and that means e-copies can be downloaded for free while libraries buy a few hundred hard copies. The downloads of e-copies are part of Altmetrics. And these online copies are consumed and archived by AI.

Whether you agree with its contents or not, the letter by Umland et al. indicates a collective action problem I’ve talked about before in my blog – when the war started in 2022 all kinds of crazy texts emerged from marginal and not-so-marginal voices with dodgy claims. They got published in the biggest newspapers in the world. People’s reputations were cemented on outlandish claims about Russia and Ukraine. If scholars don’t like this kind of thing they should do something about it. Writing a long-winded letter that doesn’t even address the core criticism towards someone like Katchanovski is not going to help.

Two takeaways:

There’s no reliable ‘scholarly’ filter and reputations are no guide to ‘goodness’ of argument and evidence. This is normal and we should just admit it. There are disreputable and just downright poor scholars at all kinds of institutions. What I mean by that is that there are people just churning unevidenced (or massively over-evidenced non-relevant ‘proof’), poorly argued stuff that gets published because they are ‘academics’ in an institutional ecosystem. If it’s ‘timely’, contentious, it will get Altmetrics attention (basically media and social media mentions of ‘scholarly’ work).

Katchanovski’s most controversial article (which feeds into his book content) was published in a journal many people consider questionable in terms of reputation and ethical practices. His reviewing editor has no expertise or knowledge of Ukraine. [full disclosure: there is an editor there with Ukraine knowledge with whom I have worked closely] The article was quickly accepted for publication despite being a long piece with a lot of big claims based on footnotes with links to media. This journal was successfully hoaxed ten years ago by people trying to prove its poor peer-review and editorial practices. Others consider the outlet a ‘vanity or predatory journal’. It’s also a ‘pay-to-play’ journal. If you or your university has €2110. Some argue that this model encourages poor editorial filters. Anyway, the point is that this journal is only an outlier in a questionable system based on public subsidy of private profit. And the journal itself is owned by what is considered a solid publisher!

Second take away is the death of good, critical literature reviews. People knew about the controversial aspects of Katchanovski more than 10 years ago. To the qualified people who disagree with him, the problems with his reasoning, evidence, and research are very clear – pellucidly clear. There are dozens of respectable and tenured names on the letter criticizing him. But how many of them turned down the opportunity to write an excoriating review – if not in a visible academic journal – then in a public forum? According to my university library there are zero academic reviews of his recent books. If he’s so egregious, ignoring him won’t make him stop.

Here though the takeaway should not be that Katchanovski’s scholarship is bad or reinforces Russian propaganda (the accusation of the letter, which I agree with). The takeaway is that what makes it ‘bad’ is not so different from what makes much qualitative social science poorly evidenced! Too much is published that overly relies on piled up testimonies, media mentions, and reconstructed inferences while treating them as if they were cumulative proof, even when many are second-hand, self-reported, or produced in a politically charged, chaotic environment. I recently criticized a scholar of Russia on related grounds (that confirmation bias can easily be ‘supported’ by piled up ‘evidence’).

Many researchers start off with solid claims and carefully crafted arguments but then get into what we could call the xerox of a xerox problem in research. Doing archival work is expensive and unrewarding. Trudging around Kyiv to interview people is hard. Conducting your own in-person survey rare as hens’ teeth. The biggest problem then is gradations of dodginess emerging from second- or third-hand evidence in support of cognitively biased research.

“A simulacrum of charismatic authority tending towards shabbiness, decay and deformation.” Russia four years after the disaster

a wall displays a directions towards a padlocked bomb shelter thousands of kilometres from Ukraine, February 2026.

In a wide-ranging interview for Die Zeit a few weeks ago I said: ‘for most, a national catastrophe seems more conceivable than that Russia could succeed in subjugating Ukraine. The prevailing mood is pessimism.’ In terms of parsimonious analysis, this is probably the most anyone studying Russia can offer.

