Routledge Handbook of Russian Politics and Society [2 ed.] 103211052X, 9781032110523

Table of contents :
Part 1: Introduction

1. Introduction

2. The Yeltsin era

3. The Putin era

4. Democratisation

5. How Russia compares

Part 2: Politics

6. Vladimir Putin: Great leader or ordinary authoritarian?

7. The Russian Constitution

8. The Presidency

9. The Federal Assembly: More than just a "rubber stamp"?

10. National elections in Russia

11. State intervention and Russia’s frozen dominant party system

12. Local government

13. Federalism and de-federalisation in Russia

14. Centre-regional relations in Russia

15. Politics in Russian regions

16. Decision-making

17. State capacity and Russia

18. Russia’s retreat from human rights

19. Protest and opposition

20. The security services

21. The military

Part 3: Political economy

22. Political economy

23. Crony capitalism in contemporary Russia and what globalisation has to do with it

24. The Russian corporation: between neoliberalism and the security state

25. Russian international economic policy: Purposes and performance

Part 4: Society

26. Russian population dynamics in the Putin era

27. Inequality in Russia

28. Russian labour: Between stability and stagnation

29. Gender in Russia: State policy and lived reality

30. The rise of a hybrid welfare state in Putin’s Russia: Social welfare under authoritarianism

31. Media and culture in Putin’s Russia

32. ICT in Putin’s Russia: 1999-2021

33. Symbolism and the transformation of the national historical narrative in post-Soviet Russia

34. The politics of memory

35. Civil society and the state

36. Informal politics

37. Corruption and organised crime in post-Soviet Russia

38. Russian nationalism

39. Ethnic relations

40. Religion

Part 5: Foreign policy

41. Russian foreign policy and the challenge to the existing world order

42. Russian security policy and outlook

43. Russia’s attitudes and policies toward Ukraine

44. Russia and Belarus

45. Russia’s foreign policy in Central Asia: in search of privileged partnership

46. The Kremlin’s reverse democracy: Relations with the Caucasus region

47. US-Russian relations

48. Russia and the European Union: The path to a strategic disengagement

49. Russia and China

Citation preview

i

“Knowledge and understanding of Russian society and its political trajectories have seldom been more important than they are today. Graeme Gill, a highly respected and insightful Russian expert, has brought together, in this Handbook of remarkable scope, an outstanding international team of specialists who illuminate almost every aspect of post-​ Communist Russia.” Archie Brown, University of Oxford, UK, and author of The Rise and Fall of Communism “This timely update provides a comprehensive and authoritative guide to Russian politics. Gill has brought together many of the world’s leading experts in a single volume, who are able to provide a state-​of-​the-​art overview of current knowledge on their topic. An outstanding and indispensable contribution to Russian studies.” Brian D. Taylor, Syracuse University, USA “This book combines excellent scholarship from the leading experts in the field of Russian politics and society with a broad and almost exhaustive range of addressed topics. Undoubtedly, this nuanced overview presented so nicely will be a useful read for both newbies and academics who specialise on Russia.” Guzel Yusupova, SCRIPTS, Berlin, Germany

ii

iii

ROUTLEDGE HANDBOOK OF RUSSIAN POLITICS AND SOCIETY

This second edition of the highly respected Routledge Handbook of Russian Politics and Society both provides a broad overview of the area and highlights cutting-​edge research into the country. Through balanced theoretical and empirical investigation, each chapter examines both the Russian experience and the existing literature, identifies and exemplifies research trends, and highlights the richness of experience, history, and continued challenges inherent to this enduringly fascinating and shifting polity. Politically, economically, and socially, Russia has one of the most interesting development trajectories of any major country. This Handbook answers questions about democratic transition, the relationship between the market and democracy, stability and authoritarian politics, the development of civil society, the role of crime and corruption, the development of a market economy, and Russia’s likely place in the emerging new world order. Providing a comprehensive resource for scholars, students, and policy makers alike, this book is an essential contribution to the study of Russian studies/​politics, Eastern European studies/​ politics, and International Relations. Graeme Gill is Professor Emeritus at the University of Sydney, Australia.

iv

v

ROUTLEDGE HANDBOOK OF RUSSIAN POLITICS AND SOCIETY Second Edition

Edited by Graeme Gill

vi

Designed cover image: © Getty Images Second edition published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 selection and editorial matter, Graeme Gill; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Graeme Gill to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. First edition published by Routledge 2012 British Library Cataloguing-​in-​Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-​1-​032-​11052-​3 (hbk) ISBN: 978-​1-​032-​11058-​5 (pbk) ISBN: 978-​1-​003-​21823-​4 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/​9781003218234 Typeset in Bembo by Newgen Publishing UK

vii

CONTENTS

List of figures  List of tables  List of contributors  Preface  Abbreviations 

xii xiii xv xxi xxii

PART 1

Introduction 

1

1 Introduction  Graeme Gill

3

2 The Yeltsin era  Graeme Gill

12

3 The Putin era  Vladimir Gel’man

22

4 Democratisation  Richard Sakwa

33

5 How Russia compares  Rodney Tiffen

46

vii

viii

Contents PART 2

Politics 

61

6 Vladimir Putin: Great leader or ordinary authoritarian?  Kenneth Wilson

63

7 The Russian Constitution  Elizabeth Teague

75

8 The presidency  John P. Willerton

87

9 The Federal Assembly –​more than just a “rubber stamp”?  Ben Noble and Paul Chaisty

99

10 National elections in Russia  Derek S. Hutcheson

111

11 State intervention and Russia’s frozen dominant party system  Regina Smyth

127

12 Local government  Nikolay Petrov

138

13 Federalism and de-​federalisation in Russia  Cameron Ross

149

14 Centre-​regional relations in Russia  Irina Busygina and Mikhail Filippov

160

15 Politics in Russian regions  Alexander Libman

170

16 Decision-​making  Stephen Fortescue

182

17 State capacity and Russia  Andrei Melville

193

18 Russia’s retreat from human rights  William Pomeranz

207

19 Protest and opposition  Jan Matti Dollbaum

216

viii

ix

Contents

20 The security services  Kirill Shamiev and Bettina Renz

227

21 The military  Jennifer G. Mathers

239

PART 3

Political economy 

251

22 Political economy  Neil Robinson

253

23 Crony capitalism in contemporary Russia and what globalisation has to do with it  Gulnaz Sharafutdinova

263

24 The Russian corporation: Between neoliberalism and the security state  274 Peter Rutland 25 Russian international economic policy: Purposes and performance  Steven Rosefielde PART 4

285

Society 

297

26 Russian population dynamics in the Putin era  Leslie Root

299

27 Inequality in Russia  Svetlana Mareeva

311

28 Russian labour: Between stability and stagnation  Stephen Crowley

320

29 Gender in Russia: State policy and lived reality  Sarah Ashwin

331

30 The rise of a hybrid welfare state in Putin’s Russia: Social welfare under authoritarianism  Elena Maltseva 31 Media and culture in Putin’s Russia  Galina Miazhevich ix

342 354

x

Contents

32 ICT in Putin’s Russia: 1999–​2021  Ilya Yablokov and Olga Solovyeva 33 Symbolism and the transformation of the national historical narrative in post-​Soviet Russia  Olga Malinova

364

377

34 The politics of memory  Alexey Golubev and Feodor Nikolai

388

35 Civil society and the state  Leah Gilbert

398

36 Informal politics  Alena Ledeneva

410

37 Corruption and organised crime in post-​Soviet Russia  Leslie Holmes

424

38 Russian nationalism  Jules Sergei Fediunin

437

39 Ethnic relations  Helge Blakkisrud

449

40 Religion  Thomas Bremer

463

PART 5

Foreign policy 

475

41 Russian foreign policy and the challenge to the existing world order  Roger E. Kanet

477

42 Russian security policy and outlook  Graeme P. Herd

489

43 Russia’s attitudes and policies toward Ukraine  Dmitri Trenin

499

44 Russia and Belarus  Rasmus Nilsson

510

x

xi

Contents

45 Russia’s foreign policy in Central Asia: In search of privileged partnership 522 Kirill Nourzhanov 46 The Kremlin’s reverse democracy: Relations with the Caucasus region  532 Lilia A. Arakelyan 47 US–​Russian relations  Angela Stent

544

48 Russia and the European Union: The path to a strategic disengagement  555 Andrey Kortunov 49 Russia and China  Natasha Kuhrt

568

Index 

579

xi

xii

FIGURES

6.1 GDP growth per annum (%), 2000–​20.  66 9.1 Yearly number of legislative initiatives adopted by the State Duma that were then rejected or returned by the Federation Council or the president, 1996–2016.  101 9.2 Total number of federal laws produced in Russia per year, 1996–​2021. 102 17.1 Democracy/​autocracy and quality of institutions in Russia and other post-​Soviet countries.  202 17.2 The “King of the Mountain” model: political and economic rent vs. quality of institutions.  203 25.1 Global growth is broadly stable (%).  293 26.1 Population in 2021 by age and sex in five-​year age groups.  300 26.2 Period total fertility rate, 2000–​20.  302 26.3 Life expectancy at birth by sex, 2000–​20.  306 26.4 Total emigration from Russia, 2000–​20.  307 36.1 Key concepts and disciplines for the formal/​informal interplay in politics.  414 46.1 Nagorno-​Karabakh.  541

xii

xiii

TABLES

5.1 Population  47 5.2 Population change  48 5.3 Life expectancy  49 5.4 GDP per capita  51 5.5 Employment in research and development  52 5.6 Human development index  54 5.7 Democracy  56 5.8 Press freedom  57 5.9 Corruption  58 5.10 Rule of law  59 6.1 Average GDP growth  66 6.2 World Bank Governance Indicators (WBGI)  67 6.3 Personalist authoritarian leaders in the FSU  71 10.1 Presidential election results, 1996–​2018  112 10.2 State Duma election results (party list votes), 1993–​2021  113 10.3 Perceptions of fairness, 1999–​2016 State Duma elections  121 11.1 Political parties in Duma elections, 1993–​2021  128 11.2 Party families in Russia, 1993–​2021  130 12.1 The structure of budget revenues of urban districts  142 17.1 Russia in WGI, 1996–​2020  200 17.2 Russia and post-​Soviet political regimes and quality of institutions (FH and WGI 2020)  201 36.1 Integrating the opposites  416 36.2 The 3Cs model of informal governance  419 37.1 Russia’s scores in TI’s CPI (selected years)  427 37.2 Russians’ experience of corruption –​bribery rates  427 37.3 OC’s impact on business according to the Global Competitiveness Report 428

xiii

xiv

List of tables

39.1 Ethnic composition: largest ethnic minorities in Russia according to census data  39.2 Ethnic autonomies within the Russian Federation  39.3 Language use among the biggest ethnic minorities in Russia  45.1 Countries’ ratings in the Index of Military-​Political Cooperation with Russia (2014–​18)  45.2 Preferred country for Central Asian youth contemplating relocation (% polled) 

xiv

450 453 456 524 529

xv

CONTRIBUTORS

Lilia A. Arakelyan is Lecturer of Politics and International Relations at Florida International University. She is an American Political Science Association (APSA) 2022–​3 Congressional Fellow and is the author of Russian Foreign Policy in Eurasia: National Interests and Regional Integration. Sarah Ashwin is Professor of Industrial Relations at the London School of Economics. She has published extensively on gender relations in Russia, developing different aspects of gender theory by interrogating Russia’s stalled gender revolution. Helge Blakkisrud is Associate Professor of Russian Studies at the University of Oslo. His research interests include centre–​region relations in the Russian Federation and nation-​building and nationalism in Eurasia. His most recent book is Russia Before and After Crimea: Nationalism and Identity, 2010–​2017 (co-​edited with Pål Kolstø). Thomas Bremer is Professor Emeritus, Ecumenical Theology and Eastern Churches Studies, University of Münster, Germany. His research interests are Eastern Orthodoxy in Russia and the Balkans, and interchurch relations. Among his publications are Cross and Kremlin: A Brief History of the Orthodox Church in Russia and Churches in the Ukrainian Crisis (edited with A. Krawchuk). Irina Busygina is Visiting Scholar at the Davis Center, Harvard University. She is the author of Russia-​EU Relations and the Common Neighborhood: Coercion Versus Authority. Paul Chaisty is Professor of Russian and East European Studies at the University of Oxford. His latest book is Coalitional Presidentialism in Comparative Perspective: Minority Presidents in Multiparty Systems (with Nic Cheeseman and Tim Power). Stephen Crowley is Professor of Politics at Oberlin College and has written widely on labour and the political economy of post-​communist transformations. His most recent book is Putin’s Labor Dilemma: Russian Politics between Stability and Stagnation.

xv

xvi

List of contributors

Jan Matti Dollbaum is a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Bremen, studying protest and contentious politics in the post-​Soviet space and across regime types. He has recently co-​ authored the first book-​length study on Aleksei Navalny and his political movement. Jules Sergei Fediunin is a postdoctoral researcher at the School for Advanced Studies in the Social Sciences in Paris. His research focuses on Russian and European nationalism, populism, ethnic conflict, and diversity management. He is the co-​author of the monograph Natsiya i demokratiya. Mikhail Filippov is Professor of Comparative Politics at the State University of New York (Binghamton NY). Among his recent publications have been papers in the Journal of Eurasian Studies and Problems of Post-​Communism. Stephen Fortescue worked for a number of years in Soviet-​related business, following which he held research positions at the Australian National University (1982–​4) and the University of Birmingham (1985–​6). He then took up a teaching position at the University of New South Wales, which he held until his retirement in 2013. Vladimir Gel’man is Professor in the European University at St Petersburg and in the University of Helsinki. He has authored numerous scholarly articles and books, including Authoritarian Russia: Analyzing Post-​Soviet Regime Changes and The Politics of Bad Governance in Contemporary Russia. Leah Gilbert is Associate Professor of Political Science at Lewis & Clark College. Among her recent publications have been papers appearing in Demokratizatsiya and Mediterranean Politics. Graeme Gill is Professor Emeritus at the University of Sydney. His latest book is entitled Bridling Dictators. Rules and Authoritarian Politics. Alexey Golubev is Associate Professor of Russian History at the University of Houston. His latest book is Things of Life: Materiality in Late Soviet Russia. Graeme P. Herd is Professor of Transnational Security Studies at the George C. Marshall European Center for Security Studies (GCMC), Garmisch-​ Partenkirchen, Germany. His latest book is Understanding Russia’s Strategic Behavior: Imperial Strategic Culture and Putin’s Operational Code. Leslie Holmes is Professor Emeritus of Political Science at the University of Melbourne. He has authored or edited 17 books, including Comparing Police Corruption: Bulgaria, Germany, Russia and Singapore, and his work has been published in 19 languages. Derek S. Hutcheson is Professor of Political Science and Vice Dean of the Faculty of Culture and Society at Malmö University, Sweden. He has written extensively about Russian and post-​ Soviet politics since the 1990s, including Parliamentary Elections in Russia: A Quarter-​Century of Multiparty Politics. Roger E. Kanet is Professor Emeritus at both The University of Miami and The University of Illinois at Champaign-​Urbana. He is the editor of the Routledge Handbook of Russian Security. xvi

xvi

List of contributors

Andrey Kortunov is Director General of the Russian International Affairs Council. The author of many works, his most recent published report is The World Order Crisis and the Future of Globalization. Natasha Kuhrt is Senior Lecturer in the Department of War Studies, King’s College London. Her research interests include international law, conflict, and intervention, as well as a regional focus on Russian foreign and security policies, particularly in Asia. Alena Ledeneva is Professor of Politics and Society at University College London and a founder of the Global Informality Project (in-​formality.com) and The Global Encyclopedia of Informality. She graduated from Cambridge University (Newnham) and authored Russia’s Economy of Favours. Alexander Libman is Professor of Russian and East European Politics at the Freie Universität Berlin. He is an economist and political scientist working in particular on the sub-​national and international dimensions of Russian authoritarianism. Olga Malinova is Professor in the Department of Social Sciences at the National Research University-​Higher School of Economics and Chief Research Fellow of the Institute of Scientific Information for Social Sciences, Russian Academy of Sciences in Moscow. She studies Russian political discourse and symbolic politics. Among her recent publications are papers in Problems of Post-​Communism and Nationalities Papers. Elena Maltseva is Associate Professor of Political Science at the University of Windsor in Canada. She specialises in the comparative politics and public policy of post-​Soviet states, with particular interest in left-​wing movements and state–​society relations, social and labour policy, and migration and human trafficking issues. Svetlana Mareeva is Candidate of Sciences in Sociology and Head of the Center for Stratification Studies at the National Research University Higher School of Economics in Moscow. Her research interests include inequality, perceptions of social inequality, social structure, and social stratification. Jennifer G. Mathers is Senior Lecturer in the Department of International Politics at Aberystwyth University. Among her recent publications is “Ginger Cats and Cute Puppies: Animals, Affect and Militarisation in the Crisis in Ukraine”, in Making War on Bodies: Militarisation, Aesthetics, and Embodiment. Andrei Melville is Professor of Political Science and Dean of the Faculty of Social Sciences at the National Research University Higher School of Economics in Moscow. His academic interests are in comparative politics, regime change, democratisation and authoritarianism, and world politics. Among his publications is Political Atlas of the Modern World. Galina Miazhevich is Senior Lecturer at the School of Journalism, Media, and Culture at Cardiff University. Her latest publication is the edited volume Queering Russian Media and Culture. Feodor Nikolai is Professor in the Department of Theory and History of Humanities at the Russian State University for the Humanities, Department of World History at the Minin Nizhny Novgorod State Pedagogical University. xvii

xvi

List of contributors

Rasmus Nilsson is Lecturer at University College, London. His most recent publication is a study of the state of change in Russia, Central and Eastern Europe over the last thirty years. Ben Noble is Associate Professor of Russian Politics at University College London, and an Associate Fellow of Chatham House. His research interests include Russian domestic politics, legislative politics, and authoritarianism. He is the recipient of a British Academy Rising Star Award, the Political Studies Association’s Walter Bagehot Prize, and is the co-​author of Navalny: Putin’s Nemesis, Russia’s Future? Kirill Nourzhanov is Senior Lecturer at the Centre for Arab and Islamic Studies (The Middle East and Central Asia), the Australian National University. Among his latest books is The Spectre of Afghanistan: Security in Central Asia (with Amin Saikal). Nikolay Petrov is Senior Research Fellow in the Russia and Eurasia Programme, The Royal Institute of International Affairs, London. William Pomeranz currently serves as Director of the Wilson Center’s Kennan Institute. His research interests include Russian legal history as well as current Russian commercial and constitutional law. He is the author of Law and the Russian State: Russia’s Legal Evolution from Peter the Great to Vladimir Putin. Bettina Renz is Professor of International Security at the University of Nottingham’s School of Politics & International Relations. Her expertise is Russian defence and security policy since 1991. She has published widely on the subject, including her latest monograph Russia’s Military Revival. Neil Robinson is Professor of Comparative Politics at the University of Limerick. His recent publications include Contemporary Russian Politics and Comparative European Politics. Leslie Root is a demographer and a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Colorado, Boulder. Steven Rosefielde is Professor of Economics at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, and a member of the Russian Academy of Natural Sciences. Recent among his many books are The Kremlin Strikes Back: Russia and the West After Crimea’s Annexation. Cameron Ross is Professor of Politics and International Relations in the School of Social Sciences, University of Dundee. He has published widely in the field of domestic politics in Russia, with a specialism in federalism, regional politics, and elections. He is Chief Editor of the journal Russian Politics. Peter Rutland is the Colin and Nancy Campbell Professor of Global Issues and Democratic Thought, Wesleyan University. Richard Sakwa is Professor of Russian and European Politics at the University of Kent at Canterbury, a Senior Research Fellow at the National Research University Higher School of Economics in Moscow and an Honorary Professor in the Faculty of Political Science at Moscow State University. His latest book is Deception: Russiagate and the New Cold War. xviii

xix

List of contributors

Kirill Shamiev is Junior Research Fellow at the Center for Comparative Governance Studies at the Higher School of Economics and a PhD candidate at the Central European University. His articles have appeared in Armed Forces and Society, CSIS, and RUSI. Gulnaz Sharafutdinova is Professor of Russian Politics at King’s College London. Her research interests focus on Russian national and regional politics, political economy, and social psychology. She is the author of the award-​winning The Red Mirror: Putin’s Leadership and Russia’s Insecure Identity. Regina Smyth is Professor in the Department of Political Science at Indiana University. She is author of Elections, Protest, and Authoritarian Regime Stability: Russia 2008–​2020. Olga Solovyeva is PhD candidate at the Open University Business School. Her research interests lie in the area of technology and society, focusing currently on tech, politics, and organisation. Angela Stent is Professor Emerita of Government at Georgetown University, Senior Non-​ Resident Fellow at the Brookings Institution and author of The Limits of Partnership: U.S.-​ Russian Relations in the Twenty-​First Century and Putin’s World: Russia Against the West and with the Rest. Elizabeth Teague was an independent analyst of Russian politics. She had previously worked with Radio Free Europe/​Radio Liberty, the OSCE High Commissioner on National Minorities, the Jamestown Foundation, and the UK Foreign and Commonwealth Office. She passed away soon after finishing her chapter. Rodney Tiffen is Emeritus Professor in Government and International Relations at the University of Sydney. Most of his work has been on political communication. His latest co-​ authored book is How America Compares. Dmitri Trenin was Director of the Carnegie Moscow Center (2008–​22). John P. Willerton is Professor of Political Science in the School of Government and Public Policy at the University of Arizona, Tucson. His research interests are focused on Russian political elites and political design, and he is the author of a book and roughly 70 articles and chapters. Kenneth Wilson is Associate Professor of Political Science at Dongguk University-​Seoul. Professor Wilson’s research focuses on governance, leadership, and democratisation (and its failure) in Russia and the former Soviet Union. His work has been published in journals such as Europe-​Asia Studies, Government and Opposition, Post-​Soviet Affairs, and Problems of Post-​Communism. Ilya Yablokov is Lecturer in Journalism and Digital Media at the University of Sheffield. His research interests include Russian media and journalism, as well as disinformation and conspiracy theories. He is the author of Fortress Russia: Conspiracy Theories in the Post-​Soviet World.

xix

xx

xxi

PREFACE

The first edition of this Handbook appeared in 2012 and when the possibility of a second edition was raised, it seemed both a good idea and something that would be very useful. At the time potential contributors were approached, much had already changed in Russia, both domestically and in the international context. By the time the chapters were due, the Russian invasion of Ukraine was underway, stimulating further changes in both the domestic and international arenas. Where those changes will take Russia remains uncertain as does the timetable for their final unrolling. Waiting for this to occur may have meant not publishing for a considerable period of time, so it was decided to proceed with the Handbook on the assumption that wherever Russia does go in the future, it will be on the basis of the situation analysed in the chapters that follow. Most chapters do not deal with the Ukraine invasion in any detail; some do, however, discuss the significance of this for their subject. This has been more of a problem for some chapters than for others, but it is important to remember the cut-​off date when reading all chapters. The Handbook focuses principally upon the Putin era from 2000. It treats the Medvedev presidency as a sub-​stage of the broader period, both because it was bookended by the presidency of Vladimir Putin and because even during Medvedev’s presidency the continuing power of Prime Minister Putin is undeniable. The entries have been written by an international group of scholars from a large number of countries, including Russia. Each chapter, written by an expert on that particular field, reflects the views of that author. There is no single interpretive line, and it should not be assumed that the opinions expressed in any particular chapter would be supported by the other authors. The chapters are either completely new or have been substantially rewritten from the originals in the first edition.

