Russia

There is a sentence that gets repeated in Western capitals as if it were a law of physics: if we give Ukraine too much, Russia will use nuclear weapons. It is spoken gravely, by serious people, and it is meant to end the conversation. I want to begin by pointing out what that sentence actually commits you to. If “too much aid” triggers annihilation, then somewhere below “too much” there is a safe amount — and you can never know where the line is, because the man drawing it has every incentive to keep moving it toward zero. The only point on that scale that is guaranteed not to provoke the apocalypse is the point where you give nothing at all. Take the premise seriously and it does not counsel caution; it counsels surrender, today and every day after. A senior American official is reported to have warned that excessive support for Ukraine could prompt a Russian nuclear strike. The honest name for a policy built on that fear is not prudence. It is suicide — the slow kind, where you talk yourself out of defending what you believe in because someone has told you the alternative is the end of the world. ...

The most flattering thing the Russian state now says about itself is that it is a civilization — a “state-civilization,” a separate pole standing between East and West, beholden to neither. It is meant to sound proud. It is in fact a confession, and once you follow it to its logical end, it becomes one of the bleakest self-descriptions a state has ever issued. Because if Russia really is a distinct civilization, set apart from the European order of human rights, the rule of law, and the separation of powers, then the next question is unavoidable: what is the content of this civilization once those things are taken out? Subtract Europe from Russia and look at what remains. The honest name for that residue is not “a third pole.” It is a monster. ...

When I was little, it was in Ukraine that I first learned what nationalism is. It was there that people started calling me “moskal” and “katsap,” words whose meaning I didn’t fully understand until I asked my parents. Nationalism was foreign to me, but I saw it in the dull, hardened eyes of the little girls who taunted me. For some reason it was always the girls… There it was, right in front of me — this strange, incomprehensible, baseless, embittered nationalism. ...

There is a comfortable way to talk about the FSB, and almost everyone uses it. In this telling the agency is Vladimir Putin’s instrument — his sword and shield, the loyal apparatus through which a single man projects his will across eleven time zones. He commands; it obeys. Frighten the dictator and you frighten the service; remove the dictator and the service goes slack. I want to argue that this picture is not merely incomplete but inverted. The FSB is not Putin’s tool. It is a mafia operating at the scale of a country and reaching across the world, and Putin is one of its assets rather than its owner — the most valuable asset it holds, but an asset all the same. The relationship is not master and servant. It is a partnership between a frightened man and the organization that profits from his fear, and the organization is the senior partner. ...

There is a comfortable way to talk about Yevgeny Prigozhin, and it has the great advantage of making him small. In this telling he was a caterer who got lucky, a thug with good connections, a useful brute whom the Kremlin pointed at Ukraine and Africa and who then, in a fit of pique, briefly lost his mind and drove a column toward the capital before thinking better of it. File him that way and the whole episode shrinks to an anecdote: a colorful henchman, an embarrassing weekend, a tidy aerial death. I want to argue that this is exactly the wrong frame, and that the smallness is the point — because the comfortable reading is a way of not looking at what Prigozhin actually represented. He was not an aberration of the system. He was its purest product, and its plainest warning. ...

There is a story the Kremlin tells about its own defeat, and the remarkable thing is how many people outside the Kremlin have come to believe it. The story goes like this: cut off from a hostile and decadent West, Russia has executed a grand strategic turn to the East, finding in China a co-equal partner, a civilizational ally, a second pole around which a new and fairer world will organize itself. The sanctions, in this telling, were a gift. They freed Russia from dependence on a dying Europe and delivered it into the embrace of the rising power of the century. The pivot to China is presented not as a retreat but as a triumph — the proof that the war was worth fighting, that the multipolar world Putin promised has in fact been born. ...

Every war needs a founding lie, and this one has a particularly seductive one: that Ukrainians and Russians are “one people,” torn apart by malice and propaganda, who would fall back into a single embrace if only the troublemakers were removed. It is an attractive story because it dresses an invasion as a family reunion. It is also false, and not in a vague or sentimental way. History refutes it precisely. Ukraine and Russia did not drift apart in the twentieth century over politics; they forked in the Middle Ages, from two different roots, into two different civilizations. The man pulling the trigger believes he is correcting an accident. He is, in fact, fighting the conclusion of a process that was settled long before he was born — and, as I will argue at the end, he is now completing it against his own will. ...

Two opposite illusions have grown up around the sanctions imposed on Russia, and the strange thing is that the same people often hold both at once. The first illusion is that sanctions are useless theatre — a way for Western governments to look busy, a press release that hurts no one, a gesture that the Kremlin shrugs off while the oil keeps flowing and the missiles keep falling. The second illusion is the mirror image: that sanctions are a kind of secret weapon, that if only they were tightened enough they would strangle the dictatorship into collapse, turn the population against the war, and bring peace without anyone having to fight for it. Both of these are wrong, and they are wrong in instructive ways. The truth lies in the uncomfortable middle, where most true things live. Sanctions cannot end this war by themselves. But they are very far from nothing. Understanding exactly what they can and cannot do is not an academic exercise; it is the difference between spending Western leverage where it bites and squandering it on fantasies. ...