Outside of Russia however, it’s noticeable how this analysis is not enough for students, colleagues, and media and public alike. After four years of war we are all supposed to have a definitive take. Things must be moving, according to some established rules of causality, in a particular direction.  But a marker in time is arbitrary. There’s nothing about the passing of four years that gives much more insight than six months ago, or six months hence. There’s very little value in giving an assessment of where we are, or where we are going. Furthermore, the temptation to stock take, while useful, often leads off in the direction of causal inference and prediction.

But the invasion of Ukraine, like the collapse of the USSR, should remind us that social sciences are not predictive. And this has been just as true of the part of the social science spectrum that claims the most “scientific” of approaches – economics. While there was a good lot of literature that said sanctions and embargoes could have effects on belligerents, that same literature also pointed out that this was only likely to work in contexts of massive and overwhelming differences in power.

Nonetheless, after four years, I still think it’s ‘the economy stupid’ that will make a difference. This was discussed in our recent Russia Unfiltered podcast where I made the point that Russia has far fewer resources overall than even Europe alone. The ‘economic’ argument, also offers – I think – a middle way between the rock of the realists, and the hard place of hawks that Seva Gunitsky outlined in January 2022. Incrementally increasing economic pain might make the supposition – that the Russian government cares much more about the outcome of the conflict, and is therefore able to pay much more for it and raise the stakes – irrelevant if the coming real stagnation of the Russian economy becomes visible and felt by everyone (and indeed, it will expose political fractures precisely because it will also reveal who has profited handsomely, and who is cynically protected from pain).

French historian Marc Bloch argued that the most meaningful comparisons are those which are maximally similar and consequentially different in only a few respects. Comparative study might very well be more meaningful within regions like the former Soviet one than across them. This is why most of the best work on the war to date has avoided historical and political parallels that are too distant from the immediate context. Nonetheless, one that I risked making myself – a comparison between the Iran-Iraq war in the 1980s and the Russo-Ukraine war, perhaps is still helpful for one good reason: its lesson about unpredictability due to the intractable process of long regional wars.

Iran-Iraq showed that outcomes were not at all predictable based on available evidence; outside interventions had effects but not immediately or in direct causative ways. The relative weight of the intervention of individuals and elites changed multiple times (and like in many wars, elites’ non-decisions were sometimes more important). And, to go against one of the points I made earlier about the danger of historical parallels, Iran-Iraq’s outcome was the strengthening through war of both countries’ militaristically-minded core elites. With terrible consequences shorter and longer term for their societies and their prior limited pluralisms.

It might be professionally satisfying for me to say ‘I told you so’ in response to Meduza’s new investigation that shows that Russian battlefield losses are severe but not half as bad as Western intelligence agencies are reporting. Well, I did tell you so, repeatedly – pointing out that because of a lack of professional analysis, Western agencies were mainly just repeating Ukrainian figures which were understandably propaganda. However, even if it were true that losses were much higher it would not change the calculus that it’s the relationship between money, interest rates, exchange rates and oil prices that run the war, not bodies. Bottom line: for Russia war mortgages the state. But sometimes it does so in a way that is unsustainable for non-core powers, of which Russia is a classic peripheral player vulnerable to numerous economic forces beyond its control.

So, beyond this perhaps limited historical comparison, what can I say I got right? Looking back at some of the posts on this site since 2022, a few stand out. There’s my reading of Snyder and Laruelle from May 2022, where the former argues that Russia is fascist and the latter retorts that Putin is not even Pinochet. In the same piece I emphasise the axiomatical political instincts of the regime remain focussed depoliticization and demobilization, but that of course this also creates major weaknesses in governance during wartime.