xxi

xxi

ABBREVIATIONS

ABM AJR-​FT AO APR AUKUS bcm BRI BRICS CAR CEC CEO CIPS CMEA CPI CPSU CSTO C5+​1 DNR DPRK DVR-​OD EAP ECA EMDE EEU EU FAR FARA FFE FOI FNPR

anti-​ballistic missile A Just Russia –​For Truth autonomous okrug Agrarian Party of Russia Australia, United Kingdom, United States billion cubic metres Belt and Road Initiative Brazil, Russia, India, China, South Africa Central African Republic Central Electoral Commission chief executive officer Cross-​Border Interbank Payment System Council for Mutual Economic Assistance Corruption Perceptions Index Communist Party of the Soviet Union Collective Security Treaty Organisation Central Asian states plus Russia Donetsk People’s Republic Democratic Republic of Korea Russia’s Democratic Choice Eastern Partnership Europe and Central Asia energy markets and developing economies Eurasian Economic Union European Union Fatherland –​All Russia Foreign Agent Registration Act For Fair Elections freedom of information Federation of Independent Trade Unions of Russia

xxii

xxi

Abbreviations

FSB Federal Security Service FSO Federal Protection Service GCB Global Corruption Barometer GDP gross domestic product GRP gross regional product GRU Chief Intelligence Directorate ICT information communication technologies IMF International Monetary Fund INF Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces INSTC International North-​South Transport Corridor IPO initial public offering ISSP International Social Survey Programme IT information technology JCPOA Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action JSC joint stock company KPRF Communist Party of the Russian Federation KRO Congress of Russian Communities LDPR Liberal Democratic Party of Russia LIS Luxemburg Income Study LNG liquefied natural gas LNR Lugansk People’s Republic/​Luhansk People’s Republic LSG local self-​government MFA Ministry of Foreign Affairs MO municipalities NATO North Atlantic Treaty Organisation NCA national cultural-​autonomy organisation NCO non-​commissioned officer NDR Our Home Is Russia NGO non-​governmental organisation NHP National Healthcare Project NP New People NPRF Peoples Party of the Russian Federation NSA National Security Agency NSS National Security Strategy NYSE New York Stock Exchange OC organised crime OCG organised crime group OECD Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development OSCE Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe OVR Fatherland/​All Russia PAYG pay-​as-​you-​go PfP Partnership for Peace PPP purchasing power parity PR proportional representation PRES Party of Russian Unity and Accord PST Party of Workers Self-​management PVR-​Pzh Party of Pensioners and Party of Social Justice P5 permanent five members of the UN Security Council xxiii

xxvi

newgenprepdf

Abbreviations

RDDR Russian Democratic Reform Movement RF Russian Federation RFE Russian Far East RIC Russia–​India–​China dialogue RLMS Russian Longitudinal Monitoring Service RSFSR Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic SCO Shanghai Cooperation Organisation SEZ special economic zone SGC Southern Gas Corridor SMD single member district SPS Union of Right Forces SR A Just Russia (also AJR-​FT) START Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty SVR Foreign Intelligence Service TAD territory of advanced development TFP total factor productivity TFR total fertility rate TI Transparency International TNW tactical nuclear weapons UAV unarmed aerial vehicles UK United Kingdom UN United Nations UNCLOS United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea UNSC P5 United Nations Security Council Permanent Five UR United Russia US United States USSR Union of Soviet Socialist Republics VEB Vneshekonombank VGTRK All-​Russia State Television and Broadcasting Company VPN virtual private network VTsIOM Russian Public Opinion Research Centre ZAGS district statistics offices

xxiv

1

PART 1

Introduction

2

3

1 INTRODUCTION Graeme Gill

The decade since the first edition of this Handbook was published has seen significant change in Russia. This has been less the result of dramatic events than of a process of creeping change, more evolution than revolution. That having been said, the importance of such change can hardly be underrated. Those hopes that remained towards the end of Dmitry Medvedev’s presidency for the growth of democracy in Russia have, at least for the time being, been snuffed out as authoritarian trends in Russia have strengthened. Political control has been tightened, even while it has been met by increasingly diverse forms of opposition. Economic reform has seemingly ended, even while economic performance has stuttered under the impact of the global financial crisis and Western sanctions both before and after the February 2022 invasion of Ukraine. And as economic performance struggles, life gets more difficult for broad sections of the Russian population. One part of society that has not been so adversely affected has been the military, which has enjoyed increased funding and consequent modernisation and strengthening. This is occurring in the context of an increasingly hostile and complex world, with both that hostility and complexity being reflected in the Ukrainian crisis that began in 2014 and continues in exacerbated form at the time of writing. Given this catalogue of events and the importance of Russia on the world scene, the need for an updated Handbook was clear. In Part 1, Introduction, the chapters provide general and comparative treatments. General overviews of the Yeltsin and Putin periods are provided respectively by Graeme Gill and Vladimir Gel’man. Many of the issues that are raised in these overviews are treated in greater detail in subsequent chapters, meaning that these chapters provide a broader context for such issues than may be available in the more specialised chapters. The remaining two chapters in this section of the Handbook provide an international context for the Russian experience. Rodney Tiffen uses comparative international data to compare Russia with other former republics of the USSR, with former communist countries of Eastern Europe, and in some cases with OECD countries. This chapter provides a statistical portrait of the Russian experience over the post-​communist period. This quantitative approach is paralleled by a qualitative analysis by Richard Sakwa of the literature on democratisation and how it has been applied to Russia and the post-​Soviet experience more generally. Following a rich analysis of the theory, Sakwa concludes that the Russian experience is not unique; it is one of those less than 80 percent of countries that have at one time been said to be undergoing democratisation but are not clearly en route to becoming well-​functioning democracies. The point here is that not only has the DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-2

3

4

Graeme Gill

theory proved to have significant weaknesses, but that the high hopes for Russia’s democratisation that were entertained in the early 1990s have to this stage been disappointed. Part 2 of the Handbook, which deals with the politics of the period, provides substance for the argument that Russia has followed an authoritarian political course for much of the Putin period. Kenneth Wilson analyses Putin as a political leader, arguing that he is characterised by the desire to concentrate political power in his own hands and to prolong his occupation of supreme power in the country. In this, Wilson argues, Putin is of a type with other prominent leaders in the former Soviet world (also see Hale 2015). The argument about the strength of Putin’s leadership and his desire to prolong his own power in office is sustained by the amendments to the Constitution adopted in 2020 and that are discussed as part of a more general discussion of the Constitution in Elizabeth Teague’s chapter on that document. Those amendments, and in particular the resetting of the two-​term limit for the presidency for previous occupants (thus benefiting not only Putin but, in theory, Medvedev too), effectively achieved what Putin had been pressured to do in 2008 but refused: to alter the Constitution to enable his continuation in office past the constitutional limit. In doing this he was following the precedent set by other leaders of former Soviet states, thereby reinforcing the argument that he is part of a common post-​Soviet type of authoritarian leader. But although Putin clearly exercises power personally, he also rests on an institutional basis. This is the presidency that is the subject of Pat Willerton’s chapter. The presidency is, constitutionally, the most powerful political institution in the land, leading some to argue that Russia is a case of “superpresidentialism” (Fish 2005). While Willerton does not use this label to describe the presidency, he shows the vast power of the institution. This was a potential that could be mobilised by a vigorous leader like Putin, in stark contrast to Yeltsin whose physical afflictions prevented him from realising the powers his office involved. The power of that office, and the capacity of Putin to mobilise it effectively, has meant that for the past two decades the presidency has overshadowed the legislature, which is the subject of the chapter by Ben Noble and Paul Chaisty. Over time, changes to the upper house, the Federation Council, has undermined the independence of that body, while in the State Duma the dominant position United Russia has been able to gain, added to its basic loyalty to Putin, has meant that the legislature has been less important as an independent actor under Putin than it was under Yeltsin. Nevertheless it remains an important institution. During the Putin period, United Russia emerged as the dominant party in the party system, which is discussed in the chapter by Regina Smyth. Although the party system has seen the emergence and disappearance of numerous parties, both the Communist Party of the Russian Federation and the Liberal Democratic Party of Russia have been in the Duma since the first election in 1993, but under Putin they have functioned as tame “systemic” opposition parties. United Russia has emerged as the dominant party in the legislature and has remained loyal to Putin, but it is not a ruling party in the way that the Communist Party was in the USSR. It is nevertheless the dominant party in a frozen system that has been shaped overwhelmingly by the regime rather than social cleavages. The elections whereby these parties formally gain legislative representation, studied in the chapter by Derek Hutcheson, have been held on schedule but have generally been accounted as not free and fair. The electoral arena in both legislative and presidential elections has been heavily weighted in favour of Putin (or his proxy Medvedev in 2008) in the presidential polls and United Russia in the legislative elections. In this sense, the electoral process has been structured to reinforce central power, although it is important to recognise that such efforts are not foolproof and cannot always prevent what Alexander Libman has called “electoral earthquakes”.

4

5

Introduction

The centralising tendency is also evident in the sphere of relations between Moscow and the regions. Cameron Ross shows in his chapter how the formal federal principles embodied in the Constitution have been undermined in favour of greater centralisation of power, leading to what he calls the “defederalisation” of the federation. He attributes this to the weakness of a civic culture and the lack of a federal and democratic tradition and means that Russia has become a quasi-​unitary state in federal clothing. The changes in the formal federal structure explained by Ross are underpinned by the basic position of dominance occupied in Russia by the capital city, Moscow. Moscow’s dominance is discussed in the chapter by Irina Busygina and Mikhail Filippov, and while they accept that that dominant position depends in part on the decisions of current political figures, it also reflects the imperatives stemming from Moscow’s position in Russia’s geo-​economic and geo-​political landscapes. But while these centralising forces are powerful, as Libman shows, politics in the regions is also subject to local factors. In his study of politics in the regions he shows how different patterns of regional power distribution can co-​exist and how these can place some constraint upon the continuing pull of central power. In his chapter on local government, Nikolay Petrov shows how in the last two decades higher level controls over municipal government have expanded, highlighted by the 2020 constitutional revisions that integrated this level of government into a unified system of “public power”. Decision-​making is the focus of the chapter by Stephen Fortescue. He argues that non-​ routine decisions tend to be taken under exceptional circumstances and usually in a manner not open to external observers. In contrast, routine matters tend to be handled in a regularised fashion, and it is upon these that he concentrates. The result is a study that explains mainly how the principal institutions of the state interact in the course of making a decision. But of course decision-​making is one thing; implementation is another. The latter depends upon state capacity, a quality examined in the chapter by Andrei Melville. It is this notion of “capacity” that is at the heart of the debate about whether Russia has a strong state or not (for example, Robinson 2002; Tsygankov 2014). Melville shows how capacity may be conceived in terms of three elements: coercive, extractive and administrative. He argues that state capacity is related to the political regime and the regime dynamic, and that in contemporary Russia the dominance of the rent extraction model and nature of the regime has enabled the perpetuation of a weak state with low capacity. Central to the argument about whether a regime is authoritarian or not is its relationship to the law. There is broad acceptance of the principle that democratic states are ruled by law while authoritarian states rule through law. Like all generalisations, this clear distinction does not match the nuance; in democracies, politicians often break (or at least bend) the law, and in autocracies some laws do appear to possess normative authority (Gill 2021). William Pomeranz discusses the role of law and human rights. He charts the shift of the official attitude to human rights to one that is more restrictive, marked by the crackdown on human rights since Putin’s return to the presidency. The law has clearly been used instrumentally as a weapon against human rights, and thereby as a means of closing down independent public space and opposition to the regime. The latter, in the form of protest, is the focus of Jan Matti Dollbaum’s chapter. He charts the course of protest from the major mobilisation of 2011–​12 and discusses what protest actually means, including its relationship with both politics and opposition. Important for the control of protest is the security services and perhaps the military. Both are also key to the centralisation of power in Russia. Indeed, arguments about the siloviki dominating Russian politics were common in the early 2000s and continue to be pressed by some (for example, Belton 2020). In their chapter on the security services, Kirill Shamiev and Bettina

5

6

Graeme Gill

Renz examine the structure and role of the security services in Russian society. Their prominent place over the past two decades sharply contrasts with their profile under Boris Yeltsin and accompanies the greater trend towards authoritarianism noted above. But for Shamiev and Renz, this should not be attributed to the presence of former security service personnel in political life; rather, they argue that that presence is a function of the autocratic drive emanating from the president. Similarly, the military, the focus of the chapter by Jennifer Mathers, has a higher profile, a product both of higher budgetary allocations and the increasingly uncertain and hostile international environment over the past decade. However, as Mathers shows, the effectiveness of the massive investment in upgrading the military under Putin may be called into question by the performance of the Russian military in the Ukraine invasion. Thus in the political arena, there has been a shift in a more centralist, authoritarian direction. This has not been uncontested, and it has not been uniform, but it has occurred. It would, however, be wrong to accept the argument often heard in official Western circles that Putin was about re-​creating the USSR. Despite his well-​known lament about the collapse of the USSR, he has not been trying to bring it back into existence. And despite widespread nostalgia for the Soviet era, strikingly more common among those who did not live under it than those who did, there does not appear to be a largescale movement to restore the USSR. The current system differs in numerous ways from its Soviet predecessor. United Russia possesses neither the unity nor the means to be a ruling party like the Communist Party was. Elections are contested (but neither free nor fair), unlike the single candidate polls of the USSR. While there are large sections of the economy controlled by state and quasi-​state entities, much of the economy operates on market principles and is integrated into the world economy, unlike the autarchic nature of its Soviet predecessor. Unlike the wholly-​run Soviet state media, there has been a small non-​state press, even if the larger media outlets tend to be run by the state or individuals closely allied to the president. Despite the flourishing of nationalist and patriotic memes, there is no contemporary equivalent of a formal ideology like Marxism–​Leninism. Censorship seems to be much more in the form of self-​censorship by journalists rather than a central censorship apparatus, and generally there is greater popular freedom than there was in the USSR. Protest occurs on a regular scale despite the best attempts of the state to suppress it, attempts that have been heightened in the wake of the Ukraine invasion. In all of these ways, domestically Russia is a long way from being the USSR. Internationally some in the West have declared that things like the seizure of Crimea and intervention in Ukraine, the sending of peace-​keepers to Kazakhstan and the generally assertive attitude taken towards the West under Putin are all reminiscent of the USSR. But we need to recognise that Russia inherited the geo-​political space in international politics occupied by the USSR. That means that Russia inherited many of the national interests of the USSR: any Russian state would want a benign international neighbourhood on its borders, and given that its relationship with many of those border regions pre-​dates the USSR (in some areas by centuries), to see Russian foreign policy as driven by explicitly Soviet concerns is to misunderstand the historical and geo-​political legacy Russia has inherited. While there are bound to be similarities between contemporary Russia and its Soviet predecessor –​after all, seventy years of history cannot be wiped away in a few decades –​to see these as determinative would be to downplay the extent of the changes that have taken place since 1991. Part 3 of the Handbook focuses upon Russian political economy. The structuring of the political economy has been crucial to arguments about the centralisation of power in Russia. Neil Robinson charts the shift from a hybrid political economy in the 1990s –​both market capitalism and state capitalism, reflecting the nature principally of the privatisation process during that decade –​to patrimonial capitalism under Putin. Here the main parts of the economy are 6

7

Introduction

controlled by people beholden to the president. Thus unlike under Yeltsin, the oligarchs are not autonomous from the country’s leader, and they are often called upon to devote their economic power to the state’s, or some would say president’s –​and here is where the kleptocracy argument comes in (for example, Dawisha 2014) –​interests. These oligarchs are the main focus of the chapter by Gulnaz Sharafutdinova. She emphasises the way in which crony capitalism is better seen less in terms of the actions of individual agents and more of structural factors underpinning the course of economic development. An important aspect of this is the international and the way in which the embedding of the Russian economy in the global economy created conditions that facilitated the growth of crony capitalism. If Robinson gives us essentially the systemic view and Sharafutdinova a structural one, Peter Rutland provides a view from a third perspective, that of the corporation. He highlights the close personal connections between major corporations and political power, personified by Putin and those around him, and shows how this has affected the nature of Russian political economy. An important aspect of this has been the imposition of sanctions by the West following the seizure of Crimea in 2014. It is those sanctions and their overall impact on the Russian economy that is the focus of the chapter by Steven Rosefielde. He concludes that the effects of the sanctions are, alone, unlikely to bring about much change in Russia’s behaviour, in part because in one way or another the country has been under sanction for most of the twentieth century and because the costs of the sanctions are believed by the Russian leaders to be less than what it would cost to act as those imposing the sanctions demand. Furthermore, sanctions may actually increase popular support for the regime by fuelling the victim narrative that has become part of the Russian message to the world. Thus the economy is highly politicised and can be seen to contribute to the political centralisation evident in those areas discussed above. Part 4 is focused on the society. In the first chapter in this part, Leslie Root studies demographic trends in Russia. The increase in life expectancy compared with the Soviet period was welcome, but, as her analysis shows, that expectancy then dropped with the COVID pandemic, and there is still a long way to go to achieve parity with similar states elsewhere. While significant progress has been made with regard to major lifestyle factors impacting poor health, such as smoking and drinking, below-​replacement fertility levels have led to a reliance upon immigration for population growth. The perception by the government that such fertility levels are a problem has led to pro-​natalist policies, including restrictions on contraceptives and abortion. Svetlana Mareeva analyses inequality in Russian society. She argues that in Russia income inequality is high compared with European norms but lower than in the other BRICS countries and Latin America. However, she also points to the extreme concentration of wealth among the top 1 percent and the growing gap between that top and the bulk of the population and shows how the general populace looks to the government to reduce such inequalities. This popular attitude may reflect the continued salience of Soviet-​era cultural assumptions about economic equality and the role of the state. Two key dimensions of inequality are class and gender. Stephen Crowley concentrates on labour and how it has fared under the rollercoaster of economic performance. It was the industrial workers (as both producers and consumers) that bore the brunt of the much-​heralded transition from a state-​dominated economy to market capitalism, and it is this group that continues to struggle under the impact of general economic stagnation. This has led to some mobilisation of protest activity, but it does not appear to have shifted worker support away from Vladimir Putin to any significant extent. Sarah Ashwin focuses upon the situation of women, highlighting the fact that they still suffer under the twin burdens of economic inequality (concentration in lower paid jobs), the higher domestic burden, and the continuing hegemony of “the male as breadwinner” mythology. It is the fracturing of this myth that is crucial to the 7

8

Graeme Gill

overcoming of gender-​based inequality, although if this is to be successful, concrete steps need to be taken with regard to the current employment hierarchy and the domestic distribution of labour. If the government is to meet popular expectations about the reduction of inequality, one of the ways it can do this is through the social welfare system. This is the focus of the chapter by Elena Maltseva. Russia had to move from the cradle-​to-​the-​g rave welfare system of the USSR to one more appropriate to a society in which the state had a much lower profile. The initial stages of this occurred during the hegemony of neo-​liberal thinking in the first half of the 1990s, an approach that was unsympathetic to the construction of a systematic welfare system. Fortunately that period has been transcended and a more effective welfare system has emerged, but there are still significant gaps in it, and these affect the poor particularly severely. The media is crucial to the functioning of any society and is an important factor in the structuring of a society’s politics. The mainstream media is analysed by Galina Miazhevich. This media has come under considerable pressure over the past two decades with most major national media outlets controlled by the state or people close to the Kremlin. While self-​ censorship is common among journalists, there are some outlets that continued to pursue a vigorously independent line, although these came under greatly increased pressure following the February 2022 invasion of Ukraine. The closure of free media space enhances the importance of the social media that is the focus of the chapter by Ilya Yablokov and Olga Solovyeva. With Russians among the highest users of the internet in the world, digital media are an important source both of information gathering and sharing. While this has been used most conspicuously by the oppositionist Aleksei Navalny (and by many anonymous people in the generation and maintenance of the 2011–​12 election protests), it is also a daily tool for millions of Russians who play no active part in the political process. However, Yablokov and Solovyeva show how, during the Putin era, regulation has tightened on all ICT activity, making it more difficult for Russians to gain information from sources independent of state control. This shift away from traditional media to more digital modes of communication is similar to trends in advanced industrial societies elsewhere. While media are important for the generation and development of culture, so too are the closely related phenomena of memory and symbolism, which are the focus of chapters by Olga Malinova and by Alexey Golubev and Feodor Nikolai. Malinova provides a survey of symbolic development in post-​Soviet times, emphasising the way in which that symbolism changed after Putin came to power, especially in terms of its emphasis upon Russia’s past and its greatness. Both feeding off and stimulating Russian nationalist thought, emergent Russian symbolic architecture sought to create a sense of what it meant to be Russian. Arguably this played an important part in Putin’s decision to invade Ukraine. Golubev and Nikolai interrogate the emergent sense of Russian identity by examining how political actors deploy historical memory as a political concept to give voice to their views about national politics and to mobilise public support. A key element in the development and mobilisation of memory concerns the Soviet period and how one understands it, and in particular the figure of Joseph Stalin. The symbolism of the USSR as a great power and of Stalin as a great leader fuels the increased centralisation of power and shift towards autocracy that has been noted above. References to the historical record have also been central to the official justifications Putin has given for the invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. These justifications clearly show how a particular view of the past can be manipulated in an attempt to justify current action. The decline of trust is a serious problem for the development and health of civil society, and this is analysed by Leah Gilbert. A healthy civil society relies upon citizens’ trust in the regularity of the institutions of which that civil society consists, the predictability of individuals’ 8