The comfortable way to talk about the Russian state’s antisemitism is to treat it as a series of accidents. A foreign minister blurts out something monstrous on Italian television; a spokeswoman invents Israeli mercenaries on a battlefield; a ministry moves to expel a Jewish charity. Each episode is filed under embarrassment — a slip, a gaffe, an isolated lapse of a regime otherwise busy with other crimes. I want to argue that this reading is not merely too kind but diagnostically wrong. These are not accidents. They are the surfacing of a single structural attribute, and that attribute is one of the most reliable signs we possess that a fascism has fully crystallized. As Russian power hardens into one of the most obscurantist forms the century has seen, it acquires antisemitism the way the most rabid regimes of the last century acquired it — not as a flaw but as a working part. The once-isolated moves are merging into a coordinated whole. To see it clearly is to stop asking why does this keep happening and start reading it as a symptom that tells you exactly how far the disease has progressed. ...

There is a comfortable way to talk about the Russian Orthodox Church and the war, and it goes like this: the Church is an ancient faith, a reservoir of belief and consolation, and the regime — cynical as ever — has simply co-opted it, draping its tanks in incense the way it drapes everything else it touches. On this view the institution is a victim of the state, a sacred thing put to profane use. I want to argue that this picture is not just incomplete but backwards. The Moscow Patriarchate is not a faith that the regime co-opts. In its present form it is a creation of the state’s security organs, and in this war it has made itself something more specific and more terrible than a propaganda asset. It is the metaphysical engine of the aggression — the apparatus that takes the killing of one nation by another and returns it to the killers as holiness. ...

We have a habit, and it is a comfortable one, of keeping the world’s wars in separate folders. Ukraine goes in one. The Middle East goes in another. North Korea’s perpetual menace gets a folder of its own, filed somewhere at the back where we hope it will stay quiet. Each folder has its own experts, its own history, its own list of grievances and borders and broken treaties. And because each looks so distinct on the surface, we treat them as distinct in their nature: this war is about territory, that one is about religion, that other one is about a paranoid dynasty and its missiles. We reach for a local explanation every time, and the local explanation is always available, because every war does have a local cause. ...

There is a picture of revolution that almost everyone carries around, and it is wrong. In it, oppression mounts until it becomes unbearable; the people, pushed past endurance, pour into the square in numbers too vast to suppress; the regime, faced with a sea of human bodies, loses its nerve and falls. It is a stirring image, and it flatters us, because it locates the decisive variable in something we can imagine summoning — courage, numbers, the willingness of ordinary people to finally stand up. If only enough of us were brave enough, the wall would come down. ...

When the migrants began to mass in the forests of the Belarus-Poland border in the autumn of 2021, the world reached almost automatically for the only category it had ready: a migration crisis, a humanitarian problem, a question of how a wealthy Europe ought to treat the desperate people arriving at its edge. That framing felt natural, and it was a trap. What was happening on that border was not a flow of refugees that a generous policy might have absorbed. It was an attack — a deliberate, engineered assault on a sovereign state — and the migrants freezing in the forest were not its authors but its ammunition. A cornered dictator had discovered something genuinely new: a weapon no air-defence system can intercept, no sanctions list can ground, no radar can see coming, because the weapon is made of human beings. To read that November as a migration problem is to mistake the projectile for the conflict. The projectile, in this case, was alive, deceived, and dying, and that was the entire point. ...

We are used to reading repression as a display of power. The arrests, the prison terms, the raided institutes, the criminal cases against people who have already fled the country — all of this looks, at first glance, like a strong state flexing its muscles, reminding everyone who is in charge. I want to argue almost the opposite. The repression now grinding through Russia is not the regime demonstrating its strength; it is the regime wounding itself. It destroys the very minds and talents a country needs in order to live. It manufactures, with its own hands, the people who will one day come to settle accounts. And it always intensifies at a particular, telling moment — not when the regime is winning, but when it is failing abroad and has nowhere else to put its rage. Seen this way, the machinery of fear is not armor. It is a slow poison the state keeps administering to itself. ...

We are used to thinking of trust and empathy as private virtues — qualities a person either possesses or lacks, scattered unevenly across a population the way height or temperament is scattered. On this view, some peoples are warm and some are cold, and there is not much to be done about it. I want to argue something less comforting and more useful: that trust and empathy are not moods but variables, quantities a society can be measured by, and that the measurement decides everything. There is a number that governs whether people will cooperate to save their own lives, whether a state can be believed when it matters most, and whether a ruler treats his population as fellow citizens or as a hostile crowd to be managed. The number is the radius — how far beyond the self and the immediate family a person is willing to extend trust and fellow-feeling. Stretch it wide and a society can do almost anything together. Let it contract to the size of a household, or a single skull, and the same society becomes ungovernable except by force, incapable of collective action, and indifferent to mass death happening in plain sight. ...

We are used to thinking of Russia’s billionaires as rich men — owners in the ordinary sense, people who possess their yachts and palaces and fortunes the way a Western tycoon possesses his. The whole vocabulary of “oligarch” encourages this: an oligarch, on the Greek root, is one of the few who rule by virtue of what they own. I want to argue that in Putin’s Russia this picture is precisely wrong, and that getting it wrong leads us to misread everything else about the regime. The billionaires do not own their billions. They hold them. They are nominees — temporary, conditional caretakers of wealth that belongs, in any meaningful sense, to one man — and the moment that man asks for it back, they will scramble to return it. ...