In October 2022 I wrote about the Donbasification of Russia itself, using the metaphor ‘North Korea-lite’ to show how historically, the erosion of norms and laws in occupied territories and conflicts has a boomerang effect on the imperial core. Little has changed in my assessment and in any case this is hardly an original idea. The problem really comes if the conflict ends, because the erosion of the rule of law, the high corruption within the MIC, and the need to scapegoat insiders, particularly in the security and economic elite only intensifies after a peace is signed.

In April 2022 I returned to my pre-war predictions as to what would happen in Russia and found them overall to be sound. One thing I didn’t anticipate because of my own blinders was how effective the politics of fear would become:

Continuation of the ‘politics of fear’. Again, I underestimated how fast Putin would clamp down and allow the narrative of internal enemies and traitors to justify all kinds of score-settling. I also did not foresee significant emigration by the upper-middle class. Fascism lite? Bonapartism? Others (Greg Yudin here) are very quick to go down those roads. I think for the time being I’ll stick with my version of authoritarian statism inspired by reading Nicos Poulantzas. “the ‘masses’ are not integrated (partly because politics is replaced by a single party centre), and pernicious networks like security interests are ‘crystalized’  in a permanent structure in parallel to the official state”.

In that same post I also refined a little my ideas about defensive consolidation which later appeared in a further revised form in my 2025 book:

Defensive consolidation involves magical thinking and denial… It involves a cleaving to authority (not necessarily the government, but your boss, your factory, your town leader), not out of loyalty or enthusiasm…The more Russians cleave to authority the more they are effectively ‘admitting’ to themselves how bad things really are.

DC is something of a ‘sweaty concept’ – I keep reframing it because it only exists as a very affective and interactive structure of feeling about the war and the state that Russian people have. Maybe the best exploration of it is only possible by reading across various chapters of the book. And reading out from Lisa Wadeen’s work on how, to paraphrase here, the simulacrum of charismatic authority tends towards shabbiness, decay and deformation in such regimes. It produces anxiety as much as compliance.

Finally, I wrote way too many posts about the problems of relying on survey data showing high war approval among the Russian public (a public which of course does not exist and knows as individuals that it cannot have an opinion). One of my most viewed posts in the last four years is this one about the shabby and unprofessional reality behind the smooth veneer that is the curation and presentation of much survey data about Russian political opinion. But don’t believe me, check out this pretty devastating indictment of interview practices which shows how the majority of answers to questions involve information loss, misunderstanding and distortion.

The title of that article is ‘communication breaches’ and for me this continues to be the lesson of the war when it comes to its impact on scholarly discussion and public understanding. Will this change before the war ends? I doubt it, meaning that publics and politicians are also not ready for the new European reality the end will bring – in terms of the new kind of Ukrainian and Russian regimes and states which will emerge and the necessity to have some kind of plan to engage with both. Will they be ‘the same, yet worse’ as I predicted in January 2022?

Comfort-class authoritarianism, not ideology, supports the status quo in Russia

A comfort class ‘uber’ type taxi in central Moscow, with a backdrop of boulevard bars and eateries.

What are the sources of social coherence and stability in Russia, three-years and six months into the invasion of Ukraine? This is the first of three posts (I hope) where I outline a theory of ‘soft authoritarian administration’: the ubiquitous intrusion into everyday life of securitized administration but which is not experienced (mainly) as coercive because the main vibe is the comfort and convenience it increasingly appears to provide to the majority of Russians. But this first post is preambular. I just finished reading the new book on elite ideology in Russia and I recommend it. However, at the same time, it for me, illustrates a lot that’s wrong with expert and academic commentary on what makes today’s Russian state ‘legitimate’ to many.

Despite many dissenting voices, too much attention is still afforded to the putative strength of a wartime ideological consolidation. And this is partly the fault of non-Russia specialists fighting Ukraine’s corner, for good reason. They need to paint a picture of brainwashing and and national accord in Russia to mobilize support for their cause. Less charitably, this position steers close to simple outrage framing for clout.