9

Introduction

actions, and the absence of pressure from the state, which must guarantee space for that society to function. Over the past two decades, civil society has come increasingly under pressure from the state, particularly in terms of the closure of bodies deemed to be “foreign agents” because of their receipt of funds from abroad and the suppression of protest. Pressure on public activity discourages further such activity. But as Gilbert shows, the regime has not only sought to hinder the sorts of civil society groups it considers unacceptable, but it has positively encouraged some it sees as useful to it. The danger this poses to both the public sphere and democratic aspirations is clear. Historically in Russia much activity undertaken by citizens has been discussed in terms of informality, the subject of the chapter by Alena Ledeneva. Informal interactions underpin society everywhere, but in Russia they seem to have been both more extensive and more essential to survival than in many other places. The importance of such activity is not only in the meeting of many personal needs, but that in many ways it can reinforce the position and functioning of the formal system. Informality is thus intrinsic to the system and fundamental for it to continue functioning. Also important is corruption and organised crime, which overlap with the sorts of activity analysed by Ledeneva. Leslie Holmes examines these two phenomena. It is clear from his chapter that what unites corruption and organised crime is the state, and that until decisive action is taken by the state to cleanse itself of corruption, this will remain a major feature of Russia and a drag on its development. However, he sees little prospect of this while Putin remains in power. The pressure placed on civil society has been part of the strengthening of the trend towards central control, and this has in turn been justified in part by reference to Russia’s glorious historic past reflected in the discussions of memory. This emphasis upon great Russian statehood, particularly evident over the last two decades, rests on a resurgence of Russian nationalism, analysed here by Jules Sergei Fediunin. While there can be numerous strands of Russian nationalism, the harnessing of an emergent national myth to the centralisation of power and control in the state (as well as in the person of the president) is an important element of the Putin era. The regime has been able to link Russian nationalism with conservative and anti-​ Western sentiments, co-​opting some elements of the nationalist movement while suppressing others. The mobilisation of Russian nationalism in this way fed into the justifications given for the Ukraine invasion. It also has implications for ethnic relations in the country, which is the subject of the chapter by Helge Blakkisrud. He shows how the political centralisation pursued under Putin has also been evident in the organisation of ethnic relations, and how this “resistance to ‘excessive’ diversity” has done little to resolve the basic tensions that exist in this field. The mobilisation of Russian nationalism has been strongly supported by the Orthodox Church and has in turn served to strengthen the place of that institution in Russian society. The role of religion generally, and not just Orthodoxy, is discussed in the chapter by Thomas Bremer. Part 5 looks at foreign policy. In two overview chapters, Roger Kanet and Graeme Herd survey the Russian outlook with regard to, respectively, foreign policy and security issues. Kanet’s focus is on the way in which Russia is challenging the existing world order, a focus that inevitably turns its main attention to the relationship with the US and NATO. This is also a major concern of Herd’s chapter. The security architecture in Europe largely dates from the Cold War, and it could be argued that the piecemeal amendments made to that architecture have contributed to what Russian leaders see as a significant security challenge in what they believe to be their own backyard. This perceived security challenge stemming from NATO is seen by many as being a factor in the 2022 invasion of Ukraine, which is in many ways the core of that backyard. 9

10

Graeme Gill

Four chapters follow looking at that backyard. Dmitri Trenin analyses the fraught relationship between Russia and Ukraine. With the latter seen by many as part of the Russia–​EU/​NATO borderland, geo-​political considerations are primary in the bilateral relationship. The “Maidan revolution” followed by Russia’s seizure of Crimea and support for secessionist rebels in the east of Ukraine brought that bilateral relationship to crisis point. However, as Trenin argues, the continuing Ukraine crisis is really a manifestation of a larger argument over the European security architecture and Russian objections to the expansion of NATO to the borders of the Russian Federation. The crisis and how it has unfolded is, in Trenin’s view, part of the larger pattern of Russia shedding its immediate post-​Soviet liberal and globalist sentiments in favour of a more traditional and nationally oriented identity of itself as a sui generis power in a competitive world. It is difficult to see how this will develop in a world in which the environment has become increasingly hostile for Russia as a direct result of its invasion of Ukraine. Meanwhile the outbreak of widespread protests in 2020–​1 against the regime of Aleksandr Lukashenka in Belarus created another headache for the Russian leaders. While the post-​Soviet relationship with Belarus, discussed by Rasmus Nilsson, has generally been amicable, more recently tensions have been evident. Belarus has taken on extra importance for the Russian leaders in the context of the recent protests: while Moscow clearly does not want the protests to succeed, and thereby hand another victory to the despised (in the Kremlin) notion of “colour revolution”, the protests do demonstrate how out of step with much Belarusian opinion the regime is. The potential costs of continuing to support that regime unchanged are significant, but it is not clear how Moscow can engineer the sort of leadership change that might make Belarus a more effective ally, especially in the wake of the Ukrainian intervention. In Central Asia, the subject of the chapter by Kirill Nourzhanov, Russia is engaged in an unspoken struggle for influence with China. Despite the civil war in Tajikistan in the first half of the 1990s and a domestic insurgency in 2010–​12, the “Tulip revolution” in Kyrgyzstan in 2005, and the unrest in Kazakhstan in 2022, this region has not been a disruptive factor in Russian foreign policy. Russia has sought to tie these countries to it through a range of multilateral organisations, such as the Collective Security Treaty Organisation (CSTO) and the Eurasian Economic Union (EEU). In the Caucasus region, the focus of Lilia Arakelyan’s chapter, things are more difficult. The consequences of the 2008 war with Georgia continue to linger and make that relationship difficult, while the continuing stand-​off (including military conflict) between Armenia and Azerbaijan challenges Russia’s role in the region, although this does of course provide an opening for Russia to seek to exert its authority as the regional hegemon. And of course, especially in the 1990s, all of this was overshadowed by the conflict in Chechnya, and thereby within the Russian Federation itself, and by the fear of Islamic militancy infecting the region from the south. The key concern of Russian foreign policy has been the US and Europe, the subjects of chapters by, respectively, Angela Stent and Andrey Kortunov. The relationship with the US has become much more antagonistic since Putin returned to power in 2012, and more antagonistic again following the Ukraine invasion. Russian grievances over perceived betrayals of undertakings given regarding the expansion of NATO to the east and believed Western involvement in attempted regime change in the countries on Russia’s borders as well as in Russia itself (see US ambassador Michael McFaul’s remark that he saw one of his tasks in Russia being to promote democratisation; McFaul 2018) hardened Moscow’s attitude to the US. What was perceived as a Russian “hybrid war” against the West, including claims of interference in the US elections and the Brexit debate in the UK, and the intervention in Ukraine hardened the American position, making for an unstable Russia–​US relationship. Fundamentally, in Stent’s view, this rests on a basis of different values and different world views, including a different 10

11

Introduction

understanding of the meaning of sovereignty, and while these continue it will be difficult to structure the relationship in anything but a competitive fashion. In Europe, different members of the EU have a different approach to Russia, which means that although the organisation generally lines up with the US and NATO in its attitude to Russia, national nuances can be important. The pre-​2022 differences over the Nord Stream gas pipeline reflect the differentiated approach characteristic of the relationship with Europe, although the strong European reaction to the invasion of Ukraine has seen most of those differences submerged into a united front. And as Andrey Kortunov points out, the period from 2014 to 2022 has seen a process of “strategic transition” leading to the confrontation that occurred with the onset of the Ukrainian invasion. Finally, Natasha Kuhrt discusses the relationship with China, which many have seen as being used by Russia as a sort of balancer against its deteriorating relationship with the West. However, as she notes, while there are real shared interests, fundamental differences exist between Russia and China in terms both of domestic priorities and international perceptions, and these may complicate the development of the long-​term relationship. The developments noted above –​political centralisation and the authoritarian trajectory of the regime, the social pressures, and the hostile international environment –​all add up to a future period of some uncertainty. Under such conditions, the views of the experts in this Handbook should be most welcome.

References Belton, C. (2020), Putin’s People. How the KGB Took Back Russia and Then Took on the West (London: William Collins). Dawisha, K. (2014), Putin’s Kleptocracy. Who Owns Russia? (New York: Simon & Schuster). Fish, M.S. (2005), Democracy Derailed in Russia. The Failure of Open Politics (New York: Cambridge University Press). Gill, G. (2021), Bridling Dictators. Rules and Authoritarian Politics (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Hale, H.E. (2015), Patronal Politics. Eurasian Regime Dynamics in Comparative Perspective (New York: Cambridge University Press). McFaul, M. (2018), From Cold War to Hot Peace. An American Ambassador in Putin’s Russia (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt). Robinson, N. (2002), Russia. A State of Uncertainty (London: Routledge). Tsygankov, A. (2014), The Strong State in Russia. Development and Crisis (New York: Oxford University Press).

11

12

2 THE YELTSIN ERA Graeme Gill

The Yeltsin era of post-​Soviet politics opened with the government facing two major structural tasks: the construction of a new political system to replace the single-​party communist system and the building of a new economy based on free-​market principles to replace the command economy of the Soviet era (on the “simultaneous transition”, see Treisman 2011). These two tasks had to be accomplished without any clear plan for their achievement and in circumstances that did not favour such large-​scale political and economic engineering, including real questions over the viability of the multi-​national Russian state (for some general complexities, see Elster et al 1998). Politically it soon became clear that there was no consensus among elites about either the shape of the new polity or how it could be achieved. Central elites were divided over both policy and process, while many regional elites were intent on maximising their power at the expense of the centre. Economically the crisis that had beset the country in the last years of Soviet power was exacerbated by the initial reform measures, resulting in a depression deeper and more sustained than had occurred in the West during the 1930s. It is the great achievement of Boris Yeltsin that, by the end of his presidency, the basis had been laid for a stable political system and an economy based partly on market principles. However, the cost of both of these achievements was immense.

Political reform Yeltsin’s avowed political aim was the creation of a democratic system, but the political architecture he confronted remained rooted in the Soviet past. The legislature had been elected in 1990, and although this election had been relatively free, representatives of the old regime in the form of the Communist Party retained a significant place in it. Alternative parties were not well developed, and political life within the legislature remained fluid and somewhat unpredictable. Yeltsin had been popularly elected president in June 1991 and possessed a popular mandate more recent than that of the legislature, but he had no presidential party upon which his power could rest and no political machine to project his will either in the legislature or in the country at large. There was a constituency in the legislature that constituted a possible source of support for Yeltsin, but such support was not something he could take for granted. The communists, both inside and outside the legislature, were openly hostile to the president and what he sought to do, with the result that throughout the decade there was continuing conflict at varying levels 12

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-3

13

The Yeltsin era

of intensity in the national political arena. In addition, many regional leaders sought to use the loosening of central control associated with the fall of the USSR to strengthen their positions and extract even more concessions from the centre. The continuing political uncertainty took place against a background of an under-​developed civil society increasingly characterised by growing popular apathy as the levels of involvement in politics that had grown in the last years of Soviet power ebbed in the face of economic difficulty. The weakness of civil society, reflected in the under-​developed nature of both political parties and civic organisations, meant that political conflict was confined overwhelmingly to elite circles. This had significant implications for the hoped-​for development of democracy (for an excellent narrative, see Gel’man 2015: ch.3). Elite political conflict escalated from the end of 1991, when the Soviet Union was dissolved, to a peak in September–​October 1993, and then became more stable in the new political system ushered in by the December 1993 elections and the new Constitution. The roots of this conflict lay in the combination of differences over economic policy, personal antagonisms, institutional ambition, and deep hostility between Yeltsin and many of the communists. A central plank was also disagreement over what sort of political system Russia should have. The communists, along with many others in the legislature, favoured a parliamentary democratic republic, while Yeltsin wanted a presidential democratic republic in which the president was more powerful than the legislature. While the conflict went through a number of stages (Sheinis 2005; Gill and Markwick 2000: ch.4), with at various times both sides seeming to offer compromises which were then either rejected or reneged upon, it reached its apogee in autumn 1993 when Yeltsin launched a military assault on the legislature and arrested his parliamentary opponents. While this victory was only temporary, in the sense that the communists returned two years later to be a major political force, it was enough for Yeltsin to be able to impose a new set of political arrangements on Russia. The December 1993 election resulted in a new legislature with a much weaker communist presence than there had been before, while a simultaneous referendum imposed a new Constitution that was written in Yeltsin’s office. The new constitutional structure involved a system in which the presidency was the predominant institution (although the lower house, the State Duma, is not as weak as many commentators have suggested), and thereby consolidated Yeltsin’s position as the most important political figure in the land. The means of Yeltsin’s victory –​the use of military force against the opposition –​seemed to augur badly for future democratic stability. It seemed to validate force as an acceptable means of resolving political disputes, thereby providing a potential precedent for political actors in the future. However, with the exception of Chechnya (see below), events did not turn out that way. For the remainder of the Yeltsin era, political conflict remained largely within the bounds of the 1993 constitutional structure. There was neither widespread popular mobilisation in the streets, except during election campaigns and then it was peaceful, nor the resort to arms. It is as though the armed conflict of 1993 caused political elites to confront the possibility of civil strife, see the dangers, and draw back. This does not mean that the expanding ranks of Yeltsin’s opponents ceased to oppose, but that they generally conducted that opposition through constitutionally validated channels. There were three principal such channels. First, election campaigns. There were elections to the State Duma in 1995 and 1999 and to the presidency in 1996 (Hutcheson 2018), and during these Yeltsin’s record came under withering criticism. Not only those on the left but many in the centre and on the right were vigorous in their criticism of him and his policies. The elections were adjudged to be generally free but not fair (on fraud generally, see Myagkov et al 2009), and they were characterised by open debate and often fierce criticism. Second, the parliament. Yeltsin and his government were often given a rough ride in the Duma where his supporters were never in a majority: attempts were made in the Duma to impeach the president, on some occasions his nomination of a new prime minister 13

14

Graeme Gill

was frustrated in that assembly, and the difficulty Yeltsin faced in getting legislation through the Duma is reflected in the large number of measures introduced via presidential decree. Third, the media. Media freedom was extensive during the 1990s, with many outlets either critical or actually opposed to the president. While civil society was under-​developed, the media was free to publish or broadcast whatever it liked, with the result being a no-​holds-​barred approach in which Yeltsin was often the target of both ridicule and criticism. In sum, although the new political system had been ushered into existence through violent means, that system did settle down to a tolerable level of regularity of operation which, in October 1993, had seemed highly unlikely. But this does not mean the system was without problems. Throughout his presidency, Yeltsin refused to join a political party, including those “parties of power” established to support the government: Russia’s Choice and Our Home is Russia. While this may have achieved his stated aim of remaining above party politics, in the conflictual atmosphere of the 1990s it did not make him appear as a non-​partisan figure. Instead, it suggested that parties were not major actors in the political system and that the most powerful political actor had no need of association with them. Their development was not thereby given the boost that the president’s involvement might have been expected to provide. Given the difficult conditions confronting parties, the failure to promote party development by the president contributed to their continued weakness. It is not that parties did not emerge; 13 competed in the 1993 election and 43 in 1995. But no stable party system developed. Only the Communist Party of the Russian Federation (and to a lesser extent the Liberal Democratic Party of Russia in one form or another and Yabloko) was able to maintain representation in the Duma throughout the decade, with many other parties enjoying only a very limited lifespan (Rose 2000; Hale 2006). The parties that did emerge were mainly weak and ephemeral, with no stable patterns of party activity emerging. The parliament that emerged from the 1993 Constitution remained in the president’s shadow, but, as noted above, it was by no means a body that simply did his bidding. Given the strong communist presence in the Duma throughout the decade and the failure of the president to build effective bridges to much of the rest of the assembly, the parliament was generally hostile to the president. The chief powers that the legislature had was approval of the budget, adoption of legislation, and ratification of the president’s choice of prime minister. In these three areas, Yeltsin often had to contend with opposition and delay from the State Duma. The antagonistic relationship between president and parliament injected an element of continuing instability into political life throughout this period, and although sometimes the level of conflict escalated, at no time did it approach that of 1993. This relationship was seriously affected by Yeltsin’s idiosyncratic and inconsistent patterns of action. Yeltsin successfully built up a Presidential Administration through which he could both centralise power and exercise it independently of the other elements of the political system. This became a very powerful institution outside the political control of other actors and answerable only to the president. Its position as the chief source of advice for the president was rivalled only from the mid-​1990s by an informal kitchen cabinet comprising Yeltsin’s daughter Tatyana Dyachenko and a number of leading businessmen (the so-​called “family”). This kitchen cabinet seems to have exercised significant power during the second half of the decade, especially when Yeltsin was incapacitated through illness. Such periods of illness, along with those due to his excessive drinking, left a vacuum at the top that political actors sought to exploit and which gave to politics a certain ambiguity and unpredictability (Korzhakov 1997; Andriyanov and Chernyak 1999). There was also a degree of ambiguity in the emergent federal sphere (Ross 2002). With the break-​up of the USSR, some of the regions of Russia sought enhanced local autonomy, 14

15

The Yeltsin era

which involved the weakening of their ties with the centre. Yeltsin responded in two ways. First, by reaching agreements with regional leaders that sought to systematise the relationship, chiefly through the mechanism of bilateral treaties. The problem was that the powers accorded to the various regions differed, often substantially, thereby creating a situation of asymmetrical federalism. The result was a lack of consistency between laws throughout the country, with in many instances local laws contradicting national legislation and the centre’s writ problematic in some regions. While this created a messy and disjointed federal system, at least it was achieved peacefully. Yeltsin’s second response to the attempt to loosen central ties was the use of force in Chechnya (Dunlop 1998; Lieven 1998; Politkovskaya 2003). Throughout the early 1990s, the government in the Republic of Chechnya had sought greater independence from Moscow, but unlike other regions such as Tatarstan, which had been willing to enter into negotiations with the federal authorities, the Chechen leadership of Dzhokar Dudaev was unwilling to enter into meaningful negotiations. Nor was the Yeltsin leadership eager for such talks. In December 1994, no longer willing to tolerate Dudaev’s independence aspirations, Yeltsin sent Russian troops into Chechnya to remove the government and establish central control. A bitter, bloody, and cruel conflict ensued until mid-​1996. It brought about the destruction of the Chechen capital Grozny, the torture and killing of large numbers of soldiers and civilians, and the effective military defeat of the federal forces. A temporary compromise was worked out leaving the Chechen authorities in charge, although this broke down in 1999 when Prime Minister Vladimir Putin sent the troops back in following bomb attacks in a number of Russian cities (on the bomb attacks, see Dunlop 2012). Under Yeltsin’s presidency the Chechen question was by no means resolved, but the use of force may have acted as a disincentive to other regional leaders contemplating pursuing similar goals. The failure of the Russian military in Chechnya reflected a further aspect of political life under Yeltsin: the relative weakness of the state. This was not only a question of the weak institutionalisation of leading political institutions, but also the limited reach of the state into society more broadly. In part a function of political choice (to limit the state compared with the overweening power possessed by the Soviet state) and in part of institutional atrophy, the limits of the state’s capacity were reflected in its inability to carry out basic functions within society. The collapse of the social welfare net, the inability to collect taxes, the sharp increase in crime and corruption in the face of the erosion of law enforcement capacity, and the obvious signs of decay in the military and its discipline were all evidence of the reduced capacity of the state. The complete collapse of the Russian state was seen by some as a realistic possibility. These institutional problems were accompanied by an ambiguity in the way in which democratic principles and processes were embedded in the political system. Elections were held broadly on schedule (and in this Yeltsin had rejected the urgings of some advisors to postpone the 1996 presidential election), and while they were generally classed as free, they were certainly not fair. Development of the party system was hindered by Yeltsin’s dismissive attitude to parties and by the creation of a “party of power” that enjoyed advantages over those parties not thus linked with the Kremlin. The growth of inequality and the growth of informal access to power on the part of a few rich businessmen (the so-​called “oligarchs”) undercut basic principles of democratic governance. And little attempt was made to assist the growth and development of civil society. The Yeltsin administration did little consciously to invest democratic principles with normative authority. But what Yeltsin did do was to erect a new political system with a constitutional basis that formally rested on democratic principles, and on many occasions he acted in accord with those constitutional principles. In this way the outlines of the new system were able to develop and grow and to gain some normative authority, even if in particular instances their spirit may have been abused. The result was a political system that 15

16

Graeme Gill

was formally animated by broad democratic principles but deficient in some aspects of their realisation. But after the violent catharsis of 1993, the system generally functioned peacefully. The record of political achievement was clearly not one of unmitigated success. A similar judgement applies to the economic system that emerged under Yeltsin.

Economic reform Yeltsin’s avowed aim in the economic sphere was the creation of a market capitalist society, although he did not usually use the term “capitalist” to describe it. There had been considerable debate in the last year of the USSR about the best means of moving to a market economy, and Yeltsin became persuaded of the merits of the so-​called “big-​bang” strategy. This involved the introduction of major reforms on a very short time scale, a strategy which, unlike its opposite of the gradual introduction of reforms, was reputed to bring about a short, sharp shock to the economy, which would collapse but would then quickly rise again in a new form. The theory was that the pain would be severe but it would be short-​lived and bring rapid economic success because all one had to do was to clear the way for natural market forces to grow and take over from the dead hand of the state. Not only were many of the assumptions that underlay this process naive, but they also underestimated the importance of institutions for the development of an effective market system. Yeltsin was attracted to this strategy not only by its presumed economic benefits, but by what he saw as its political advantage: it would lead to the rapid destruction of the power of the large state bureaucracies that were, in his view, reservoirs both of opposition to change and of communist support. There were four main elements of the big bang strategy: price liberalisation, macro-​ economic stabilisation, privatisation, and internationalisation (Åslund 2002, 2007). The strategy was implemented immediately, with the 2 January 1992 lifting of price controls, with immediate effects. People’s savings disappeared as inflation rocketed up, large sections of the population fell into poverty, attempts to stabilise the ruble faltered, and the economy entered a period of depression from which it only emerged following the 1998 economic crisis. But the main aim was achieved: prices were no longer set by the state. Privatisation, conducted principally through a voucher scheme designed to give workers a share in ownership of productive enterprises, was instituted, and by the end of the decade most of the economy had been passed into non-​government hands, although here too there were some less satisfactory results discussed below. Attempts were made at macro-​economic stabilisation, but owing in part to the early opposition of the Central Bank, success here was mixed. The result was similar with regard to internationalisation, in that foreign investors did come into the economy, but their experience was often both unhappy and limited. Nevertheless the economic reform measures introduced by Yeltsin, even if they were not introduced in full, did bring about the emergence of an economy that rested partly on market principles. But this apparent success also had significant costs. A major cost was the sharp contraction of the economy with the associated hardships noted above. Instead of seeing the liberalisation of prices as an incentive for increasing production and sale of goods, many factory owners and managers saw this as an increased opportunity to rent-​seek, with the result that production plummeted and prices rose. The general impoverishment not only degraded people’s lifestyles and placed many in situations of severe hardship, but it also destroyed the domestic market for goods. Although official unemployment did not reach the levels feared, under-​employment was rife. The failure rate of new firms was high, and competition from foreign companies made it difficult for many Russian concerns to operate profitably. The depression was ended only by a combination of the 1998 crisis, which priced 16

17

The Yeltsin era

many foreign goods out of the market and thereby opened up space for Russian companies, and high international prices for Russian natural resources, mainly oil and gas (Reddaway and Glinski 2001; Goldman 2003). Privatisation proved to be a double-​edged sword. While it destroyed much of the control the state had exercised in the economy, at least in the initial stages as noted above it did not lead to a vigorous private-​market sector of production. As well as the rent-​seeking noted above, some initial owners used their new-​found control to asset strip their companies rather than to build them up. None of the new owners had any experience of operating in anything like a free-​market economy, especially one like the Russian where criminal activity rose significantly, and many were unable to survive in these new conditions. Few had the capital to invest in their enterprises and credit remained elusive. But some did very well out of privatisation, significantly enhancing their wealth, and while in economic terms some may have seen this as a positive, politically it was a mixed blessing. Many of those “new Russians” (Schimpfössl 2018) generated widespread popular antagonism, not only at their wealth and the way they flaunted it, but at the way it was acquired. This wealth was widely seen as having been gained at the expense of the common weal. If in the Soviet period all productive capacity was formally owned by the people, the privatisation of this effectively amounted to the transfer of public resources into private hands with minimal compensation. This sort of outcome was virtually inevitable given the political opposition to foreign ownership plus the absence of domestic sources of capital outside the state. Accordingly, those with privileged access to the resources of the old Soviet system were well placed to take advantage of the opportunities that arose with the shift towards a market economy, including many factory managers who were able to gain control of the vouchers allotted to their workers and use them to take over the enterprise. Privatisation by “insiders” was both the perception and the reality. This was strengthened by the “loans for shares” scheme of 1995–​6, which enabled some wealthy and well-​connected businessmen to gain control of blue chip state assets at knock-​down prices because of an agreement with the Yeltsin administration (on the oligarchs, see Hoffman 2002; Klebnikov 2000). Not only did this discredit the privatisation programme as a whole, but because of the close and continuing links between these people (the so-​called “oligarchs”; some were members of the aforementioned “family”) and the Yeltsin administration, it helped to discredit the latter also. Another effect of the economic reforms was that they fed into and exacerbated the political conflicts among the elites. The continuing stand-​off between Yeltsin on the one hand and the communists on the other was driven in part by differences over economic policy. Similarly, the tensions that existed within the government at various times and the prominence achieved by extremist, principally nationalist, elements during this decade were all related to economic policy and its effects. It is probable that the increasing levels of popular alienation from politics that became evident during the 1990s were also a function, at least in part, of the hardship resulting from the economic reforms. So although Yeltsin’s economic reforms brought about the transformation of the economy, they also had serious negative consequences in the short to medium term. They were also linked to criminal activity.