By contrast, there are professional observers steeped in political philosophy such as  Marlene Laruelle in her new book: an extensive history of, and conceptual guide to the ideas she sees as formative in Putin’s Russia. Ideas about a counter-hegemonic civilization that translate into a broad societal compact between elite and people. In my view, Laruelle, because she’s too good a scholar to give in to simplistic narratives, ends up somewhat undercutting her own thesis: civilizational tenets are a ‘repertoire’ of semantic elasticity and gaps, more ‘scripts’ than programmes or world views. If readers want, I can do a full post reviewing the book, because it’s well worth a read.

Serious works like Laruelle’s aside, it’s hard not to be incredulous when I read how much headspace ideology takes up among Western scholars. In a sense this is ironic because ‘we’ in the West treat it in many ways much more seriously than Russian regime intellectuals themselves. This approach has some serious limitations when it comes to doing adequate political sociology. Often a ‘values’ approach is not so far from the extreme positions of those like Timothy Snyder who propose – usually to the surprise of social scientists –  that Russia is a more or less fascist state.

The research agendas based on tracing how ideas influence populations are always attractive to scholars and activists alike because they’re simple to grasp. But they’re a poor substitute for sociology, and they too often reflect an outmoded view of how ideas circulate. Not only that, they are invariably a reflection of deep conservative pessimism among their practitioners. Essentially, they propose that most people are more receptive to negativity than a positive agenda.

‘We are for normalcy, the Europeans are not’, is the kind of negative conservative agenda I am talking about. This is hardly attractive when Russia remains a country of whopping corruption, precipitous demographic decline, terrible infrastructure like run-down schools and hospitals, not to mention extraordinary low salaries by global ‘middle-income’ standards and horrible labour relations. Europe has indeed become a useful distraction in discourse; an external, threatening other of moral relativism, sexual deviance, racial disorder and political deadlock in media and state discourse. ‘Things might be bad, but at least we’re not in France’, is a sincere, if unintentionally humorous phrase one might hear as a reflection in everyday talk of elite narratives. So, some of these ideological conjuring tricks gain traction then, especially as they are finessed into a biopolitical defence against moral decay. But if the regime is so bent on defence of tradition and the Russian people, why are social blights still rampant, and prenatal and profamily policies so mean and tokenistic? While there is support for neo-conservative ideas because of general fears and the legacy of the 1990s, there remain many concerns that far outweigh the propagandized issues on TV: inflation, impoverishment, fear of unemployment, economic crisis, and indeed, fear of armed conflict. Just in the latest Academy of Sciences Sociology Centre polling, these fears, over remain very high on the agenda.

Dashed expectations that the war might be changing the social compact in favour of better pay and conditions for the majority explains the most interesting May 2025 findings from the Russian Academy of Sciences Sociological Centre: a big rise, and then fall in the numbers of people saying that economic transformations have been carried out (when? The poll doesn’t specify) in the interests of the majority. This measure was notoriously low until the war began. Consistently, less than a quarter of respondents would ever answer in the affirmative. On the eve of the war, the number of people correspondingly agreeing that Russia’s political economic transformations served only the elite was the highest since 2011, at 60%.

Do economic transformations respond to the interests of the majority or not? Red: no; Blue, yes.

However, since 2022, this indicator in particular has been extremely volatile. In 2023, for the first time ever, the indicators crossed over into a scissor formation – more people – 44% – agreed for the first time that the economy was being run for the benefit of the majority. However, things have ‘scissored’ again back to a position where the majority disagree that the economic regime serves their interests in 2025. This volatility is unprecedented and indicates deep-seated political frustrations that few other quantitative indicators can uncover. The economic consequence of war were – perversely – expected to provide not only relief from the neoliberal compact, but more than trickle-down prosperity – as production was to be reshored and incomes raised.

The burgeoning disappointment that there is no ‘war dividend’ let alone the prospects of a peace one, help us uncover the peculiarities of the actual politics of Putinism – the flip side of soft repression is one of providing ‘comfort’ and respite from harsh economic reality. And I’ll cover the ‘comfort-class’ soft authoritarian administration of Russia in the next post. For the time being, I have a little challenge to readers interested in Russian media: try counting the instances of ‘comfort’ in the coverage you encounter. Ekaterina Shulman interestingly refers to the discomfort (in multiple meanings) of losing access to YouTube for Russians in her latest interview. She examines the loss of YouTube in the context of what she sees as the ‘destruction of the fabric of everyday life’ [bytovaia zhizn] which in Russia provided a high level of comfort to the metro middle-classes unparalleled in Europe (in her view from Berlin). And it’s very present too in this tone-deaf piece on emigration by Kholod media, in which comfort and convenience, more than intercultural adaptation or integration are emphasized. [sidenote: there are plenty of French supermarkets in Buenos Aires and better choice of quality low-cost clothing stores than H&M]

Bytovaia zhizn – everyday life – as Russian Studies students should know – is a hard phrase to translate into English because of the connotations it carries, not least of which is the idea that the creature comforts of retreating into a private domestic life can ward off the scary reality beyond one’s front door. As Catriona Kelly wrote, in 2004, in a chapter on byt, ideologists of all stripes in Russia have always had a problem with byt. But what if material well-being itself as a direct result of authoritarianism could become a kinds of ideology? That question will be covered in a future post.

The power of everyday politics in Russia: feeling for an absent presence

This is a longer summary of my new book written for Russia.Post. A version of it appeared there in May.

Twenty-seven years ago, I began visiting a small industrial town in Kaluga region and its rust-belt hinterland.  At first, I was just like any other visitor from Moscow; the town was merely a stop-off on the way to a more picturesque summer house.

Later in England I trained as an ethnographer. Ethnography is about long-term tracking of real people in their social context. It’s philosophy is also based on objective observation while still inside a community. Russian social researchers and journalists are often surprised or even incredulous that foreigners are able to conduct nuanced and insightful work from within Russia, but there’s a long pedigree to such research.

This doesn’t always get the attention it deserves from Russians themselves, but we can highlight the work of Americans some thirty years ago such as Dale Pesman and Nancy Ries, that of British researchers like Charlie Walker and Caroline Humphrey. Researchers with good language skills, contextual knowledge, and the commitment to prolonged periods of fieldwork in places many more privileged Russians are loathe to spend time in, have produced important historical documents about how society has changed. In 1991 the late sociologist Michael Burawoy even got a job in a Komi furniture factory to do ‘production ethnography’ – probably a first for a Western researcher in Russia.

Burawoy consistently showed in his career (he also worked in 1980s’ Hungary) that the disarming nature of an affable yet curious foreigner could be just as effective in getting to the nub of what was going on among the (post)-socialist working classes, as the penetrating and informed researches of a native observer, such as those of sociologist Alexei Levinson, for example, who also spent time visiting Russian factories in the 2000s.

I consciously followed Burawoy’s lead in 2009 and spent many months embedded in the industrial settlement I gave the pseudonym ‘Izluchino’. Like other sociologists and ethnographers I tried to live the life of those I was studying while remaining objective and as ethically transparent as possible. The result was a book published in 2016 about the long durée experience of decline and precarity among Russian workers.

The second long period of my fieldwork coincided with Crimean annexation and the Donbas war. It was then when was forced to confront the way fieldwork relations between a foreign researcher and Russian interlocutors inevitably would be overlaid by geopolitics. But at the same time many local people interpreted me as some kind of diplomatic sounding board for their own strong political feelings of both resentment and rejoicing. I became part of a conversation in anthropology about bridging insider-outsider identity and ‘intimate’ geopolitics.