Society One of the features of contemporary Russia to which many pointed during the 1990s was the high levels of crime. Reports of violent criminal activity were common in the media, while the new more open conditions in the economy allied to the decay of means of law enforcement created new room for such activity to flourish. While some of this was a function of increased reporting, that such activity was a major factor in Russian society is undeniable. The sense 17

18

Graeme Gill

of insecurity on the streets was much higher than it had been in Soviet times, while criminal activity in the economy affected not only consumers but the newly emerging business class (and foreigners seeking involvement in the economy) as the struggle for property and wealth, especially in the middle of the decade, became increasingly vigorous and violent. One feature of the rise of crime was the prominence gained by criminal gangs. Many of these had their origins in the Soviet-​era labour camps and some had an ethnic basis, but what they all did was to take advantage of this combination of a freer environment and weaker policing capacity. Many of these gangs engaged in protection rackets and they played a part in the struggle over property; for many businessmen they were the only reliable source of the enforcement of contracts and the protection of business interests. In this sense, some criminal activity shaded into legitimate business activity, giving the involved criminal gangs an aura of legitimacy (on the struggle for property, see Barnes 2006; Volkov 2002; Varese 2001). Linked with such criminal activity was the widespread nature of corruption. The bribery of officials was said to be common, particularly early in the decade, as many argued that the only way to get things done by an official was to pay a bribe. While it is not clear how high such corruption went in the state administration –​there were claims that it involved Yeltsin and his family –​at middle and lower levels it was rife. Receipt of licences and permits, minimisation of official health and safety checks on commercial premises, avoidance of traffic fines, and the gaining of entrance to prestigious educational institutions were the sorts of things said to be subject to the bribery of officials (Holmes 2006; Sharafutdinova 2010). What the extent of crime and corruption did was to emphasise the continuing importance in Russian society of informal contacts and practices; the use of personal contacts and informal channels was central to the way people lived their lives (Ledeneva 2006). Unable to rely upon formal processes and with the actions of officials seemingly subject to influence, it was important to be able to tap into personal contacts and established informal channels if one was to survive. But while this may have helped people to get by in the difficult economic circumstances, it also undermined attempts to institutionalise the political and economic systems and to strengthen the rule of law in society. Who one knew continued to be important in the shaping of people’s life chances; those who had contacts could get by, those who did not struggled (Humphrey 2002). Life chances were also shaped by economics, and under Yeltsin Russian society witnessed a polarisation as the gap between rich and poor reached obscene levels. While much of the population struggled with poverty, reflected in increased levels of begging in the streets of Russia’s major cities in the first part of the decade, a few enjoyed enormous wealth. Personal contacts and corrupt practices were often at the root of such wealth. The so-​called “oligarchs” were the most obvious examples of this, but they were not alone. This group of the newly wealthy, often referred to as “New Russians”, were ostentatious in the flaunting of their wealth and lifestyles. Most of the populace could only dream about the extravagant lifestyles enjoyed by this group, and they were the object of much popular derision and hostility. But protected by their high fences and security guards and whisked from place to place in motorcades, their paths rarely crossed those of their less fortunate fellow citizens. The gap between rich and poor was palpable, while the economic collapse meant that prior to the revival beginning at the end of the decade there was little evidence of the emergence of a stable middle class that might bridge this gap (Silverman and Yanowitch 2000). The widespread nature of poverty fed into the continuing pathologies of Russian society. Low birth rates and high death rates accompanied by low levels of life expectancy fuelled continuing population decline, only partly offset by the immigration of ethnic Russians from neighbouring countries. Alcoholism remained a major problem, while a series of diseases such 18

19

The Yeltsin era

as TB, which was thought to have been eliminated, returned to ravage the population; Aids became a major cause for concern. These major health worries were faced by a society in which the health infrastructure had virtually collapsed, as long years of inadequate Soviet investment in hospitals and medical services generally came home to roost. People’s personal situations were in many cases exacerbated by the non-​payment of wages on time, the threat of unemployment or under-​employment, and the impossibility of buying many goods because of inflation. Despite these hardships, levels of popular protest were low; the society seemed exhausted. As well as these social ills, many observers also pointed to an ideological vacuum. The collapse of communism eliminated the ideology that had dominated society for more than seventy years as a viable set of values with wide appeal. In the resultant vacuum, religion made a powerful reappearance, with many people affirming their religious beliefs and the Russian Orthodox Church once again becoming prominent in society; it regained much of the property it had lost under communism and was partially re-​integrated into state rituals and symbolism. While the same sort of freedom and prominence were not accorded other religions, broad freedom of belief was restored and never seriously called into question. Such freedom also operated outside the religious sphere. Russian society witnessed a proliferation of groups espousing a wide range of views and beliefs. Important among these were right wing and nationalist groups, ranging from the pseudo-​fascism of groups such as Aleksandr Barkashov’s Russian National Unity movement through to Aleksandr Rutskoi’s Derzhava. Mostly small and on the fringes of the political spectrum, these nationalist groups were loud and vociferous in the prosecution of their views but generally exercised little influence in society. However, they did tap into the resurgent theme of Russian nationalism, something that had been emphasised by Yeltsin in his battle with Mikhail Gorbachev and boosted by the fall of the USSR and emergence of Russia. Loss of their Soviet identity, accompanied by the imperial status that attached to the USSR, encouraged Russians to look to their Russianness as a new form of identification. Yeltsin encouraged this, emphasising a civic sense of identity (Rossiiskii) rather than the ethnic one (Russkii) favoured by Barkashov and some others seeking to use this as a means of strengthening both support for and the legitimacy of the regime. Although this was to become more prominent under Yeltsin’s successor, it did strike a chord in the Russian populace during the 1990s, including in foreign policy where it coloured relations with the former republics of the USSR and, after the middle of the decade, the West.

Conclusion By the time Boris Yeltsin resigned as president on 31 December 1999 and passed the office on to Vladimir Putin, the Russian system had seemingly stabilised. Politically, the institutions established by the 1993 Constitution had functioned in a more or less regular form. However, the aspiration for a democratic system was not fully realised. All three national elections had been carried out in a way that severely compromised the ability of the opposition to compete, the role of the “family” and the “oligarchs” gave undue power to unelected camarillas, and there had been no integration of the populace into the political system in a meaningful way. The vehicles for popular involvement in political life remained weak, it was not clear that all sections of society were committed to the existing structure, or even that those who were formally thus committed were not averse to manipulating the principles for partisan purposes, and the state remained weak as an institution. The federal system remained dysfunctional and Chechnya in incipient revolt. Economically, a market system of sorts had been established, even if it operated disjointedly, was characterised by high levels of crime and corruption, and the private basis upon which much of it rested was of dubious legal provenance. But although there 19

20

Graeme Gill

were clear problems with the system he had constructed and the costs had been significant, Yeltsin’s achievements should not be under-​estimated. What does this mean for Yeltsin as a leader? Throughout much of his career, his approach had appeared to be “crash through or crash”, and this remained a feature of his modus operandi as president (on his leadership style, see Breslauer 1999, 2002; Brown and Shevtsova 2008). He frequently ignored and overrode institutional processes and acted in an impulsive and personalised fashion. It was not that he was not consultative, but that he seemed willing to consult only with those he trusted, and this circle of people narrowed over time. He was not willing consistently to reach out to opponents, to consult and negotiate with them and reach a consensus position. A conviction politician and convinced of the correctness of the course he was currently following, he forged ahead when those with cooler heads may have proceeded more circumspectly. As a result, he was unable to build a consensus among political elites, remaining overwhelmingly a divisive political figure. It is as a response to this style of leadership that much can be understood about the following Putin era.

References Andriyanov, V. and A. Chernyak (1999), Odinokii tsar’ v kremle (Moscow: ZAO Gazeta Pravda). Åslund, A. (2002), Building Capitalism. The Transformation of the Former Soviet Bloc (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Åslund, A. (2007), Russia’s Capitalist Revolution. Why Market Reform Succeeded and Democracy Failed (Washington DC: Peterson Institute for International Economics). Barnes, A. (2006), Owning Russia. The Struggle Over Factories, Farms, and Power (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Breslauer, G. (1999), “Boris Yeltsin as Patriarch”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 15, 2: 186–​200. Breslauer, G. (2002), Gorbachev and Yeltsin as Leaders (New York: Cambridge University Press). Brown, A. and L. Shevtsova (eds.) (2008), Gorbachev, Yeltsin, and Putin. Political Leadership in Russia’s Transition (Washington DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace). Dunlop, J.B. (1998), Russia Confronts Chechnya. Roots of a Separatist Conflict (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Dunlop, J.B. (2012), The Moscow Bombings of September 1999 (Stuttgart: ibidem). Elster, J., C. Offe and U.K. Preuss (1998), Institutional Design in Post-​Communist Societies. Rebuilding the Ship at Sea (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Gel’man, V. (2015), Authoritarian Russia. Analyzing Post-​Soviet Regime Changes (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press). Gill, G. and R. Markwick (2000), Russia’s Stillborn Democracy? From Gorbachev to Yeltsin (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Goldman, M.I. (2003), The Piratization of Russia. Russian Reform Goes Awry (London: Routledge). Hale, H.E. (2006), Why Not Parties in Russia? Democracy, Federalism, and the State (New York: Cambridge University Press). Hoffman, D. (2002), The Oligarchs. Wealth and Power in the New Russia (New York: Public Affairs). Holmes, L. (2006), Rotten States? Corruption, Post-​Communism and Neoliberalism (Durham: Duke University Press). Humphrey, C. (2002), The Unmaking of Soviet Life. Everyday Economies After Socialism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Century of Multiparty Politics Hutcheson, D.S. (2018), Parliamentary Elections in Russia. A Quarter-​ (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Klebnikov, P. (2000), Godfather of the Kremlin. Boris Berezovsky and the Looting of Russia (New York: Harcourt). Korzhakov, A. (1997), Boris Yeltsin: ot rassveta do zakata (Moscow: Interbuk). Ledeneva, A. (2006), How Russia Really Works. The Informal Practices that Shaped Post-​Soviet Politics and Business (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Lieven, A. (1998), Chechnya. Tombstone of Soviet Power (New Haven: Yale University Press).

20

21

The Yeltsin era Myagkov, M., P.C. Ordeshook and D. Shakin (2009), The Forensics of Election Fraud. Russia and Ukraine (New York: Cambridge University Press). Politkovskaya, A. (2003), A Small Corner of Hell. Dispatches from Chechnya (Chicago: University of Chicago Press). Reddaway, P. and D. Glinski (2001), The Tragedy of Russia’s Reforms. Market Bolshevism Against Democracy (Washington DC: United States Institute of Peace Press). Rose, R. (2000), “How Floating Parties Frustrate Democratic Accountability: A Supply-​Side View of Russia’s Elections”, East European Constitutional Review 9, 1-​2: 53–​9. Ross, C. (2002), Federalism and Democratisation in Russia (Manchester: Manchester University Press). Schimpfössl, E. (2018), Rich Russians. From Oligarchs to Bourgeoisie (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Sharafutdinova, G. (2010), Political Consequences of Crony Capitalism inside Russia (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press). 1993) Sheinis, V. (2005), Vzlet i padenie parlamenta. Perelomnye gody v rossiiskoi politike (1985–​ (Moscow: Moskovskii tsentr Karnegii). Silverman, B. and M. Yanowitch (2000), New Rich, New Poor, New Russia: Winners and Losers on the Russian Road to Capitalism (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe). Treisman, D. (2011), The Return. Russia’s Journey from Gorbachev to Medvedev (New York: Free Press). Varese, F. (2001), The Russian Mafia. Private Protection in a New Market Economy (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Volkov, V. (2002), Violent Entrepreneurs. The Use of Force in the Making of Russian Capitalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press).

21

22

3 THE PUTIN ERA Vladimir Gel’man

Since 2000, Russia has been de facto governed by Vladimir Putin,1 so far the longest-​serving ruler of the country since Joseph Stalin. These twenty-​plus years have been marked by major changes in Russian politics, economics, and society, as well as in foreign policy. After the turbulent period of the “roaring” 1990s, with major breakthroughs in the form of regime transition, market reforms, and transformation of the state, Russia under Putin turned to a conservative model of post-​revolutionary stabilisation. This shift in the 2000s contributed to the rise of personalist authoritarianism amid impressive economic growth. During the period of the 2010s, against the background of many domestic and international challenges, Russia underwent an authoritarian consolidation at the expense of prospects for economic growth and development. In the 2020s, preservation of Putin’s domestic and international dominance at any cost became the main goal of the elites, thus aggravating many of Russia’s severe problems over time. In this chapter, I will present a brief overview of Russia’s political and economic trajectories in the Putin era, with an emphasis on the role of agency in these changes. After presenting an overview of major developments in the Putin era, I will concentrate on key critical junctures and their effects. I will examine choices made in 1999–​2000 (the beginning of the Putin era), 2011–​14 (from Putin’s return to the presidency to the annexation of Crimea and the start of major international conflict), and 2020–2 (the lifting of presidential term limits for Putin, aimed at his lifetime stay in power, and further military aggression towards Ukraine). Some lessons from and implications of the Russian experience will be presented in the conclusion.

After the Second Russian Revolution: The reverse wave The last fifteen years of the twentieth century in Russia (1985–​1999) have been labelled “the Second Russian Revolution” not only in journalist but also in scholarly discourses (Mau and Starodubrovskaya 2001; McFaul 2001). Indeed, the collapse of communism and of the Soviet Union, and the major political and economic liberalisation, had a profound and long-​lasting impact on Russia in virtually every possible field. Regardless of the never-​ending discussions and various assessments of these changes, one should realise that any revolution inevitably comes to an end sooner or later. The end of the Second Russian Revolution occurred on

22

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-4

23

The Putin era

the very last day of 1999, when Boris Yeltsin resigned from his presidential post and transferred his powers to the chosen successor, Vladimir Putin. Post-​revolutionary stabilisation in Russia came through a “conservative authoritarianism” scenario (Stinchcombe 1999), which aimed at a partial restoration of pre-​revolutionary political, economic, and societal order but could not re-​establish the Old Regime on a full scale. Historical examples of this mode of post-​revolutionary era range from Louis Napoleon in nineteenth-​century France to Francisco Franco in twentieth-​century Spain. At the same time, the Second Russian Revolution itself was very incomplete and “unfinished” (McFaul 2001). After the Soviet collapse, Russia had failed to establish post-​communist democracy (Fish 2005; Gel’man 2015), market economic reforms were full of contradictions and brought imperfect outcomes (Shleifer and Treisman 2000; Åslund 2007), and Russian state-​building was marked by a major decline in state capacity and autonomy (Volkov 2002; Taylor 2011). It is no wonder that the new post-​revolutionary era was perceived by the Russian elites and society at large as the time of the “correction of errors”: new revolutions were considered a taboo, and demand for rapid and radical changes soon disappeared. Initially, such a shift coincided with impressive economic growth and the strengthening of the Russian state in the 2000s and was considered a second-​best solution for Russia. Yet many unresolved issues of the Second Russian Revolution, amid conservative stabilisation, greatly contributed to the further aggravation of Russia’s problems over time. Facing new challenges in the 2010s, Russia not only closed the window of opportunity for democratisation but also sacrificed economic growth and development and entered increasing international self-​isolation. In the end, Russia built a new personalist authoritarianism (Frye 2021), crony capitalism (Åslund 2019), and bad governance (Gel’man 2022) and attempted to consolidate this politico-​economic order for long decades, if not forever. By the 2020s, the drive for the preservation of Putin’s rule at any cost brought Russia from a conservative to a reactionary path, which may pave the way to its irreversible decay (Rogov 2021). Thus, Putin’s era may be judged as a “reverse wave” (Huntington 1991) or counterrevolution (Aleksashenko 2018) in terms of Russia’s political regime dynamics and international integration. To what extent is such a trajectory for Russia in the Putin era determined by structure-​ induced factors (such as the country’s socio-​economic profile or Russians’ cultural traits) as opposed to an effect of agency-​driven tendencies? I would argue that several strategic choices made by Russia’s leaders and elites played an enormous role in Russia’s trajectory. Some sort of “reverse wave” during the Putin era was, most probably, inevitable after Russia’s radical multi-​ dimensional transformation, similar to the wave of counter-​reforms in the late-​nineteenth century after the Great Reforms of Alexander II. At the same time, the denial of democracy, international cooperation, and economic growth as goals of national development while turning the country into a “besieged fortress” exceeded the worst expectations of many observers. To a great degree, these processes should be considered effects of choices made by Putin and his entourage in order to avert risks of power loss and preserve Russia’s outdated status of great power amid the rise of old and new global challenges in the twenty-​first century. Still, in spite of major setbacks, the Putin era cannot be regarded as a full-​scale return “back to the USSR” despite certain ideas and interests of Russia’s elites and citizens, who perceived a revised and updated version of the Soviet Union as a role model for Russia (Gel’man 2022). Over the first two decades of the twenty-​first century, Russia continued a process of socio-​economic modernisation (Kivinen and Humphreys 2021) that has not stopped even against the background of the “reverse wave”. Yet the pace of these changes greatly slowed down, especially in the 2010s–​20s, and their prospects for the future look more and more questionable.

23

24

Vladimir Gel’man

Critical junctures of the twenty-​first century: The road to a dead end? Among many important events that set up Russia’s trajectories in the Putin era, four key turning points, or “critical junctures” (Capoccia and Kelemen 2007), are worthy of special attention. First was Putin’s sudden rise to power in 1999–​2000, resulting from the “war of Yeltsin’s succession” and Russia’s subsequent shift towards “authoritarian modernization” (Gel’man 2016). The second critical juncture was a series of domestic and international shocks, from the wave of major political protests in 2011–​12 to the overthrowing of President Yanukovych in Ukraine in 2014, which contributed to Russia’s annexation of Crimea and the following ongoing conflict with the West. The third turning point was the 2020 constitutional reform, which enabled Putin to extend his presidential rule until 2036. And finally, the fourth turning point was marked by the beginning of Russia’s military intervention in Ukraine in February 2022; most probably, the worst political decision ever made by Russia’s leadership.

1999–​2000: The resurrection The beginning of the Putin era was a matter of several coincidences in the struggle between different segments of Russian elites for leadership succession after Boris Yeltsin (Gel’man 2015). As a 47-​year-​old, new, dynamic, and energetic leader was perceived as a sharp contrast with his ageing, sick, and extremely unpopular predecessor, the previously obscure state official Putin enjoyed a steady rise in popularity from the very beginning. This also coincided with the end of the long and protracted transformation recession of the Russian economy, which had begun before the Soviet collapse (Gaidar 2007) and lasted until the crisis and devaluation of the ruble in 1998 (Åslund 2007). At the same time, Russia was able to restore its control over Chechnya after victory in the Second Chechen War, and this was widely considered significant revenge after heavy losses in the First Chechen War (1994–​6). All these factors not only boosted Putin’s popularity but also gave him free rein in terms of strategy for the presidency. This strategy implies a priority of economic growth and strengthening of the state. At the very beginning of the presidency, Putin launched a federal reform aimed at building a formal and informal hierarchy based on the subordination of regions and municipalities vis-​à-​vis the federal centre and a top-​down chain of command in the state agencies (known as “the power vertical”). It was a sharp contrast with the chaotic decentralisation and arbitrary rule in many sub-​ national units in the 1990s (Reddaway and Orttung 2004–​5). Recentralisation of the Russian state broke barriers to business development. Simultaneously, the new Russian government initiated a large-​scale programme of economic reforms, including tax reform (Appel 2011), privatisation of agricultural land (Leonard 2011), and other changes aimed at the stimulation of growth and development. Although the programme was not fully implemented (Gel’man and Starodubtsev 2016), it contributed to Russia’s post-​transition recovery amid increasing oil prices in the global markets in the 2000s. The conservative macroeconomic policy and the use of the Stabilisation Fund to preserve extra revenues from oil exports (Zaostrovtsev 2010) were instrumental in Russia coping with the 2008–​9 global economic crisis (Robinson 2011). The average 7 percent economic growth rate of Russia between 1999 and 2008 greatly contributed to the high level of mass support for Putin’s leadership (Treisman 2011). Meanwhile, the Kremlin took a number of steps towards diminishing the political autonomy of all actors, who were forced to either be subordinated within the framework of the “power vertical” or be marginalised, if not eliminated. During the 2000s, Russia’s parliament became fully controlled by the Kremlin: the Federation Council was no longer popularly elected and lost any political influence, while the major pro-​Putin party, United Russia, took firm control 24

25

The Putin era

of the State Duma and has kept a strong majority of seats there to this day. Regional chief executives (governors) lost some leverage of power and became submissive to the Kremlin, especially after 2004, when popular gubernatorial elections were cancelled and the hierarchy of the “power vertical” established (Goode 2011). Furthermore, electoral legislation and regulations on party politics were amended in order to keep elections in Russia under the rigid control of the Kremlin: in 2001, there were forty-​six political parties registered in Russia, while by 2011 their number had decreased to seven. Business actors, who had played an enormous role in Russian politics and policy-​making in the 1990s, were integrated into a newly established framework of state corporatism (Yakovlev 2006), and some oligarchs lost their influence and/​ or assets, if not their freedom, as in Mikhail Khodorkovsky’s case (Sakwa 2014). Major media outlets, including nationwide TV channels, were integrated into Kremlin-​controlled holdings (Oates 2007), and numerous NGOs were co-​opted by the Kremlin. Thus, during the first two terms of Putin’s presidency, the political and institutional framework of Russia’s electoral authoritarian regime was established and developed. In the international arena, the Putin era started with wholehearted support for the United States after the 9/​11 terrorist attack and attempts at cooperation with NATO. But as Russia did not receive immediate benefits from its pro-​Western foreign policy, growing disillusionment among elites (Sokolov et al 2018) drove the country in the opposite direction, especially in the wake of the “colour revolutions”, which were widely perceived as an anti-​Russian conspiracy arranged by the US and the EU. In 2007, speaking at an international security conference in Munich, Putin openly denied cooperation with the West and insisted on Russia’s exclusive control over its “sphere of influence”. After that, the rapprochement was over, paving the way for a series of international conflicts. Overall, the period of the 2000s was marked by Russia’s recovery and rapid development after a decade of stagnation and by the conscious and consistent building of authoritarian institutions and the shift to anti-​Western stances. These contradictory tendencies played an important role in further changes in the 2010s.