Instead of seeing this as a danger zone and switching to ‘safer’ topics, I embraced the chance to develop an immersive political anthropology of my field sites, and, indeed, extend the scope of my research from the ‘district’ to the broader context of European Russia – after all, many of my interlocutors were engaged in vakhtovaia work – seasonal and periodic work mobility to Moscow, to Yamal, and even to Germany. In 2018 I decided I would be able to collect enough material to write an ‘alternative’ book-length study on Russian politics. And in 2025 the result is the work published as Everyday Russian Politics: From Resentment to Resistance.

For this book I went back to my workers, but also to middle-class Muscovites, Kalugan entrepreneurs, to my ex-peasants in the ‘back of beyond’ of Izluchino, and to ‘biudzhetniki’ workers in small towns who do the heavy and oftentimes thankless lifting of the Russia state’s rickety capacity.

At the beginning of the book, I spend time considering Russian responses to war as defensive consolidation. Prompted by the immediate disaster of war, defensive consolidation, while expressing fears of punishment and collapse, also attunes people to the long-term decline and aporia the political compact represents – that there has been neither socio-economic renewal, nor genuine promotion of a cohesive sense of what it means to be Russian in the twenty-first century. As Karine Clément has argued, consolidating feelings arise thanks to the perceived shortcomings of the social compact – and these are the ‘fault’ of both elites and ‘the collective West’ in the popular imagination.

The book opens in typical ethnographic fashion with extended vignettes. Vignettes are detailed personal stories observed at first hand. I use these to showcase how politics manifests in everyday life. They illustrate the diversity of perspectives on national identity, war, economic hardship, and state power: In a village in 2014 after the Crimean consensus has somewhat attenuated, I participate in a casual conversation with Lyova, a soon-to-retire plumber, his son Sasha, and his daughter-in-law Lena.

Their conversation is filled with mixed emotions about Crimea’s annexation. Lena expresses national pride, believing the event strengthens Russia’s global standing and offers young people something to be proud of. Sasha and Lyova are more sceptical, questioning whether ordinary Russians will benefit from the annexation or whether it will only serve the interests of political elites. Lyova, despite his scepticism, adheres to a resigned loyalty—a belief that criticizing the government is pointless, as it won’t change anything.

This ethnographic conversation offers an example of how engaged qualitative approaches, based on building trust in sensitive contexts can tease out the more complex and candid views of interlocutors over and above the often black and white findings from survey data.  They also, to some degree flatten the hierarchies that always exist between sociologists and respondents, affording more confidence to real people to express genuinely contradictory yet sincere positions.

While official discourse celebrated Crimea as a national victory, many Russians privately worried about economic burdens and worsening living conditions. They actively used irony as a form of political expression: Sasha’s sarcastic remark—“At least Crimea is ours, eh, Dad?”—captures a common way Russians cope with state propaganda: acknowledging it while subtly mocking its implications and focussing on the material repercussions that ‘working poor’ Russians have to face after the big elites have made their geopolitical plays. This is important in itself because political scientists tend to uncritically accept the idea that the Crimean ‘consensus’ was enduring and strong. In contrast to the ‘common sense’ of some observers, it turns out that the mask of loyalty is one that Russians are readily able to take off when their material interests are damaged by politics.  

Years later, in 2021, I talk to Tanya, a chambermaid working at a rural hotel, who has an ‘additional role’ (actually her 9-5 job) teaching patriotic education to schoolchildren. Tanya reveals her growing anxiety about a looming war, reflecting a widespread belief that major conflict is inevitable. Her son Dima, a teenager interested in military history and online war games, is drawn to nationalist discourse but primarily for pragmatic reasons—he believes serving in the security sector is the safest way to secure a stable career and avoid conscription into dangerous combat roles.

Tanya’s teaching of patriotic education is not necessarily a deep ideological commitment but a way to earn a salary increment and get recognition in her community. She also has a genuine commitment to inculcating in her wards respect for the sacrifice of local people in Kaluga during occupations of their district in WWII and actual historical knowledge.  Similarly, Dima’s interest in military service is driven by economic incentives rather than an abiding or coherent nationalism.