2011–​2014: The perilous path In 2008 Putin stepped down as president after the expiration of his two consecutive terms in office and transferred this job to his chosen successor, Dmitry Medvedev, keeping the post of prime minister. During Medvedev’s presidency, Russia experienced the serious impact of the 2008–​9 global economic crisis, but the Kremlin’s overall strategy was aimed at major economic and technological advance for the sake of rapid growth and development (Medvedev 2009). This strategy, labelled “modernisation”, included the renewal of cooperation with the US and many declarations of the openness and transparency of the Russian state, though political democratisation was considered a taboo and the Kremlin’s approach to “modernisation” was primarily technocratic (Gel’man 2022). In the end, “modernisation”, instead of becoming a strategic direction for the country (Kivinen and Humphreys 2021), turned into a short-​lived campaign that resulted in few real policy changes –​some of which either failed (Taylor 2014) or brought only minor and temporary results all but forgotten by the end of Medvedev’s presidency. Still, even the minor and shallow liberalisation during these years greatly contributed to the further rise of political activism. In September 2011, at the beginning of the campaign for the State Duma elections, Putin and Medvedev announced a job exchange: Putin planned his return to the presidency in 2012, while Medvedev agreed to take the post of prime minister, then held by Putin. They openly disclosed that such a solution had been arranged even before the start of Medvedev’s 25

26

Vladimir Gel’man

presidency. Such a move was widely considered a scam. Against the background of unfair campaigns and accusations of large-​scale electoral fraud (Enikolopov et al 2013), it became a trigger for major protests after the election. Although the Kremlin was able to counter protest activism and keep the presidential election in March 2012 under its firm control (Smyth 2020), the wave of anti-​Putin protests became a major challenge for Russian authoritarianism. On the one hand, the Kremlin was forced to implement a shallow liberalisation (for example, restoring popular elections of regional governors, yet introducing serious restrictions on political competitiveness). On the other hand, a tightening of the screws in domestic politics included the adoption of a number of repressive laws (such as the labelling of many NGOs “foreign agents”) (Flikke 2016), increasing pressure on independent media, and the criminal prosecution of some opposition activists. At the same time, Russia’s economic growth became more sluggish, and “modernisation” was replaced by large-​scale but hardly effective national development projects, which could not serve as major drivers for the country’s development (Rogov 2021). Meanwhile, in 2013 Russia exerted great pressure on Ukraine, which intended to sign an association agreement with the EU, a move considered by the Kremlin to imply grave harm to Russia’s foreign policy interests and an encroachment on its exclusive “sphere of influence”. In response to this pressure, the Ukrainian president, Viktor Yanukovych, withdrew from negotiations with the EU. This U-​turn prompted intense mass protests in Ukraine. After three months of confrontation and unsuccessful attempts to use violence against protesters, in February 2014 Yanukovych fled Ukraine and later moved to Russia. Such an overthrow of the president by mass protests (endorsed by both the EU and the US and described in Ukraine as a “revolution of dignity”) met with a furious reaction by the Kremlin and was perceived as a major threat to Russia’s leadership. The response was very tough: some days after the “revolution of dignity”, Russian proxy troops took control of Crimea (the location of bases belonging to the Russian Black Sea Fleet, according to an agreement extended by Yanukovych) and proclaimed its separation from Ukraine. Soon after that, a popular plebiscite in Crimea enthusiastically approved the merger of this area with Russia, and in March 2014 two new regions (the Republic of Crimea and the city of Sevastopol) were formally annexed by Russia. At the same time, Russian proxies attacked the regions of Eastern Ukraine: they attempted to take over local administrations and proclaim independence from Ukraine (these areas are considered in Russia to be “Novorossiya”, territory which should be treated as Russia’s protectorate [Laruelle 2016]). In two regions, Donetsk and Luhansk, these attempts achieved success, and two self-​ proclaimed republics, backed by Russia, were established in May 2014. The Ukrainian government resisted the separatists, and violent clashes soon turned into a full-​scale war, which stopped only after the signing of a series of ceasefire agreements in Minsk under the mediation of Germany and France. Russian soldiers and officers were involved in this war on the side of the separatists, although the Kremlin officially denied any involvement by Russia. Russia’s major shift to an aggressive and expansionist foreign policy was driven by Putin. He personally made the decision about the annexation of Crimea and continues to be behind Russia’s operations in Eastern Ukraine. Such a shift had a dramatic impact on Russia’s further trajectory. In essence, Putin sacrificed the country’s prospects for growth and development for the sake of the Kremlin’s geopolitical ambitions. According to some sources, the only economic question of concern to Putin before the annexation of Crimea was the amount of Russia’s currency reserves, i.e. whether it would be enough to survive Western sanctions (Aleksashenko 2018). Indeed, in 2014 Russia lost its status as a member of the G8 club of global democracies (soon changed to G7), and the EU and the US imposed individual sanctions against top Russian officials and later expanded them further. As a response, Russia’s authorities 26

27

The Putin era

imposed counter-​sanctions on food imports from the EU and the US, thus further aggravating its problems. It is no wonder that Russia’s economic growth remains sluggish, and the real incomes of Russians have gradually declined over time and never returned to their 2013 levels despite the Central Bank’s prudent macroeconomic policy (Johnson 2016). Since then, the great confrontation between Russia and the West has been aggravated further without any hope of improvement during the Putin era. At the same time, after 2014 the Kremlin increased the “tightening of the screws” in domestic politics and pursued more harsh and systematic repression against any forms of dissent (Rogov 2018). The conspicuous killing of Boris Nemtsov, one of the leaders of the Russian opposition, near the Kremlin in February 2015 was the most visible episode within these dynamics. After the annexation of Crimea, Putin’s domestic approval rate skyrocketed and remained very high until 2018 (when the retirement age of Russian citizens was abruptly raised by five years). It comes as no surprise that the Kremlin was given free rein by many Russians and easily won the 2016 State Duma and 2018 presidential elections without major protests, despite large-​ scale fraud. The propagandist efforts praising Russia’s greatness amid the international conflict proved to be successful. The choices made by the Kremlin at the critical junctures of the 2010s became irreversible: Russia was derailed from the path of development and international integration and opted for a road heading towards stagnation and isolationism. Since that time, any hopes of democratisation in Russia have been buried, and the electoral authoritarian regime in Russia consolidated. Russia took the perilous path to political decay (Fukuyama 2014), which the country looks to continue on over the next decade.

2020 and after: The autumn of the patriarch At first glance, by early 2020 the Putin era had reached its peak. No immediate challenges to the Kremlin’s full-​fledged dominance could be observed in domestic politics, and internationally Russia seemed to be impregnable despite growing tensions with the West. However, by 2024 Putin’s fourth term in office should have expired, and he faced the problem of the term limits imposed by the 1993 Russian Constitution. As Putin was not willing to give up power voluntarily, he needed to find a solution that would enable him to continue his rule beyond 2024. Repeating the trick of choosing a loyal successor (similar to Medvedev in 2008–​12) was risky, especially given the fact that the presidential term in Russia was extended to six years in 2012 instead of the previous four years. Some attempts at revitalising the project of a “Union State” between Russia and Belarus (with the plan of remaking Putin as a supranational leader) brought no results, as Belarus’s long-​serving ruler Aleksandr Lukashenka has no incentives to agree to such a mechanism without getting major benefits. In the end, the Kremlin opted for the most straightforward solution, typical for many autocracies across the globe (Baturo and Elgie 2019). In March 2020, a constitutional amendment on “zeroing out” previous presidential terms for the sitting president (i.e. Putin) was enthusiastically approved by the Russian legislature and proposed for a nationwide plebiscite. In practical terms, this constitutional change gave Putin an excellent opportunity to hold on to presidential power until 2036. Before the plebiscite, top Russian officials made no secret of the fact that the primary goal of approving these constitutional amendments was the preservation of Putin’s rule as long as possible and at any cost, aiming at the institutionalisation of the personalist regime (Burkhardt 2021). As Putin’s press secretary openly stated, there was a need to “cement” Russia for an indefinitely long period in order to protect it from any challenges. The state machinery of vote delivery (Reuter and Robertson 2012; Forrat 2018), which had previously demonstrated its efficiency, 27

28

Vladimir Gel’man

was mobilised once again, and it is no wonder that the constitutional amendments were officially approved in July 2020 by popular vote amid accusations of large-​scale fraud. After Putin’s first presidential term, Russia demonstrated a continuous decline in the quality of governance in many dimensions, such as the rule of law, control of corruption, and regulatory quality (Gel’man 2022). This decline, aggravated by the arbitrary use of the powers of law enforcement agencies (Paneyakh 2014), made Russia vulnerable to exogenous shocks. This is exactly what happened with the onset of the global COVID-​19 pandemic in 2020–​21. During this time, Russia demonstrated the worst performance among developed nations in terms of excess mortality, which, according to some expert estimations, exceeded 500,000 lives for the period from March 2020 to March 2021 (Raksha 2021). Apart from the poor state of public health facilities in many of Russia’s regions, bad governance also contributed to such a tragic outcome. State officials within the hierarchy of the “power vertical” systematically distorted information about the number of infected people and COVID-​19 fatalities. The government refused to impose lockdowns even when the spread of infection was very high. State support for businesses and ordinary people during the pandemic was very limited and driven mostly by political considerations (such as buying the loyalty of voters before the constitutional plebiscite) rather than by economic and/​or societal needs. Even though Russia quickly developed its own vaccine, Sputnik V, the level of vaccination of Russian citizens remains very low, while the authorities have paid less attention to protecting Russians against new waves of the pandemic. Rather, the Kremlin has used Sputnik V as a tool of “vaccine diplomacy” for increasing Russia’s international influence. Even though Russia paid an overly high price for combatting the pandemic, this exogenous shock did not challenge the political status quo. The main domestic challenges at this time came from the political front. The opposition, led by Aleksei Navalny, achieved nationwide recognition due to numerous investigations and the disclosure of corrupt activities by the authorities (Dollbaum et al 2021). Navalny successfully built a network of regional supporters but was legally prohibited from running in any elections. However, he proposed an alternative solution –​“smart voting”: a strategy of tactical voting for the strongest competitors of the United Russia candidates, regardless of the party they represented. Such a strategy proved successful during the 2020 sub-​national elections, adding about 5 percent of votes for the candidates endorsed by “smart voting” (Turchenko and Golosov 2021). The Kremlin, in turn, harshly countered Navalny: in August 2020, while returning to Moscow from a Siberian election campaign trip, he was poisoned by the nerve agent known as “Novichok”. Navalny barely survived and was later relocated to Berlin for rehabilitation only due to the personal involvement of German Chancellor Angela Merkel. After his recovery, Navalny and a group of investigative journalists revealed the fact that his poisoning had been arranged and conducted by a special team of FSB agents. In early 2021, Navalny returned to Russia: he was immediately arrested at the airport and jailed. Navalny’s imprisonment and sentencing caused mass protests across the country, which were harshly suppressed by law enforcement agencies (Dollbaum et al 2021). Soon after, Russian legislation toughened to a great degree, Navalny’s network was forcibly disbanded under accusations of “extremism”, and a number of activists and supporters were repressed and/​or fled Russia. The “tightening of the screws” continued on its unstoppable way. This background determined the conduct of the 2021 State Duma election. The Kremlin faced declining support for United Russia and the threat of “smart voting” against its candidates. Apart from the “filtering” of undesirable candidates (Szakonyi 2021) and reliance upon techniques involving the workplace mobilisation of highly controlled voters (Frye et al 2014) and electoral fraud, the Kremlin also used online voting as a tool to commit fraud. This new technology enabled the Kremlin to achieve its desired numbers (especially in single-​member 28

29

The Putin era

districts) due to the lack of electoral observation and free rein in the means used to deliver intended voting results. In the end, United Russia gained 324 out of 450 seats, and this victory seemingly paved the way for the 2024 presidential election, where the use of online voting was aimed at making future electoral results controllable irrespective of the political preferences of Russian voters. Although implementing the Kremlin’s intention to preserve Putin’s dominance has increasingly relied upon fear of repressions and the expansion of powers of law enforcement agencies, these tools and incentives are hardly productive for the country’s economic growth and development and rather contribute to its further decay and degradation. Many experts consider this situation to be a stagnation trap (Rogov 2021), which cannot be overcome under the current political regime. Its continuity, unfortunately, is highly likely under current circumstances. By early 2022, the ageing of Putin and his entourage was perceived as the main challenge to his long-​term dominance amid increasing isolationism and confrontation with the West. From what we know about personalist authoritarianism in comparative perspective, such a continuity may result in the further aggravation of Russia’s problems over time (Geddes et al 2018; Kendall-​Taylor and Franz 2016). This basically means that the Putin era could turn into a living illustration of The Autumn of the Patriarch, a 1975 novel by Gabriel García Márquez in which the main character, a Latin American dictator, was able to stay in power for a hundred years, subjected his country to complete devastation, sold its resources to foreigners, and then passed away. To what extent such a projection may be true for Russia remains to be seen.

Towards a post-​Putin era? A critical outlook For almost a quarter century of the Putin era, Russia demonstrated a trajectory to some extent typical of many autocracies across the globe. Coming to power after a decade of economic recession and major legal and political turmoil, Putin was initially able to re-​establish order and relaunch the economy. This is why his first two presidential terms in the 2000s were praised by some international observers (Sakwa 2008), and authoritarian tendencies in Russia were widely perceived as an inevitable yet temporary “reverse wave” after a turbulent period of imperfect democratisation in the 1990s. However, over time the creeping authoritarianism became a major impediment to the socio-​economic development of Russia. This conflict was resolved in the 2010s in favour of the interests of ruling groups, who aimed to preserve power at the expense of the country’s future and intended to maintain “stability”, which led to Russia’s stagnation, as the cornerstone of Russia’s political and economic order. By the 2020s, the endless continuity of the Putin era became the primary goal of Russia’s rulers, regardless of policy outcomes and the country’s performance. In many ways, the Putin era has gone in the directions outlined by Bruce Bueno de Mesquita and Alastair Smith in their The Dictator’s Handbook (2011), with Putin acting as a role model for many contemporary autocrats, ranging from Erdoğan in Turkey to Lukashenka in Belarus. What was different in Russia under Putin is related not to the domestic but to the international arena (Frye 2021). During the Putin era, Russia demonstrated increasing international ambitions, which were driven by the pursuit of revenge for Russia’s loss in the Cold War. The resentment after the Soviet collapse (according to Putin, “the greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the twentieth century”) and the high status-​seeking aspirations of Russian elites (Sokolov et al 2018; Rivera 2020) met with a cold reception in the West. Although present-​ day Russia cannot be compared with the Soviet Union in many ways, restoring the status of a great power and attempts to become a major international veto player in various parts of the world prompted Russia’s drift towards major confrontation with the US, the EU, and 29

30

Vladimir Gel’man

some of its post-​Soviet neighbours, especially after the 2014 annexation of Crimea. These developments greatly contributed to the fourth and (so far) final critical juncture of the Putin era –​Russia’s military aggression towards Ukraine launched in February 2022. This ongoing violent intervention has caused much human loss and major devastation, and its pernicious consequences will have a long-​lasting negative effect on Russia, including major international sanctions, a deep and protracted economic recession, and increasing transformation into a “besieged fortress” vis-​à-​vis the hostile outside world. Needless to say, this trajectory, loudly endorsed by Putin, is heavily counter-​productive for Russia’s development in the globalising world of the twenty-​first century, let alone increasing international security threats and risks of a third world war. It is difficult to predict when and in what way the Putin era will end, and therefore its results for Russia and for the entire world are as yet unknown. However, from the perspective of the early 2020s, one might consider the Putin era as a time of missed opportunities and dashed hopes for Russia. A ruler who wanted too much power, status, might, and money for himself and his entourage delivered too little to his country in terms of prosperity, equality, and liberty. The Putin era, which started with the promising potential to become a major success story for Russia, became a major road to disillusionment and unfulfilled promises. A post-​Putin era –​ whenever it will occur –​will inevitably have to deal with the highly problematic domestic and international legacy left by its predecessor. The longer Putin stays in power, the gloomier this legacy may become.

Note 1 The brief period of Dmitry Medvedev’s presidency (2008–​2012) is considered part of the Putin era, as Putin, serving as prime minister of Russia at that time, was actually a major powerholder.

References Aleksashenko, S. (2018), Putin’s Counterrevolution (Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press). Appel, H. (2011), Tax Politics in Eastern Europe: Globalization, Regional Integration, and the Democratic Compromise (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press). Åslund, A. (2007), Russia’s Capitalist Revolution: Why Market Reforms Succeeded and Democracy Failed (Washington, DC: Peterson Institute for International Economics). Åslund, A. (2019), Russia’s Crony Capitalism: The Path from Market Economy to Kleptocracy (New Haven: Yale University Press). Baturo, A. and R. Elgie (eds.) (2019), The Politics of Presidential Term Limits (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Bueno de Mesquita, B. and A. Smith (2011), The Dictator’s Handbook: Why Bad Behavior is Almost Always Good Politics (New York: Public Affairs). Burkhardt, F. (2021), “Institutionalizing Personalism: The Russian Presidency after Constitutional Changes”, Russian Politics 6, 1: 50–​70. Capoccia, G. and R.D. Kelemen (2007), “The Study of Critical Junctures: Theory, Narrative, and Counterfactuals in Historical Institutionalism”, World Politics 59, 3: 431–​59. Dollbaum, J.M., M. Lallouet and B. Noble (2021), Navalny: Putin’s Nemesis, Russia’s Future? (London: Hurst & Company). Enikolopov, R., V. Korovkin, M. Petrova, K. Sonin and A. Zakharov (2013), “Field Experiment Estimate of Electoral Fraud in Russian Parliamentary Elections”, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 110, 2: 448–​52. Fish, M.S. (2005), Democracy Derailed in Russia: The Failure of Open Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Flikke, G. (2016), “Resurgent Authoritarianism: The Case of Russia’s New NGO legislation”, Post-​Soviet Affairs, 32, 2: 103–​31.

30

31

The Putin era Forrat, N. (2018), “Shock-​Resistant Authoritarianism: Schoolteachers and Infrastructural State Capacity in Putin’s Russia”, Comparative Politics 50, 3: 417–​49. Frye, T. (2021), Weak Strongman: The Limits of Power in Putin’s Russia (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Frye, T., O.J. Reuter and D. Szakonyi (2014), “Political Machines at Work: Voter Mobilization and Electoral Subversion in the Workplace”, World Politics 66, 2: 195–​228. Fukuyama, F. (2014), Political Order and Political Decay: From the Industrial Revolution to the Globalization of Democracy (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux). Gaidar, Y. (2007), Collapse of an Empire: Lessons for Modern Russia (Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press). Geddes, B., J. Wright and E. Franz (2018), How Dictatorships Work (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Gel’man, V. (2015), Authoritarian Russia: Analyzing Post-​Soviet Regime Changes (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press). Gel’man, V. (ed.) (2016), Authoritarian Modernization in Russia: Ideas, Institutions, and Policies (Abingdon: Routledge). Gel’man, V. (2022), The Politics of Bad Governance in Contemporary Russia (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press). Gel’man, V. and A. Starodubtsev (2016), “Opportunities and Constraints of Authoritarian Modernization: Russian Policy Reforms of the 2000s”, Europe-​Asia Studies 68, 1: 97–​117. Goode, J.P. (2011), The Decline of Regionalism in Putin’s Russia: Boundary Issues (Abingdon: Routledge). Huntington, S. (1991), The Third Wave: Democratization in the Late Twentieth Century (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press). Johnson, J. (2016), Priests of Prosperity: How Central Bankers Transformed the Postcommunist World (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Kendall-​Taylor, A. and E. Frantz (2016), “When Dictators Die”, Journal of Democracy 27, 4: 159–​71. Kivinen, M. and B. Humphreys (eds.) (2021), Russian Modernization: A New Paradigm (Abingdon: Routledge). Laruelle, M. (2016), “The Three Colors of Novorossiya, or the Russian Nationalist Mythmaking of the Ukrainian Crisis”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 32, 1: 55–​74. Leonard, C.S. (2011), Agrarian Reform in Russia: The Road from Serfdom (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Mau, V. and I. Starodubrovskaya (2001), The Challenge of Revolution: Contemporary Russia in Historical Perspective (Oxford: Oxford University Press). McFaul, M. (2001), Russia’s Unfinished Revolution: Political Change from Gorbachev to Putin (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Medvedev, D. (2009), “Go, Russia!” kremlin.ru, 10 September 2009, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ ent/​news/​5413 (accessed 14 December 2021). Oates, S. (2007), “The Neo-​Soviet Model of the Media”, Europe-​Asia Studies 59, 8: 1279–​97. Paneyakh, E. (2014), “Faking Performances Together: Systems of Performance Evaluation in Russian Enforcement Agencies and Production of Bias and Privilege”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 30, 2-​3: 115–​36. Raksha, A. (2021), “Kovid i drugie faktory vlyaniya na demografiyu”, Ekho Moskvy, 7 April 2021, https://​ echo.msk.ru/​progr​ams/​fig​ure/​2817​476-​echo/​ (accessed 14 December 2021). Reddaway, P. and R. Orttung (eds.) (2004–​5), The Dynamics of Russian Politics: Putin’s Reform of Federal-​ Regional Relations, 2 vols. (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield). Reuter, O.J. and G. Robertson (2012), “Subnational Appointments in Authoritarian Regimes: Evidence from Russian Gubernatorial Appointments”, Journal of Politics 74, 4: 1023–​37. Rivera, S.W. (ed.) (2020), Survey of Russian Elites 2020: New Perspectives of Domestic and Foreign Policy (Clinton, NY: Hamilton College), https://​news​ite.hamil​ton.edu/​docume​nts/​SRE​2020​Repo​rtFI​ NAL.pdf (accessed 14 December 2021). Robinson, N. (2011), “Russian Patrimonial Capitalism and the International Financial Crisis”, Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics 27, 3-​4: 434–​55. Rogov, K. (2018), “The Art of Coercion: Repressions and Repressiveness in Putin’s Russia”, Russian Politics 3, 2: 151–​74. Rogov, K. (ed.). (2021), Zastoi-​2: posledstviya, riski i al’ternativy dlya rossiiskoi ekonomiki (Moscow: Liberal’naya Missiya), https://​libe​ral.ru/​eks​pert​iza/​zas​toj-​2-​posle​dstv​iya-​r iski-​i-​alte​r nat​ivy-​dlya-​ros​sijs​koj-​ekonom​ iki (accessed 14 December 2021). Sakwa, R. (2008), “Putin’s Leadership: Character and Consequences”, Europe-​Asia Studies 60, 6: 879–​97.

31

32

Vladimir Gel’man Sakwa, R. (2014), Putin and the Oligarch: The Khodorkovsky-​Yukos Affair (London: I. B. Tauris). Shleifer, A. and D. Treisman (2000), Without a Map: Political Tactics and Economic Reform in Russia (Cambridge [MA]: MIT Press). Smyth, R. (2020), Elections, Protests, and Authoritarian Regime Stability: Russia 2008–​2020 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Sokolov, B., R.F. Inglehart, E. Ponarin, I. Vartanova and W. Zimmerman (2018), “Disillusionment and Anti-​Americanism in Russia: From Pro-​American to Anti-​American Attitudes”, International Studies Quarterly 62, 1: 534–​47. Stinchcombe, A. (1999), “Ending Revolution and Building New Governments”, Annual Review of Political Science, 2: 49–​73. Szakonyi, D. (2021), “Candidate Filtering: The Strategic Use of Electoral Manipulations in Russia”, British Journal of Political Science, 52, 2: 649–​70. Taylor, B. (2011), State Building in Putin’s Russia: Policing and Coercion after Communism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Taylor, B. (2014), “The Police Reform in Russia: Policy Process in a Hybrid Regime”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 30, 2-​3: 226–​55. Treisman, D. (2011), “Presidential Popularity in a Hybrid Regime: Russia under Yeltsin and Putin”, American Journal of Political Science 55, 3: 590–​609. Turchenko, M. and G. Golosov (2021), “Smart Enough to Make a Difference? An Empirical Test of the Efficacy of Strategic Voting in Russia’s Authoritarian Elections”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 37, 1: 65–​79. Volkov, V. (2002), Violent Entrepreneurs: The Role of Force in the Making of Russian Capitalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Yakovlev, A. (2006), “The Evolution of Business-​State Interactions in Russia: From State Capture to Business Capture?”, Europe-​Asia Studies 58, 7: 1033–​56. Zaostrovtsev, A. (2010), “Oil Boom and Government Finance in Russia: Stabilization Fund and Its Fate”, in V. Gel’man and O. Marganiya (eds.), Resource Curse and Post-​Soviet Eurasia: Oil, Gas, and Modernization (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books): 123–​47.

32

33

4 DEMOCRATISATION Richard Sakwa

Democracy is a system in which parties lose elections. … It is only when there are parties that lose and when losing is neither a social disgrace nor a crime that democracy flourishes … Democracy is a system of processing conflicts in which outcomes depend on what participants do but no single force controls what occurs. … The decisive step toward democracy is the devolution of power from a group of people to a set of rules. Przeworski 1991: 10, 12, 14 Samuel Huntington (1991) described the cycle of democratic revolutions launched as a result of the overthrow of the authoritarian regime in Portugal in 1974 as the “third wave”. Soon after, the systems in Greece and Spain were transformed, followed by transitions in Asia and Latin America. This prompted a renewed interest in problems of democratisation, reinforced by the dramatic fall of the East European and Soviet state socialist systems between 1989 and 1991. The fall of communism encouraged political scientists to look again at the theoretical literature on democratisation and to compare the process in the post-​communist world with earlier transitions in Latin America and Southern Europe (Linz and Stepan 1996; Burnell 2006; Grugel 2006). The insights garnered in the study of the democratisation process elsewhere provided a theoretical framework to study the problem of the reconstitution of central political authority on principles of popular sovereignty, democratic accountability and liberal freedoms in the post-​communist world (Haerpfer et al 2009). This was accompanied by important theoretical debates over whether the post-​communist transitions could be categorised simply as part of the earlier “third wave”, or whether they represented a distinct “fourth wave” category of their own (von Beyme 1996; Doorenspleet 2005). This debate became all the sharper as the challenge of democratisation became more urgent across the Middle East and North Africa, in particular once the “fifth wave” Arab Spring began in early 2011.

Problems of third wave thinking The fundamental fact is that, with the partial exception of those countries that joined the European Union, these various waves have in one way or another been reversed, sometimes dramatically. The problem, it appeared, was no longer comparative democratisation but comparative authoritarianism. This brought back into focus the earlier literature on the decay of DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-5

33

34

Richard Sakwa

authoritarian regimes and the processes of change to new political orders. The early classic works on democratisation retain important insights on processes of comparative regime change (O’Donnell et al 1986). Even earlier it was questioned whether the “third wave” literature had much to offer when post-​communist political change was accompanied by profound economic transformation, state and nation building and societal reconstruction (Bunce 1995, 2003). These were “total transitions”, encompassing every aspect of social life. One factor that certainly did not gain adequate attention was the geopolitical aspect and the way that democratic change became bound up with a post-​Cold War struggle to extend power and influence in regions that had earlier been within the Soviet orbit. This culminated in Russia’s deadly invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. The early works on post-​communist transition were strongly ideological and prescriptive, and at the same time imbued with an ethos of capitalist triumphalism (for an exception, see Bryant and Mokrzycki 1994). These works may well have grasped the demands of the early stage of transformation, but it is less clear whether they are of great value, as the post-​communist region became increasingly diverse, regime trajectories ever more complicated and the international system less unipolar. At their base was a certain teleological element, the view that the end point was known and achievable, and all that needed to be done was to find the adequate technical mechanisms to achieve the desired goal (Sakwa 2012, 2013). Democratisation thus assumed a rather technocratic hue, rather than reflecting the struggle of social forces and political agents. Three vectors of questions remain current in the study of comparative democratisation: first and above all, the factors that allowed some transitions to result in consolidated democracies and why others failed to establish robust constitutionalism and the rule of law; second, the role of international factors in shaping transitions, including globalisation and geopolitical contestation; and third, the role of legacies in the post-​communist era. Globalisation assumed that, with the intensification of economic interdependence and the shrinking of space through the communications revolution, certain universal principles of modernity and representative government would triumph everywhere. Native traditions and local specificities were thereby discounted. The advanced modernity associated with globalisation certainly made the communist systems appear anachronistic and unable to deliver the fruits of modernisation, but the contradictions and insecurities associated with neoliberal market modernisation led many to re-​evaluate the achievements of the past. In Russia this re-​evaluation took particularly sharp forms as the geopolitical implications of democratisation struck home in conditions where it appeared to have “no place” in the new European security architecture (Hill 2018). As for the role of legacies, this encompasses conflicting representations of the achievements and failures of the Soviet era but also goes deeper to encompass political culture, historical patterns of adaptation and traditional orientations to power and authority. As the early transitions literature put it, did Russia have a “usable” past on which a democratic future could be built? Democracy was an over-​determined ideological but an under-​determined political project in the early post-​communist period (Linz and Stepan 1996). In other words, in ideological terms it was assumed that with the “end of history” (Fukuyama 1989, 1992) there was no alternative to some form of liberal democracy. However, in political terms the focus on democratisation left out of account national political cultures, geostrategic concerns, geoeconomic dependencies and proximity to zones of advanced capitalist democratic development (above all the EU). Just as Robert Dahl (1971) preferred to use the term “polyarchy” to “democracy”, so, too, the use today of the notion of “good governance” in preference to “democracy” is an implicit recognition of the danger of collapsing levels of analysis and imposing models of society devised for one area on another with different political traditions and civilisational concerns. 34

35

Democratisation

Tailored questions of political order, constitutionalism, state building, social structuration and social justice must play their part in any discussion of democratisation. Russia is a particularly stark example of the dangers of imposing preconceived ideas on a complex social reality. It was already clear in the 1990s that the country’s destiny would be shaped by the unpredictable interaction of the three processes outlined above –​the conditions required for successful democratisation, the international context and the role of the past. Russia found itself in profound economic and political crisis for most of the decade. However, once Vladimir Putin consolidated his power after 2000, a new dynamic of state restoration and regime consolidation was at work. Democracy was just one value among others, including the reassertion of Russia’s great power status, the maintenance of the territorial integrity of the state through the defeat of attempts at secession in the North Caucasus and, above all, the imposition of a regime-​centred form of stability and the management of political processes in domestic affairs. In the end, security concerns came to predominate and, as the struggle with the West over Ukraine intensified from 2014, economic development was subordinated to the accumulation of resources to wage the geopolitical struggle. The regime moved from soft to hard authoritarianism. Elements of this were present elsewhere in “third wave” democratisation processes, although in different combinations. This explains why the comparative democratisation literature is so rich in terms to explain the character of the hybrid, if not outright, authoritarian systems that in the end emerged. The idea of a predetermined “transition” to democracy was refuted on the ground. To capture the resulting reality a proliferation of terms were devised, each offering a specific angle on why democracy failed to take hold in the anticipated manner. The complex reality put paid to any simplistic deterministic interpretations of the field of comparative democratisation. The degree to which Russia is a “delegative democracy” (O’Donnell 1994), an example of “electoral authoritarianism” (Schedler 2006), a “competitive authoritarian” system (Levitsky and Way 2010), a “dual state” (Sakwa 2010, 2011), a classic case of “patronal politics” (Hale 2015) or some other kind of authoritarian system remains a matter of considerable dispute.

Approaches to democratisation The concept of transition raises the question of the degree to which a society can create the conditions for democracy during the transition itself. In the post-​communist states, democracy had to create the conditions for its own existence. The temptation was to achieve this giant boot-​strapping operation in a less than democratic manner –​a classic case of a contradiction between ends and means (Gill 2015, 2016). Russia’s transformation has been described as the Bolshevik revolution in reverse (Reddaway and Glinski 2001). A monolithic society was converted into a pluralistic one, its economy was reoriented towards the market, a new sense of republican nationhood was born and the country joined the international community as an independent actor. However, there was no straightforward “transition” to democracy. While the aspirations of the democratic revolution of 1991 remain, embedded above all in the first two chapters of the 1993 constitution, the traumatic 1990s were followed by an authoritarian regime consolidation that undermined the democratism of the institutions of the constitutional state (competitive elections, a dynamic party system, an independent parliament and much else). Scholars have accumulated a wealth of experience, much of it hard and painful, about the problems of transition. The reform process itself generated new phenomena that raised questions about the received wisdom of the political sciences and economics. Standard accounts of the transitions from authoritarianism to democracy focus on five clusters of factors. 35

36

Richard Sakwa

Preconditions One school has focused on the preconditions necessary for the emergence of a stable democracy. The approach examines the dynamics of social and economic change, processes that can be summed up as modernisation (and the obstacles to it), however ambivalent and questionable that term may have become. In numerous studies, Seymour Martin Lipset (1959, 1963, 1993) analysed the relationship between the level of economic development and the emergence of democracy, concluding that there remains a positive (but not deterministic) correlation. In a later examination of the issue he made a point of direct relevance to the Russian experience: “In many countries during the 1980s and early 1990s, political democratisation occurred at the same time as a profound economic crisis” (Lipset 1994: 1). Long before the fall of communism, Zbigniew Brzezinski (1969: 30) observed that “the effort to maintain a doctrinaire dictatorship over an increasingly modern society has already contributed to a reopening of the gap that existed in pre-​revolutionary Russian society between the political system and the society, thereby posing the threat of the degeneration of the Soviet system; … transformation of the bureaucratic communist dictatorship into a more pluralistic political system –​even though a system of one-​party rule –​seems essential if its degeneration is to be averted.” Lucian Pye (1990) argued with no less conviction that authoritarian regimes were undermined by modernisation processes. This may well be the case, but as the experience of post-​communist democratisation demonstrates, relatively advanced modernisation does not necessarily result in democracy –​although of course it could only be a matter of time. The experience of Imperial and Weimar Germany demonstrates the non-​linear relationship between modernisation and democratisation. A crucial test is the impact of modernisation and wealth on the breakdown of communist systems and the process of democratisation. There are tremendous variations between former communist countries in terms of their size, number of population, levels of urbanisation, education of population, wealth of population (i.e. per capita income), possession of natural resources (gas, oil, ferrous and non-​ferrous metals, diamonds, etc), levels of industrialisation and degrees of privatised industry. Is it the case that the most modernised countries are the most democratic? The case of Mongolia, a relative success story in terms of democratisation, would suggest that other factors can come into play, such as in this case a long tradition of collective decision-​ making about herd management. The connection between modernisation and nationalism is also highly charged, as the wars in former Yugoslavia in the 1990s demonstrated. The relationship between wealth and democracy and the correlation between income per capita and levels of democracy remain contested, as does how these factors correlate with electoral behaviour. The work of Douglass North (1990) demonstrated that well-​endowed countries can suffer from poor governance, and that the institutional framework is as much a determinant of development as brute material factors. The argument is developed by Daron Acemoglu and James Robinson (2013), who argue that the quality of the human-​created political and economic institutions is the crucial determinant. The issue was taken up by Andrei Shleifer and Daniel Treisman (2004), who argued that Russia’s economic and political development is typical of a normal middle-​income country, not that of a gangster or criminal state, and thus akin to Brazil or Mexico and not Colombia (see also Shleifer 2005). In economic terms Russia was just another middle-​income country with high dependence on natural resources, like Argentina and Mexico, while in normative terms Russia’s faults were typical of a country at its level of development. This implied that much criticism of the country was ill-​conceived. Russia’s flawed democracy, they insisted, was perfectly normal for a country at its level of development. Sustained economic growth 36

37

Democratisation

would elevate Russia to the lower ranks of developed countries to stand alongside the likes of Poland and Hungary. While acting as a useful corrective to some exaggerated criticism of the Putin system, this application of classical comparative modernisation theory neglected the unique challenges facing Russia. This was the third time that Russia was trying to “become modern”, building on the experience of Tsarist Russia and the Soviet Union. Russia’s current “remodernisation” once again found itself caught in the cross-​currents of great power competition, a society that was stamped by the legacy of earlier modernisation projects and an elite that feared repeating earlier failures.

Cultural factors Lipset stressed the importance of behavioural patterns in democratisation, and this is the focus of the second approach. The relationship between cultural legacies (in the broadest sense, including political culture) and processes of political reconstitution has become the object of much analysis. Here the key methodology is opinion polling and other survey techniques that try to establish a relationship between attitudes and political (including electoral) outcomes. Robert Putnam (1993) famously argued that the key to the establishment of stable political institutions lies in civil society, and specifically in the presence of a “civic culture” in local communities. Drawing on the experience of Italy, he argued that to “make democracy work” required the appropriate cultural orientations to political responsibility and public accountability, and this came from historical experiences. A subset of broader cultural perspectives is the question of political culture. Political culture has been studied extensively at the macro level and there have also been some good local studies (for example, Petro 2004). The degree to which there is a single national political culture remains contested, given the great ethnic and political diversity across Russia’s eleven time zones. There is also the issue of the stratification of political culture. Alexander Lukin (2000), for example, argues that the liberal and democratic movements learnt how to use Western concepts and practices, but in effect assimilated them to the deeper authoritarian structures of Russian political culture. As for popular attitudes, much depends on how the question is framed. Numerous studies suggest that when it comes to support for democratic principles, such as the rule of law, competitive elections and an accountable government, the views of Russians differ little from those in more mature democracies (Carnaghan 2007; Hale 2011).

Endogenous transitions: Elites and political change A third school stresses the transition process itself. The argument is that the process of transition itself largely determines the success or failure of democratisation. Here “revolutions from above” are contrasted with “revolutions from below” (Hahn 2002; Hough 1997). The role of elites and elite unity are crucial, accompanied by settlements and pacts (Higley and Burton 1989; Burton et al 1992). This approach focuses on the period after the collapse of the old regime and the problems associated with the consolidation of democracy (Linz and Stepan 1996; O’Donnell 1996). In contrast to the first school, with its stress on socio-​economic and other structural preconditions, the second and third schools stress the independent role of individual actors and human agency and the ability of elites to “make democracy work”, even where objective pre-​conditions are unfavourable (Shin 1994). In other words, there is scope for human inventiveness and inventive leadership to shape a nation’s destiny. In the Russian context the role of elites and the former nomenklatura (the office-​holding elite) is crucial. There was enormous elite continuity. In the transition out of communism in 37

38

Richard Sakwa

1989–​91, Russia at most underwent a partial elite revolution, in which one section (the new Russian-​based group headed by Boris Yeltsin) ousted the incumbents (the reform-​minded Soviet group headed by Mikhail Gorbachev). The new Russian elites swiftly consolidated their independence from the social movements that swept them to power. Soviet institutions were renamed Russian ones, and although there was some reform of the security and other ministries, by and large business continued as usual. The partial revolution, without lustration and other mechanisms to destroy the old communist elites, allowed the old elites to reconsolidate their power. The merger of the old security apparatus, the partially reformed political elite and a new business class from this perspective turned Russia into a “kleptocracy” (Dawisha 2014; Belton 2020). Countries and regions where the nomenklatura maintained their hold on power became less democratic than where there has been a more radical “circulation of elites”, although even where a more radical break took place, later democratic backsliding was not precluded, as in Hungary and Poland. Russia’s incomplete revolution allowed a reconfigured traditional elite structure to remain in power –​the price to pay for the relatively bloodless and peaceful transcendence of the communist system.

Crafting democracy The fourth approach focuses on institutional design. March and Olson (1989) argue that political democracy depends not only on economic and social conditions but also on the design of political institutions. The approach in the contemporary literature is dominated by neo-​ institutionalist accounts of political crafting. Neo-​institutionalism took on board the “behavioural revolution” in the political science of the 1950s and 1960s, the view that institutions operate in a social context and only rarely work according to textbook prescriptions. The behavioural approach shifted the focus from institutions to processes. Neo-​institutionalism from the early 1980s sought to “bring the state back in”, combining analysis of institutional development and the insights of behavioural studies (Evans et al 1985). Legal-​state analysis and the study of constitutions was combined with examination of informal practices and the culture of power. The political science literature on neo-​institutionalism tries to identify which designs are most appropriate to a country or a region at a particular stage of economic development and how best to “craft democracy” (Di Palma 1990; Elster et al 1998; Lijphart and Waisman 1996). The importance of institutional factors hardly needs to be stressed. The following are particularly important: a) The choice of electoral system, with the central focus on the choice between majoritarian or proportional representation and the balance between the two (Lijphart 1984, 1994). The electoral system is the most defined instrument to shape politics, and thus decisions involving the electoral arrangements are the most important to be made in new democracies. In Russia, the new electoral system applied for the first time in the parliamentary elections of December 1993 sought to get the best of both worlds by devising a split system: half the State Duma’s 450 members were elected in single-​member constituencies in first-​past-​the-​post ballots, while the other 225 were elected from party lists in an attempt to allow the proportional representation (PR) system to kick-​start party formation. The country moved to complete proportional representation for the 2007 and 2011 elections before returning to a half/​half split for subsequent elections. b) The structure of assemblies; above all whether they will be unicameral or bicameral. The formation of the upper house remains problematic even in some mature democracies (Germany, 38

39

Democratisation

UK) and is still a matter of sharp contention in Russia. The upper house of Russia’s bicameral Federal Assembly, the Federation Council, has (like the US Senate) two representatives from each Russian region, irrespective of its size and population, although in Russia one represents the executive and one the legislative authorities. In Russia’s short history as an independent state there have been numerous changes in the way that “senators” have been selected, ranging from election and direct participation of the heads of the legislative and executive bodies to delegation of their representatives, and none has proved satisfactory. The 2020 constitutional amendments, moreover, added a 30-​strong quotient directly appointed by the president, while the president on retirement becomes a permanent member of the Federation Council –​giving them immunity from prosecution. c) The shaping of political parties and party systems. The development of strong parties and a stable party system is considered one of the essential features of a viable democracy (Sartori 1976; Ware 1996; Pridham and Lewis 1996). Russia has seen considerable change in this field, beginning with an early burst of “over-​partification”, with a plethora of groups fighting elections in the 1990s, followed by a considerable thinning of the field by Vladimir Putin’s reforms to party legislation in 2001, and by 2010 only seven registered parties remained. Reforms passed in 2012 once again made it relatively easy to register a new party (unless they are part of the irreconcilable opposition) and by 2021 Russia had some 70 registered parties. d) The choice of political system: presidential, semi-​presidential, parliamentary or some hybrid (Baylis 1996; Mainwaring 1993; Sartori 1997; Shugart and Carey 1992). There has been a wide-​ranging debate in recent years about the relative merits of parliamentary and presidential systems (Baylis 1996; Linz 1990, 1994; Lijphart 1992). The general consensus is that parliamentary systems are more flexible than presidential ones and more conducive to democratic outcomes. The counter-​argument in the Russian case is that, in a system where there are weak to non-​existent parties, a strong presidency provides leadership and a point of unity in a fragmented and conflict-​prone society (Nichols 2000). e) One of the most important institutional variables is the character of regional relations: federal or unitary. Russia inherited an ethno-​federal system from the USSR, and in a classic case of path dependency (where earlier institutional choices foreclose later options) Russia had no choice but to continue with this system. To have repudiated the Soviet legacy in this field would have entailed a genuine revolution with unpredictable consequences, including the possibility of the disintegration of the state –​just as the Soviet Union had split along ethno-​federal lines. Russia’s soft transition precisely repudiated revolutionary solutions. Thus Russia inherited 89 regions in 1991 grouped into three main types (ethno-​federal republics, autonomous regions of various sorts, and ordinary regions [oblasts], including today the major cities of Moscow and St Petersburg along with Sevastopol in Crimea). The result in institutional terms is asymmetrical federalism in what is now 85 regions (following the merger of certain smaller entities and the incorporation of the Republic of Crimea and Sevastopol in 2014). In the 1990s the weakness of the centre allowed this to become a form of segmented regionalism, where the constitutional rules and laws devised by the federal authorities were widely flouted in the regions. Putin’s recentralisation drive overcame segmentation but at the cost of onerous centralisation and uniformity. Russia remains a federation in institutional terms, but the spirit of federalism –​a genuine democratic form of multi-​level governance –​is lacking. In sum, institutional crafting is a key variable. Different types of political systems have a differential impact on the consolidation of democracy, although it is often hard to separate 39

40

Richard Sakwa

cause from effect. In other words, is Russia’s strongly presidential system the cause of democratic backsliding or is the creation of a strong presidency a sensible response to fragmentation and crisis? Equally, is Russia’s stunted party system a result of executive dominance or is a strong presidency necessary to protect Russia’s tenuous unity from populist social pressures? As for federalism, its institutions and operation are clearly fundamental to a country such as Russia, but its combination with ethno-​territorial representation in the 1990s threatened to make Russia a “multi-​state state”, in which segmented regionalism encouraged the formation of semi-​sovereign sub-​national state entities, a process that provoked a counter-​movement of recentralisation. Clearly the development of democracy requires a (relative) settling of questions of national identity and citizenship. It is of course much more difficult to build democracy where ethnic conflict is endemic or where separatist demands from one section of the society lead to war, as in Chechnya. Standard democratisation theory holds that democracy emerges as a way of regulating deeply held antagonisms and divergent political interests (Rustow 1970), but it takes a readiness for compromise and a willingness to share power to achieve this effect, otherwise violent or authoritarian solutions ensue.