Ethnography like this, in dialogue with more statistically generalizable methods, shows how the state embeds nationalism in everyday life: Through education and employment incentives, the government fosters militarized patriotism. In the febrile intersection of economic insecurity and nationalistic rhetoric, people do not necessarily believe state propaganda but use it pragmatically to secure a better future and pursue their own interests and values.

In late 2022, at the height of Russia’s first war mobilization, I visit Alla, an IT specialist in Moscow. Alla and her son Gosha live in fear of conscription: Gosha, 27, refuses to leave his apartment during daylight to avoid being forcibly recruited into the war. The war disrupts families and social networks: Alla receives phone calls from relatives in Ukraine who are under Russian bombardment while also staying in touch with her daughter in Rostov, who complains about pro-government propaganda in her school. Young people push back against nationalist rhetoric: Alla’s daughter openly challenges a teacher’s homophobic and anti-Western rhetoric, highlighting a generational divide in political attitudes somewhat at odds with the picture painted of an apolitical and pliant youth.

Scenarios like this were plentiful in my fieldwork. The role of fear and uncertainty in shaping political behaviour is real. Even in Moscow, where direct enforcement is weaker, paranoia spreads through rumour and word of mouth. But there is also dissent in small but meaningful ways: Younger Russians, particularly in urban centres, are more willing to challenge state narratives. These three vignettes set the stage for one of my central arguments: political engagement in Russia is neither monolithic nor dictated by state propaganda. Instead, it is deeply personal, negotiated through economic pressures, social anxieties, and strategic adaptation to state power.

Building on interactions and observations like this, in the rest of the book I draw on the inheritance of cultural theorists like Raymond Williams and political thinkers like Jacques Rancière. These diverse sources help me explore the idea that people’s political orientations are shaped by underlying emotional and social currents just as much as they are by explicit regime-fed ideology. In particular, ethnography forces me to confront the actual meaning of political ‘resentment’ and I link it as much to social disconnection as to geopolitical confrontation: Many Russians feel abandoned by both the state and economic system, but this doesn’t always translate into active resistance.

People long for a sense of social belonging, but not necessarily for the Soviet Union itself—rather, for the stability and solidarity they associate with the past. I agree with researchers like Marlene Laruelle that there is popular support for a new ‘state’ ideology that is in some specific ways ‘conservative’. However, I bring to the fore the socialist legacy of incorporation into what Antonio Gramsci called a ‘national-popular’ project of collective will that overcomes class divisions. Soviet experience provided a template for imagining a different kind way of overcoming Russia’s challenges and backwardness – sometimes the effect this had on people has been called ‘deprivatization’ and ‘dealientation’ in more than just an economic sense, or ‘encompassment’ of values in an anthropological meaning.  And this template of utopian ideas endures as a ‘feeling’ for past, in the present, and as a possible future, however monstrous or abortive one might view aspects of the Soviet experiment in reality.

I am not the first to question way that people imputing a sense of Soviet nostalgia to ordinary people invariably forecloses any critical potential in the term. Long ago, scholars like Olga Shevchenko detected a ‘longing for longing’ that people believe the Soviet utopian project sustained. Like them, I emphasize the persistence of a common feeling for potentiality – ‘something was possible and then it was no longer possible’. I build on the theories of respected Russian anthropologists like Alexei Yurchak and Sergei Oushakine who write about the experience of disjuncture and loss at the end of the Soviet project to get at the social trace of how that loss might be recuperated. People say and do all kinds of things that pull them apart, that set them on tracks of debilitating subordination to the state, to the ‘market’.

However, the book is not just about micro-scale interactions but links these to bigger social and political questions – like how effective the Russian state is. The fuzzy incoherence of state institutions is more than just about ‘institutional failure’, ‘endemic corruption’ or ‘state withdrawal’. Without ignoring the ineffectiveness and poor quality of state services in Russia, their overall incoherence means that bureaucrats must exit their designated roles. They more often ‘lean across the desk’ in a gesture that coproduces the state with the citizen because of the contradictions of the law and its enforcement.