Exogenous factors While the international dimension of democratisation has been well covered in the literature (Pridham and Vanhanen 1994; Whitehead 1996), the intersection of internal reconstitution and external re-​aggregation has not yet been the subject of much scholarly analysis. For most “third wave” democratising countries the fundamental problem has been integration into the existing world economic and political order, and the insertion of international norms into domestic politics, through “linkage” and other mechanisms. For Russia, and also for China (but in different ways), this dual integration has been fundamentally ambiguous. In Russia’s case, a pattern of dual and partial adaptation is at work. Russia looked to the norms and standards prevalent in the countries of advanced modernity; at the same time, it sought to root the adaptive process in native discourses and practices. This nativism is not simply an abstraction but reflects certain social and political realities to which the Russian leadership is sensitive. A system of “partial adaptation” emerged, appealing explicitly to Russian political culture while at the same time being shaped and constrained by earlier attempts at adaptation. The strategy of dual and partial adaptation is therefore a delicate balancing act torn by conflicting demands. The international context is crucially important in any discussion of post-​communist transformations. External factors, including a peaceful international environment and the impact of globalisation, are a powerful element in the development of post-​communist governance (Badie 2000). Most of contemporary democratisation theorising has been about the adaptation of transition states to the norms of the contemporary world order, defined as the hegemony of a set of Western-​centred universal principles. In particular, the reality and the discursive construction of the challenge of globalisation on the evolution of policy and international relationships is crucial. Nita Rudra (2005), for example, provides robust empirical evidence tracing the way that engagement with the global economy can break down entrenched elite structures and closed political systems, thus enhancing the pluralism that lies at the basis of democratic societies. However, there are cross-​cutting variables, and a state’s geopolitical position, together with its geoeconomic situation, is of vital importance. Countries situated closest to foreign and global markets clearly have an advantage over those isolated from major markets. Universal principles are one thing, but the pitfalls of transforming them into imperatives are another, and the latter process has evoked a cultural reaction to globalisation. As much of the

40

41

Democratisation

literature in the Islamic world stresses, Islam is not so much an obstacle to democratisation as a form of resistance to militant forms of Westernising modernisation, and this applies to Russia, too. In Eastern Europe the international dimension was relatively unproblematic, given the area’s geoeconomic proximity to the EU and its relative compatibility with the West. For countries aspiring to EU membership, accession was preceded by a radical reorientation of domestic arrangements to prepare for accession itself. The accession agenda gradually took priority over the transition agenda. The Copenhagen criteria adopted by the European Council meeting in June 1993 stressed the rule of law and stable democratic institutions, as well as respect for human rights and minority rights, as conditions for accession. Democratic conditionality became the core of the EU’s pre-​accession strategy, a principle that was given formal status in the Treaty of Amsterdam in 1997. The concept of “Europeanisation” became associated with democracy and good governance, although it was a notion whose credibility grew in proportion to distance from the Western European heartland. The European Neighbourhood Policy from 2002 strengthened the EU as an influential new source of “soft power”, transforming the dynamics of international politics in the region. Russia refused to consider itself just another “East European” state and thereafter turned itself into an alternative centre of integration and an alternative model of development. Until expelled in 2022, it remained a member of the Council of Europe, which it joined in 1996. National legislation increasingly reasserted the priority of the Russian constitution over international judgments, a principle enshrined in the 2020 constitutional amendments. When it comes to security matters Russia remains an outsider. Some pan-​European security agencies (such as the Organization for Security and Co-​operation in Europe [OSCE]) have extended their influence as far as Central Asia, while others (such as NATO) sought a viable relationship with former communist protagonists. Following its two enlargements, in March 1999 and March 2004, NATO nestled against the former Soviet Union, and in the Baltic it encompasses three former Soviet states. Russia remained resolutely excluded, helping provoke the security crisis that led to war in 2022. Security concerns pervaded political development, facilitating a turn to authoritarianism. While for all the other post-​communist countries the fall of communism was seen as the moment of liberation, in Russia sentiments were far more ambivalent (Cohen 2000, 2009). In most other post-​communist countries, democracy was aligned with national self-​affirmation, and international economic and political integration merged with democratic transformation along a single axis. In Russia there was no such mutual reinforcement. Instead, democracy was not integrated with other transformations, generating a sharply disjointed transition process. The experience of the chaotic transition to the market in the 1990s radically decorrelated social order from political democratisation. The myth of the “chaotic 1990s”, indeed, became the master-​narrative of the Putin years (Sharafutdinova 2020). This only reinforced its sense of grievance, precipitating outright conflict in 2022.

Conclusion Much of the post-​Soviet world appears trapped between an authoritarian past and an unclear future. Against this background Thomas Carothers (2002) announced “[t]‌he end of the transition paradigm”. In his view the early work on “transitology” in the 1980s was later adopted as a “universal paradigm” based on a number of assumptions: “that any country moving away from dictatorial rule can be considered a country in transition toward democracy” (p. 6); “that democratization tends to unfold in a set sequence of stages”, with an opening followed by a

41

42

Richard Sakwa

breakthrough, with consolidation coming along at the end of the process (p. 7); a belief in “the determinative importance of elections” (p. 7); that structural factors, such as level of economic development, institutional legacies, cultural traditions and the like will not be determining (p. 8); and, finally, that the transitions were taking place in viable states (p. 8). By no means all scholars of Russia made these assumptions, but Carothers’ analysis remains a powerful critique of simplistic applications of democratisation models. Carothers (2002: 9), moreover, notes that “[o]‌f the nearly 100 countries considered as ‘transitional’ in recent years, only a relatively small number –​probably fewer than 20 –​are clearly en route to becoming successful, well-​functioning democracies …” The other countries find themselves in what Carothers calls the “gray zone”. These are characterised by a number of syndromes, including “feckless pluralism”, notable above all in Latin America but not only there, where “the whole class of political elites, though plural and competitive, are profoundly cut off from the citizenry, rendering political life an ultimately hollow, unproductive exercise” (p. 11). Another syndrome is “dominant-​power politics”, where there is some formal contestation by political groups but a group –​“whether it is a movement, a party, an extended family, or a single leader –​dominates the system in such a way that there appears to be little prospect of alternation of power in the foreseeable future” (pp. 11–​12). He notes that in dominant-​power systems there is “the blurring of the line between the state and the ruling party (or ruling political forces)” (p. 11), a feature that is characteristic of Russian politics. Russia was at best a “defective democracy”, to use Merkel’s term (2004), until the more forthright turn towards authoritarianism in the 2020s. We can identify two approaches to democratisation in Russia, where the political system has entered the “gray zone”, if not worse. The first we can label as typological, where a concept is devised that tries to encompass the features of the hybrid political systems that have emerged in post-​Soviet Eurasia. This is a normative–​evaluative exercise in which a whole bestiary of terms has been devised to capture the hybrid nature of Russian reality, including “managed democracy”, “managed pluralism”, “liberal authoritarianism”, “semi-​authoritarianism”, “soft authoritarianism” and many more (Balzer 2003). Following the “orange revolution” in Ukraine in late 2004, the Kremlin advanced the term “sovereign democracy” to indicate that Russia would find its own path to democracy, and that democracy in the country would have Russian characteristics (Garadzha 2006). Typological approaches sometimes merge with teleological views, the argument that the transitions will tend towards a known end point. The main drawback of typological approaches is that they tend to become little more than exercises in taxonomy and mechanical box-​ticking, thus obscuring the rich dynamics of a country such as Russia. The second approach we can label as genealogical. Here the emphasis shifts from normative evaluations of the fundamental character of a regime to examining the factors that shape a particular system and how that system operates in a particular environment. This historical–​ structural approach helps frame a number of specific questions, in our case on the factors shaping the development of the Russian polity. It also gives due consideration to the role of leadership as an independent variable yet constrained by historical legacies and contextual factors. The genealogical approach also encourages a shift away from the discourse of transition and consolidation towards a greater emphasis on the “quality of democracy” (O’Donnell et al 2004). This entails a move away from a focus on institutions and regime types towards the quality of democratic citizenship, emphasising “republican” values of individual rights, equality before the law, free and fair elections and social and human rights. The challenge is not unique to Russia, although it is especially sharp there.

42

43

Democratisation

References Acemoglu, D. and J.A. Robinson (2013), Why Nations Fail? The Origins of Power, Prosperity, and Poverty (London: Profile Books). Badie, B. (2000), The Imported State: The Westernization of Political Order (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Balzer, H. (2003), “Managed Pluralism: Vladimir Putin’s Emerging Regime”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 19, 3: 189–​227. Baylis, T.A. (1996), “Presidents Versus Prime Ministers”, World Politics 48, 3: 297–​323. Belton, C. (2020), Putin’s People: How the KGB Took Back Russia and Then Took on the West (London: William Collins). Bryant, C. and E. Mokrzycki (eds.) (1994), The New Great Transformation? (London: Routledge). Brzezinski, Z. (1969), “The Soviet System, Transformation or Degeneration?”, in Z. Brzezinski (ed.), Dilemmas of Change in Soviet Politics (New York: Columbia University Press): 1–​34. Bunce, V. (1995), “Should Transitologists be Grounded?”, Slavic Review 54, 1: 111–​27. Bunce, V. (2003), “Rethinking Recent Democratization: Lessons from the Post-​Communist Experience”, World Politics 55, 2: 167–​92. Burnell, P. (ed.) (2006), Democratization through the Looking Glass (New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers). Burton, M., R. Gunther and J. Higley (1992), “Introduction: Elite Transformations and Democratic Regimes”, in J. Higley and R. Gunther (eds.), Elites and Democratic Consolidation in Latin America and Southern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press): 1–​37. Carnaghan, E. (2007), Out of Order: Russian Political Values in an Imperfect World (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press). Carothers, T. (2002), “The End of the Transition Paradigm”, Journal of Democracy 13, 1: 5–​21. Cohen, S.F. (2000), Failed Crusade: America and the Tragedy of Post-​Communist Russia (New York: W.W. Norton). Cohen, S.F. (2009), Soviet Fates and Lost Alternatives: From Stalinism to the New Cold War (New York: Columbia University Press). Dahl, R. (1971), Polyarchy: Participation and Opposition (New Haven: Yale University Press). Dawisha, K. (2014), Putin’s Kleptocracy: Who Owns Russia? (New York: Simon and Schuster). Di Palma, G. (1990), To Craft Democracies: An Essay in Democratic Transition (Berkeley: University of California Press). Doorenspleet, R. (2005), Democratic Transitions: Exploring the Structural Sources of the Fourth Wave (Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers). Elster, J., C. Offe and U.K. Preuss (1998), Institutional Design in Post-​Communist Societies: Rebuilding the Ship at Sea (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Evans, P.B., D. Rueschemeyer and T. Skocpol (eds.) (1985), Bringing the State Back In (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Fukuyama, F. (1989), “The End of History”, The National Interest 16: 3–​17. Fukuyama, F. (1992), The End of History and the Last Man (New York: Free Press). Garadzha, N. (ed.) (2006), Suverenitet (Moscow: Evropa). Gill, G. (2015), Building an Authoritarian Polity. Russia in Post-​Soviet Times (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Gill, G. (2016), “Russia and the Vulnerability of Electoral Authoritarianism?”, Slavic Review 75, 2: 354–​73. Grugel, J. (2006), Democratization: A Critical Introduction (Basingstoke, Palgrave). Haerpfer, C., P. Bernhagen, R. Inglehart and C. Welzel (eds.) (2009), Democratization (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Hahn, G.M. (2002), Russia’s Revolution from Above, 1985–​2000: Reform, Transition, and Revolution in the Fall of the Soviet Communist Regime (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers). Hale, H.E. (2011), “The Myth of Mass Russian Support for Autocracy: The Public Opinion Foundations of a Hybrid Regime”, Europe-​Asia Studies 63, 8: 1357–​75. Hale, H.E. (2015), Patronal Politics: Eurasian Regime Dynamics in Comparative Perspective (New York: Cambridge University Press). Higley, J. and M. Burton (1989), “The Elite Variable in Democratic Transitions and Breakdowns”, American Sociological Review 54, 1: 17–​32.

43

44

Richard Sakwa Hill, W.H. (2018), No Place for Russia: European Security Institutions since 1989 (New York: Columbia University Press). Hough, J.F. (1997), Democratization and Revolution in the USSR, 1985–​1991 (Washington, DC: The Brookings Institution). Huntington, S. (1991), The Third Wave: Democratization in the Late Twentieth Century (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press). Levitsky, S. and L. Way (2010), Competitive Authoritarianism: Hybrid Regimes After the Cold War (New York: Cambridge University Press). Lijphart, A. (1984), Democracies: Patterns of Majoritarian and Consensus Government in Twenty-​One Countries (New Haven: Yale University Press). Lijphart, A. (ed.) (1992), Parliamentary versus Presidential Government (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Lijphart, A. (1994), Electoral Systems and Party Systems (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Lijphart, A. and C. Waisman (eds.) (1996), Institutional Design in New Democracies: Eastern Europe and Latin America (Boulder, CO: Westview Press). Linz, J.J. (1990), “The Perils of Presidentialism”, Journal of Democracy 1, 1: 72–​84. Linz, J.J. (1994), “Presidentialism or Parliamentarism: Does it Make a Difference?”, in J.J. Linz and A. Valenzuela (eds.), The Failure of Presidential Democracy: Comparative Perspectives (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press): 1–​87. Linz, J.J. and A. Stepan (1996), Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation: Southern Europe, South America, and Post-​Communist Europe (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press). Lipset, S.M. (1959), “Some Social Requisites of Democracy”, American Political Science Review 53, 1: 69–​105. Lipset, S.M. (1963), “Economic Development and Democracy”, in S. M. Lipset, Political Man: The Social Bases of Democracy (London: Mercury Books): 45–​76. Lipset, S.M. (1993), “Reflections on Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy”, Journal of Democracy 4, 2: 43–​55. Lipset, S.M. (1994), “The Social Requisites of Democracy Revisited”, American Sociological Review 59, 1: 1–​22. Lukin, A. (2000), The Political Culture of the Russian ‘Democrats’ (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Mainwaring, S. (1993), “Presidentialism, Multipartism, and Democracy”, Comparative Political Studies 26, 2: 198–​228. March, J. and J. Olson (1989), Rediscovering Institutions: The Organizational Basis of Politics (New York: The Free Press). Merkel, W. (2004), “Embedded and Defective Democracies”, Democratization 11, 5: 33–​58. Nichols, T.M. (2000), The Russian Presidency: Society and Politics in the Second Russian Republic (Basingstoke: Macmillan). North, D.C. (1990), Institutions, Institutional Change and Economic Performance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). O’Donnell, G. (1994), “Delegative Democracy”, Journal of Democracy 5, 1: 55–​69. O’Donnell, G. (1996), “Illusions about Consolidation”, Journal of Democracy 7, 2: 34–​51. O’Donnell, G., J.V. Cullell and O.M. Iazzetta, (2004), The Quality of Democracy (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press). O’Donnell, G., P.C. Schmitter and L. Whitehead (eds.) (1986), Transitions from Authoritarian Rule (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press). Petro, N. (2004), Crafting Democracy: How Novgorod has Coped with Rapid Social Change (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Pridham, G. and P. Lewis (eds.) (1996), Stabilising Fragile Democracies: Comparing New Party Systems in Southern and Eastern Europe (London: Routledge). Pridham, G. and T. Vanhanen (1994), Democratization in Eastern Europe: Domestic and International Dimensions (London: Routledge). Przeworski, A. (1991), Democracy and the Market (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Putnam, R. (1993), Making Democracy Work: Civic Traditions in Modern Italy (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Pye, L.W. (1990), “Political Science and the Crisis of Authoritarianism”, American Political Science Review 84, 1: 3–​19. Reddaway, P. and D. Glinski (2001), The Tragedy of Russia’s Reforms: Market Bolshevism against Democracy (Washington, DC: The United States Institute of Peace Press).

44

45

Democratisation Rudra, N. (2005), “Globalization and the Strengthening of Democracy in the Developing World”, American Journal of Political Science 49, 4: 704–​30. Rustow, D.A. (1970), “Transitions to Democracy: Toward a Dynamic Model”, Comparative Politics 2, 3: 337–​63. Sakwa, R. (2010), “The Dual State in Russia”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 26, 3: 185–​206. Sakwa, R. (2011), The Crisis of Russian Democracy: The Dual State, Factionalism and the Medvedev Succession (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Sakwa, R. (2012), “Modernisation, Neo-​Modernisation and Comparative Democratisation in Russia”, East European Politics 28, 1: 43–​57. Sakwa, R. (2013), “The Soviet Collapse: Contradictions and Neo-​Modernisation”, Journal of Eurasian Studies 4, 1: 65–​77. Sartori, G. (1976), Parties and Party Systems: A Framework for Analysis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Sartori, G. (ed.) (1997), Comparative Constitutional Engineering: An Inquiry into Structures, Incentives, and Outcomes (New York: New York University Press). Schedler, A. (ed.) (2006), Electoral Authoritarianism: The Dynamics of Unfree Competition (Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers). Sharafutdinova, G. (2020), The Red Mirror: Putin’s Leadership and Russia’s Insecure Identity (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Shin, D.C. (1994), “On the Third Wave of Democratization: A Synthesis and Evaluation of Recent Theory and Research”, World Politics 47, 1: 135–​70. Shleifer, A. (2005), A Normal Country: Russia After Communism (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press). Shleifer, A. and D. Treisman (2004), “A Normal Country”, Foreign Affairs 83, 2: 20–​39; Shugart, M., and J.M. Carey (1992), Presidents and Assemblies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). von Beyme, K. (1996), Transition to Democracy in Eastern Europe (London: Macmillan). Ware, A. (1996), Political Parties and Party Systems (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Whitehead, L. (ed.) (1996), The International Dimensions of Democratization: Europe and the Americas (Oxford: Oxford University Press).

45

46

5 HOW RUSSIA COMPARES Rodney Tiffen

A demographic revolution With the fall of communist rule in Eastern Europe and the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the bi-​polar world order, the over four-​decades-​long Cold War, ended. These epoch-​changing events stimulated considerable commentary about their larger ideological significance. While their historical roots and implications were being debated, the people of Russia and other post-​communist countries were facing dramatic changes in their lives that translated only very tangentially into these grand ideological discourses. This dramatic demographic revolution was manifested firstly in population figures (see Table 5.1). Russia has the ninth largest population in the world, one of 14 countries with populations larger than 100 million. It dwarfs all the other countries in Table 5.1 except the United States. The most notable aspect of the table is that Russia had a smaller population in 2022 than it had in 1990. So did eight of the 14 other former Soviet republics and three of the six East European countries. Several others had very small growth. This is a globally distinctive pattern. In these 32 years, the world population grew from 5.3 billion to 7.9 billion, around a 50 percent increase. Most countries shared in this growth. For example, in 1990, Russia and Brazil had almost identical populations (Brazil then 149 million), but by 2020 Brazil had a population of 213 million, 80 million more than Russia. Similarly, Pakistan started behind Russia but by 2020 was far bigger, growing from 108 million to 221 million. Dozens of countries with very high growth rates can be cited (for example, Egypt up from 56 to 102 million; Nigeria from 98 to 206 million). It is true that population growth has slowed in most Western, economically advanced countries, as the figures for the West European countries in Table 5.1 show, leading to concerns about the ageing society. But they did all continue to grow in this period. In others such as the USA, Canada and Australia, high immigration has contributed to continuing substantial growth. Fewer than 20 countries in the world had lower populations in 2022 than they had in 1990. A few are small islands (such as the Cook Islands) with very limited economic prospects producing high emigration rates. The major group, however, comprise post-​communist countries. Population change stems from both natural factors (birth and death rates) and migration. Birth rates fell in most of the countries after the fall of communism. In Russia they fell from 1.9 46

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-6

47

How Russia compares Table 5.1  Population (Millions of people) Country

1990

2022

Russia

148.3

142.0

Former Soviet Republics Armenia Azerbaijan Belarus Estonia Georgia Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Latvia Lithuania Moldova Tajikistan Turkmenistan Ukraine Uzbekistan

3.5 7.2 10.2 1.6 5.5 16.4 4.4 2.7 3.7 4.4 5.3 3.7 51.9 20.5

3.0 10.4 9.4 1.2 4.9 19.4 6.1 1.8 2.7 3.3 9.1 5.6 43.1 31.1

Eastern Europe Bulgaria Czech Republic Hungary Poland Romania Slovak Republic

8.7 10.4 10.4 38.1 23.2 5.3

6.9 10.7 9.7 38.1 18.5 5.4

58.2 79.4 56.7 57.3 249.6

68.3 84.3 61.1 67.8 337.3

Major Western Countries France Germany Italy United Kingdom United States Source: World Bank Open Data. https://​data.worldb​ank.org/​

per woman aged between 15 and 49 down to 1.4 (Tiffen 2012: 48). This rate is similar to those in Italy and Germany but considerably below the UK and USA (1.9) and France (2.0) (Tiffen et al 2020: 6–​7). Moreover, the birth rates in Western countries gradually trended down over a generation rather than precipitately as in Russia’s case. Among the former republics of the Soviet Union only the Muslim majority republics –​ Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan and Azerbaijan –​had greater populations in 2022 than 1990. Table 5.2 shows that in the later period population growth was still very slight or declining in nearly all the post-​communist countries. These countries were still unusual by global standards. However, in many of these countries, population growth increased or the population decrease was less than in the first period, suggesting somewhat more stability. The six Muslim majority countries were still the only ones that had annual population growth rates of one percent or greater. While the birth rates had some relevance, the more immediate cause in Russia was migration, especially in the 1990s. The end of Soviet rule brought one of the most remarkable 47

48

Rodney Tiffen Table 5.2  Population change (Annual % change for each five-​year period) Country Russia

2005–​10

2015–​20

0.0

0.1

Former Soviet Republics Armenia Azerbaijan Belarus Estonia Georgia Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Latvia Lithuania Moldova Tajikistan Turkmenistan Ukraine Uzbekistan

-​0.7 1.1 -​0.3 -​0.4 -​0.5 1.1 1.3 -​1.2 -​1.4 -​0.4 2.1 1.4 -​0.5 1.5

0.3 1.0 0.0 0.2 -​0.2 1.3 1.8 -​1.1 -​1.5 -​0.2 2.4 1.6 -​0.5 1.6

Eastern Europe Bulgaria Czech Republic Hungary Poland Romania Slovak Republic

-​0.7 0.5 -​0.3 0.0 -​0.9 0.0

-​0.7 0.2 -​0.2 -​0.1 -​0.7 0.1

Major Western Countries France Germany Italy United Kingdom United States

0.6 -​0.2 0.4 1.0 0.9

0.3 0.5 0.0 0.6 0.6

Source: United Nations Development Programme Human Development Report 2020. http://​hdr.undp.org/​en/​2020-​rep​ort

movements of population in the modern world. One group was ethnic Russians living in other, now independent, countries who moved back to Russia in very large numbers. (Similarly many ethnic Germans from throughout Eastern Europe emigrated to Germany.) This ethnically based, politically driven migration was of major importance only in the short term. Of more enduring importance has been the mix of freedom of movement and economic opportunity. Despite its economic problems, Russia was still a strong magnet for people from the poorer former Soviet republics. Remittances from family members working abroad have become an important source of income for some of those countries (Stoner 2021: 56). For many, especially in the six East European countries, the extra freedom of movement allowed them to answer the siren call of the Western European economies. Declining birth rates have contributed to falling population numbers over the last three decades, but the much more dramatic factor was at the other end of the life cycle –​a rapid fall in life expectancy, starting from what was already a low base. As Table 5.3 shows, in 1980 when 48