At the same time, they reproduce a moral relationship with the citizen in what are absurd and impossible situations. In a number of case studies, I dramatize up close how different layers of the state and society come together almost surreptitiously and conspiratorially to fix things like broken heating networks or to circumvent the rent seeking of bureaucrats looking to impose fines on the most innocuous activities.

In place of models of Russian state-mindedness as overwhelmingly paternalist I find practices of accommodation, co-production of governance, and a shared feeling for stateness. This traces back to the socialist era’s attempts as citizen incorporation in the big projects of the state. It is a mistake to see society as a passive receptor of the actions of state institutions and bureaucratic organizations. Especially in the Russian case, these pitfalls lead to overestimating the state’s coercive power and underestimating both bureaucracy and community capacity. In an uneasy concert, they contest or reshape regime goals.

Once again, I claim little outright originality here. Essentially this is the project of scholars such as Olga Moliarenko who shows the possibility of examining durable forms of ‘shadow governance’. Like her, I try to build a bridge away from politically-determinist accounts. Building on the exceptionally detailed scholarship on the workings of Russian courts and on property rights by Kathryn Hendley and Timothy Frye, I propose a reflexive, moral set of reasonings and historical impetus for state workers-citizen interactions in making the incoherent state at least sometimes respond to citizens’ needs.

There are a number of other themes in the book, from nomadic car culture and garage communities to the cultivation of craft and domestic production as both leisure and a form of political subject making. Towards the end of the book I remark on the similarly of the networks, motivations and commitment of both pro- and anti-war activists in Russia. On that topic alone I think that the book represents an important intervention and a unique one.

A tough task in this book was to draw on the new historical writings – many of them by Russian scholars who remain in Russia even after 2022 –  about the ‘socialist’ period and connect them to lived experience in today’s Russia. This is why I think my book is timely in a sense not just that it’s an ethnography made partly during war: many scholars are currently focussed on efforts to get at the complexity, and even normality of life in the late USSR. How was it possible to maintain belief and desire in an atomizing space? What links people in this book is a sense of striving: purposive desire and imagination that remains and which can be intergenerationally communicated. As in recent work by Alexandrina Vanke, I have tried to work in the tradition of Raymond Williams’ writing about how even ordinary people shape the shared sense of the meaning of an epoch. I use the term ‘feeling for an absent presence’ to emphasize how suffering and loss can be generative of possibility and the imagination of a better society. The content of this haunting feeling is an urge to (re)connect in some vital yet communitarian way that goes beyond the individual.

This is thrown into sharp relief against the relentless precarity of existence in contemporary Russia and the course of destructive transformations of the last thirty years. Some Russian thinkers themselves have talked about their country as a metaphorical ‘weapons proving ground’ or a space of techno-neofeudalism that anticipates a global dystopian future.

I end the book by considering Russia as a crisis heterotopia – a time-space containing what look like the most dysfunctional elements of contemporary capitalism and the authoritarian tendencies of the modern state. But Russia as heterotopia is merely one world within our world. Current crises there are played out in no greater relative dramaturgical intensity than in other societies.

Russia’s crisis is both banal, taken for granted, but also delimited – we can trace its edges. Similarly, heterotopias contain dual meanings; they are mirrored. They reflect crisis but also give glimpses of resolution. The quite often specific examples of ordinary existence in Russia can be instructive. Provisioning, informal governance, everyday politics, activism and solidarity show us how the small (and often quiet) theories of everyday political economy link up into the form of small lifeboats for the people. DIY Lifeboats are more than just a striking image. As metaphor they encapsulate both flight and permanence; inconspicuously they wait on deck. But they require people to work together at the oars; an individual can hardly manage alone.