49

How Russia compares Table 5.3  Life expectancy (Average life expectancy at birth, years) Country

1980

1990

2000

2010

2020

Russia

67.1

68.9

65.5

68.8

72.6

Former Soviet Republics Armenia Azerbaijan Belarus Estonia Georgia Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Latvia Lithuania Moldova Tajikistan Turkmenistan Ukraine Uzbekistan

70.9 64.2 69.8 68.9 69.7 66.6 62.9 68.8 70.5 65.0 57.1 61.1 68.8 64.6

67.8 64.8 70.8 69.5 70.4 68.3 68.3 69.3 71.2 67.6 58.8 62.8 70.1 66.6

71.1 66.8 68.9 70.4 69.9 65.5 68.6 70.3 72.0 67.0 62.0 63.6 67.7 67.2

73.3 70.9 70.4 75.4 71.5 68.8 69.3 73.5 73.3 69.6 68.7 66.7 70.3 69.7

75.1 73.0 74.8 78.8 73.8 73.6 71.5 75.3 75.9 71.9 71.1 68.2 72.1 71.9

Eastern Europe Bulgaria Czech Republic Hungary Poland Romania Slovakia

71.2 70.3 69.1 70.1 69.1 70.4

71.6 71.4 69.3 70.9 69.7 70.9

71.7 75.0 71.2 73.7 71.2 73.1

73.5 77.4 74.2 76.2 73.5 75.1

75.1 79.4 76.9 78.7 76.1 77.5

Major Western Countries France Germany Italy United Kingdom United States

74.1 72.7 73.9 73.7 73.6

76.6 75.2 76.8 75.9 75.2

79.1 77.9 79.8 77.7 76.6

81.7 80.0 82.0 80.4 78.5

82.7 81.3 83.5 81.3 78.9

Source: World Bank. https://​data.worldb​ank.org/​

the Soviet system was still politically stable, life expectancy in Russia was around six years less than in the Western countries in the table. Indeed, not one of the Soviet Republics or East European communist countries had a life expectancy as long as any of these Western countries. That situation still pertained in 1990, as all countries in Table 5.3 had moved broadly in the same direction, with small but steady improvements. After 1990, however, Russian life expectancy dropped three and a half years in a decade. The only other occasions in the modern world when a country has experienced such a sharp decline has been because of major wars and the impact of HIV/​AIDS, which devastated many African countries. Life expectancy also fell in five of the other former Soviet republics during that decade, a decline not shared by the East European countries or any major Western countries. In the first two decades of this century Russian life expectancy increased again, although in 2020 it was still lower than American life expectancy had been in 1980. In these decades there was considerable divergence among the post-​communist countries. The Czech Republic 49

50

Rodney Tiffen

had the greatest life expectancy among the East European countries and increased the most, while Bulgaria improved least and had the lowest. Estonia had by some distance the greatest life expectancy among the former Soviet republics, while Tajikistan improved the most. Turkmenistan had the lowest life expectancy. Cardiovascular disease is a much bigger killer in Russia (and several other of the post-​Soviet republics) than it has been in recent decades in the West. As Stoner notes (2021: 161), this has been driven by high rates of vodka consumption, tobacco smoking, poor diet and lack of physical activity. Stoner notes figures showing Russians were the heaviest drinkers in Europe in 2004 with an average intake of 17 litres a year compared to an EU average of 13. This dropped slightly by 2016, down to 16 litres, although figures on alcohol consumption tend to vary considerably with the source. (With deaths in which alcohol was a contributing figure, the mean is less important than those with extremely heavy intakes and the interaction of alcohol consumption with other factors, such as road accidents.) Two other causes of death –​homicide and suicide –​while only minor contributors to the overall totals are revealing of social stresses. The rate of deaths from homicide doubled from 14 per 100,000 population in 1990 to 28 in 2000. In the same year the US rate was 5.5, by far the highest among Western democracies. By 2020 the Russian rate had dropped to 8.2. The number of deaths from suicide has not shown as much improvement. Around 2020 in Russia, female deaths from suicide were 7.5 per 100,000 and for males it was 48.3. The parallel figures for the United States were 6.9 and 21.1. In 2020, Russia had the highest male suicide rate in the world and the greatest gender difference in suicide rates. This difference highlights another uniquely Russian feature of life expectancy. Russia has the greatest divergence between life expectancy for males and females in the world. In nearly all countries, female life expectancy is greater than males. However, in Russia in 2020 female life expectancy at birth was 77.8 years and for males it was 67.1 –​a gap of 10.7 years. A gap of three to five years is much more common in Western societies (Tiffen et al 2020: 68). The Russian figures owe much to gender differences in tobacco and alcohol consumption.

Economic and social wellbeing The overthrow of communism brought hopes not only of a more democratic future but a more prosperous one. Premier Nikita Khrushchev had boasted in 1956 that the Soviet Union would bury the West, but as the decades wore on the economic gap between the two blocs diverged, increasingly in the West’s favour. Table 5.4 shows that in 1990, the GDP per capita (measured in thousands of dollars adjusted for purchasing power parity) of the five Western countries listed was more than double that of Russia. While apostles of the Austrian economist Joseph Schumpeter have argued for the long-​ term benefits of creative destruction, the short-​term results of the economic transformation in Russia were economically (and socially) disastrous. Russia’s GDP per capita actually declined in the 1990s and in 2000 was around 15 percent poorer at the end of the decade than at the beginning. Nine of the other former Soviet republics also suffered a decline. In contrast, the Western economies listed and most of the East European ones grew substantially during the same period. As bad as this is, it understates the economic dislocation suffered by many Russians. Inequality increased markedly during the decade (Chancel et al 2021), so the economic decline hit some sections much worse than others. In addition, in 1995 inflation was at a staggering 144 percent (Tiffen 2012: 59), which was severely disruptive to any company or government 50

51

How Russia compares Table 5.4  GDP per capita (GDP per capita, in thousands of US$ PPP) Country

1990

2000

2010

2020

Russia

8.0

6.8

20.5

28.2

Former Soviet Republics Armenia Azerbaijan Belarus Estonia Georgia Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Latvia Lithuania Moldova Tajikistan Turkmenistan Ukraine Uzbekistan

2.7 5.2 5.2 6.4 5.7 8.2 2.5 5.5 5.9 3.2 2.6 5.4 7.3 2.6

2.6 3.4 5.8 9.4 3.1 7.7 1.9 8.0 8.4 3.1 1.0 4.3 4.1 2.7

7.5 14.7 15.4 21.7 7.6 19.2 3.1 17.7 20.1 6.4 2.3 9.8 8.2 5.5

13.3 14.4 20.2 38.0 14.8 26.7 5.0 32.2 39.2 13.0 3.8 16.2 13.1 7.7

Eastern Europe Bulgaria Czech Republic Hungary Poland Romania Slovak Republic

7.5 12.7 8.3 6.1 5.2 7.2

6.4 16.2 11.8 10.7 5.9 11.3

15.0 27.9 21.8 21.1 17.0 25.3

24.7 42.0 33.3 34.4 31.9 32.0

Major Western Countries France Germany Italy United Kingdom United States

17.6 19.4 18.6 16.9 23.8

26.1 27.2 27.8 26.5 36.3

35.9 39.0 35.2 36.6 48.4

46.8 54.3 41.9 45.9 63.4

Source: World Bank. https://​data.worldb​ank.org/​

department undertaking economic planning and to any family seeking a sense of control or stability in their lives. In the last two decades the Russian economy has shown considerable improvement. Early this century, Russia became an important exporter of natural gas, oil, iron ore and other metals and later became a leading grain exporter (Stoner 2021: 135). While the figures a decade apart suggest a return to more normal economic growth, in fact there have been some sharp fluctuations en route. In two years Russia experienced negative growth in common with much of the rest of the developed world –​in 2009 during the global financial crisis and in 2020 due to the impact of COVID. In addition, its GDP per capita declined in each of the years from 2014 to 2017. This was directly the result of Western boycotts of Russia following its incursion into Ukraine. Overall, most Russians have felt the benefits of economic growth in the last two decades, especially as the trend towards greater inequality has been reversed. According to OECD 51

52

Rodney Tiffen

figures, the ratio of those at the 80th income percentile to those at the 20th dropped from 7.1 in 2011 to 5.1 in 2017, making the degree of income inequality broadly comparable with many OECD countries. Wealth inequalities are always more marked than income, and these have continued to become greater with time. In 2015 the top one percent owned 45 percent of the wealth, up from 22 percent in 1995. The bottom half owned just 4 percent, down from 8 percent in 1995 (Stoner 2021: 171–​3). While the government has led attempts to diversify the economy and so make it more resilient, as Stoner notes, “Russia is not a start-​up nation” (2021: 146). It lags in investment in research and development. The World Bank’s figures, which are the basis for Table 5.5, do not go back as far and are not as complete as most other tables in this chapter. However, they show that proportional investment in research and development –​as measured by employment in the sector –​went backwards in Russia between 1996 and 2018. Apart from Italy, all the major Western countries devote proportionally more resources to R&D employment than does Russia, and their commitment to R&D employment has steadily increased over the decades, in contrast to Russia’s decline. Table 5.5  Employment in research and development (Research and development employees per 100,000 workers) Country

1996

2000

2010

2018

Russia

3797

3459

3081

2784

Former Soviet Republics Estonia Georgia Latvia Lithuania Moldova Ukraine Uzbekistan

2117 .. 1145 2090 .. .. ..

1905 .. 1600 2220 .. 1475 662

3061 .. 1839 2753 761 1328 545

3755 1464 1792 3190 696 988 476

Eastern Europe Bulgaria Czech Republic Hungary Poland Romania Slovak Republic

1778 1252 1007 1362 1329 1859

1185 1346 1410 1431 925 1844

1478 2773 2150 1683 966 2809

2342 3862 3238 3106 882 2996

Major Western Countries France Germany Italy United Kingdom United States

2669 2830 1340 2490 3140

2916 3168 1166 2894 3496

3873 4058 1743 4043 3885

4715 5211 2306 4603 4412

Source: World Bank, World Development Indicators. https://​datab​ank.worldb​ank.org/​sou​rce/​world-​deve​lopm​ent-​ind​icat​ors Note: No data on Armenia, Azerbaijan, Belarus, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan or Turkmenistan exists.

52

53

How Russia compares

Among post-​Soviet republics, Estonia and Lithuania have invested more in research and development, as has the Czech Republic in Eastern Europe, but overall the post-​communist countries lag considerably behind the West. The consequence of this is that these countries will be reliant on the West for imports of high-​tech manufacturing and followers rather than leaders in economic innovations. Measures of income give a clue to a country’s standard of living but take no account of the diffusion of economic benefits through a society or other aspects of human wellbeing. The United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) developed a measure designed to create a broader view of a country’s development than using average income alone. The Human Development Index (HDI) is a simple summary measure of three dimensions: living a long and healthy life, being educated and having a decent standard of living. The UNDP’s rationale is that: Human development is a process of enlarging people’s choices … The three essential ones are for people to lead a long and healthy life, to acquire knowledge and to have access to resources needed for a decent standard of living. If these choices are not available, many other opportunities remain inaccessible. UNDP 1990: 10 The HDI combines the three dimensions into one index and scores each country for each year, with a summary measure between zero and one, a higher score meaning greater human development. While national income correlates strongly with the HDI, the measure also gives weight to distribution and to the development of social infrastructure. Two components of the HDI –​longevity and educational attainment –​by their nature reflect upon the wellbeing of the population as a whole. The idea of a composite scale –​such as Table 5.6 and the remaining four tables in this ­chapter –​is to go beyond the limits of individual measures to capture more of the integrity and complexity of the social experience. Such constructs are inevitably surrounded by methodological disputes. An intrinsic problem of constructing composite indicators is that even if all the elements can be scored satisfactorily there is always an arbitrariness about their weightings, how the components are combined into one scale. Table 5.6 reinforces the view from some earlier tables that human development went backwards in Russia during the 1990s, as it did in five of the other post-​Soviet republics on which there is data. From 2000, however, Russia’s HDI climbed considerably. Experts continue refining the Human Development Index to take more account of inequality, gender differences and environmental sustainability. The figures for 2019 are not strictly comparable with earlier years, but in practice the impact on scores and global rankings is small. All the major Western countries except Italy have an index of .900 or better, but only the Czech Republic reaches this level among the East European countries. In 1990, they were all roughly comparable with Russia, or a little lower. Since then, they have improved more than Russia and the other post-​Soviet republics, with Bulgaria and Romania doing less well. Among the post-​Soviet republics, the three Baltic states ranked by far the highest in 2019. Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan were considerably below the others. The two countries that showed the greatest improvement in the latest period were Georgia and Kazakhstan. Nevertheless, Table 5.6 confirms that the two decades from the year 2000 saw the Russian population becoming better off overall.

53

54

Rodney Tiffen Table 5.6  Human development index Country

1990

2000

2010

2019

Global Rank 2019

Russia

.735

.722

.781

.824

52

Former Soviet Republics Armenia .654 Azerbaijan .. Belarus .. Estonia .735 Georgia .. Kazakhstan .690 Kyrgyzstan .640 Latvia .711 Lithuania .738 Moldova .690 Tajikistan .617 Turkmenistan .. Ukraine .725 Uzbekistan ..

.669 .635 .686 .787 .690 .685 .620 .735 .762 .643 .555 .. .694 .599

.747 .725 .795 .852 .751 .764 .662 .824 .831 .713 .638 .666 .755 .669

.776 .756 .823 .892 .812 .825 .697 .866 .882 .750 .668 .715 .779 .720

81 88 53 29 61 51 120 37 34 90 125 111 74 106

Eastern Europe Bulgaria Czech Republic Hungary Poland Romania Slovakia

.708 .738 .708 .718 .708 .741

.720 .804 .772 .790 .716 .765

.788 .870 .831 .840 .805 .837

.816 .900 .854 .880 .828 .860

56 27 40 35 49 39

Major Western Countries France .786 Germany .808 Italy .776 United Kingdom .781 United States .865

.849 .876 .838 .874 .886

.879 .927 .879 .912 .916

.901 .947 .892 .982 .926

26 6 29 13 17

Source: United Nations Development Programme Human Development Report 2020. http://​hdr.undp.org/​en/​2020-​rep​ort Note: HDI scores vary between 0 and 1; the higher they are, the better the human development. The 2019 scores are not strictly comparable with those from earlier years. Global rank is out of 189 countries.

Democratic governance At the heart of the protests leading up to the fall of communism were demands for freedom, democracy and better governance. In Eastern Europe and some parts of the Soviet Union this had a strong nationalist component wanting self-​determination, but everywhere it also involved aspirations for more responsive, effective and accountable government. The path of Russia and the other post-​communist countries towards these hopes for better governance and greater democracy is traced in the four tables in this section. Central aspects of what we associate with a good society and a healthy polity are not easily susceptible to quantification and hence defy reliable measurement. Each measure below can be criticised, but the 54

55

How Russia compares

four measures all come from highly reputable organisations, and great expertise and research has been devoted to their construction. The tables share the issues of a composite index such as the Human Development Index above, but they also commonly have more problems with subjective or contested judgements. Moreover, it can be validly objected that a ten-​point or hundred-​point scale score gives a spurious air of precision. Each, however, provides interesting and valuable data, both comparatively and over time, that can anchor more qualitative considerations of political performance. The Democracy Index was originated by the Economist Intelligence Unit, the research division of the venerable Economist magazine. Its 2020 data measured the state of democracy in 166 countries based on 60 questions to experts, most being scored one or zero, and with scores ranging from zero (least democratic) to ten (most democratic). A few questions are considered so important (for example, are national elections free and fair?) that a negative answer also incurs a penalty on the total score. It is concerned with five areas: electoral process and pluralism; civil liberties; functioning of government; political participation; and political culture. They divide the 166 countries into four broad types. Full democracies (scoring 8.01 to 10) have civil liberties and fundamental political freedoms reinforced by a political culture of pluralism, adequately functioning governments and an independent judiciary. These comprise 23 countries, accounting for 14 percent of the total and just 8.4 percent of the world’s population. In Table 5.7, Germany and the United Kingdom are counted as full democracies. The next level down are flawed democracies (scoring 6.01 to 8). These countries have free and fair elections and basic civil liberties are respected, but they may have issues to do with the suppression of criticism, or in the functioning of government, or circumscribed pluralism. This level contains a diverse array of countries and includes 52 countries, or 31 percent of the total. It includes the remaining three Western countries in the table, all six of the East European countries and the three Baltic states. Hybrid regimes (4.01–​6) have the facade of democratic institutions but electoral fraud, coercion and harassment of oppositions is common, as well as widespread corruption and a low independence for other institutions. Thirty-​five countries or 21 percent fall into this category, including five of the post-​Soviet republics. Authoritarian regimes (0–​4) comprise 57 countries or 34 percent of the total. Elections are not allowed to be conducted freely; the media are often state-​owned or fully aligned with the regime; and censorship and suppression of dissenting views are common. Sometimes they do not even allow the edifice of democratic forms. Russia and six other post-​Soviet republics fall into this bottom category. As one would expect, scores vary little from year to year. But the index was first measured on a large scale in 2006, and over the decade and a half since, some important movements are discernible. Armenia improved the most, but the much larger trend was towards declining democracy. Interestingly and worryingly all six of the East European countries had lower scores in 2020 than in 2006. Most countries that were classed authoritarian in 2020 became worse in these 15 years. Russia declined considerably, moving from hybrid regime to authoritarian. One precondition for a strong democracy is an independent and free news media to promote debate and ensure a free flow of information about government. The NGO Reporters without Borders (RSF) first carried out the Press Freedom Index in 2002 and has done so annually since. It is designed to measure the degree of freedom available to journalists in 180 countries. Its criteria include pluralism, media independence, media environment and self-​censorship, legislative framework, transparency, the quality of the infrastructure that supports the production of news and information as well as abuses of journalists, such as imprisoning them. 55

56

Rodney Tiffen Table 5.7 Democracy Country

2006

2020

Type

Russia

5.1

3.3

Authoritarian

Former Soviet Republics Armenia Azerbaijan Belarus Estonia Georgia Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Latvia Lithuania Moldova Tajikistan Turkmenistan Ukraine Uzbekistan

4.2 3.3 3.3 7.7 4.9 3.6 4.1 7.4 7.4 6.5 2.5 1.8 6.9 1.9

5.4 2.7 2.6 7.8 5.3 3.1 4.2 7.2 7.1 5.8 1.9 1.7 5.8 2.1

Hybrid Regime Authoritarian Authoritarian Flawed Democracy Hybrid Regime Authoritarian Hybrid Regime Flawed Democracy Flawed Democracy Hybrid Regime Authoritarian Authoritarian Hybrid Regime Authoritarian

Eastern Europe Bulgaria Czech Republic Hungary Poland Romania Slovak Republic

7.1 8.2 7.5 7.3 7.1 7.4

6.7 7.7 6.6 6.9 6.4 7.0

Flawed Democracy Flawed Democracy Flawed Democracy Flawed Democracy Flawed Democracy Flawed Democracy

Major Western Countries France Germany Italy United Kingdom United States

8.1 8.8 7.7 8.1 8.2

8.0 8.7 7.7 8.5 7.9

Flawed Democracy Full Democracy Flawed Democracy Full Democracy Flawed Democracy

Source: Economist Intelligence Unit. https://​en.wikipe​dia.org/​wiki/​Demo​crac​y_​In​dex Note: Scored 0 to 10 (0 =​least democratic, 10 =​most democratic).

It is based on an online questionnaire (translated into 20 languages) of 87 questions targeted at media professionals, lawyers and social scientists. Unlike most other indices, in the Press Freedom Index, a higher score indicates a worse performance. So zero is the best possible score and 100 the worst. Russia ranked 150th out of 180 countries in the most recent survey, with six other post-​ Soviet republics included in the global bottom sixth of countries (see Table 5.8). RSF considers a score of zero to 15 as good, and in Table 5.8 only Germany qualifies, although Estonia almost does. The next level includes the other major Western countries, the Baltic states, the Czech Republic and Slovakia. Corruption is corrosive of good governance and democratic accountability. However, because successful corruption often means that no offence or transgression is officially recorded or even publicly known, it is impossible to measure its extent authoritatively. Transparency 56

57

How Russia compares Table 5.8  Press freedom Country

2021 Score

Global Rank

Russia

48.7

150

Former Soviet Republics Armenia Azerbaijan Belarus Estonia Georgia Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Latvia Lithuania Moldova Tajikistan Turkmenistan Ukraine Uzbekistan

28.8 58.8 48.2 15.3 28.6 50.3 30.4 19.3 20.2 31.6 55.5 80.0 28.4 50.7

63 167 158 15 60 155 79 22 28 89 162 178 97 157

Eastern Europe Bulgaria Czech Republic Hungary Poland Romania Slovak Republic

37.3 23.4 31.8 28.0 24.9 23.0

112 40 92 64 48 35

Major Western Countries France Germany Italy United Kingdom United States

17.9 8.3 22.6 21.7 20.0

34 13 41 33 44

Source: Reporters Sans Frontiers. https://​rsf.org/​en/​rank​ing/​2021 Note: Scored from 0 to 100; the higher the score, the less the press freedom. Global rank is out of 180 countries.

International (TI), an NGO devoted to fighting corruption, therefore compiles systematic data on perceptions of corruption. This is not the same as the incidence of corruption, and perceptions can be shaped by factors beyond direct experience. Sometimes scores can be shaped by the prevalence of scandals in the news or the frustrations of expatriates regarding the opaqueness of local procedures. TI began the Corruption Perceptions Index in 1995. Originally a ten-​point scale, it is now an index that ranges from 100 (not corrupt) to zero (totally corrupt). It is based on opinion surveys and expert assessments. The methodology has been continually refined over the last quarter century, and it is a more valid measure now than when it began. It is a composite of several indicators, many of which involve surveys of key groups. 57

58

Rodney Tiffen Table 5.9 Corruption Country

2020

Global Rank

Russia

30

129

Former Soviet Republics Armenia Azerbaijan Belarus Estonia Georgia Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Latvia Lithuania Moldova Tajikistan Turkmenistan Ukraine Uzbekistan

49 30 47 75 56 38 31 57 60 34 25 19 33 26

60 129 53 17 45 94 124 42 35 115 149 165 117 146

Eastern Europe Bulgaria Czech Republic Hungary Poland Romania Slovak Republic

44 54 44 56 44 49

69 49 69 45 69 60

Major Western Countries France Germany Italy United Kingdom United States

69 80 53 77 67

23 9 52 11 25

Source: Transparency International Corruption Perceptions Index 2020. www.trans​pare​ncy.org Note: Scored from 0 to 100; the higher the score, the less the corruption. Global rank is out of 183 countries.

In 2020 Denmark and New Zealand were rated the cleanest countries (both scoring 88), while Somalia and South Sudan scored lowest (12/​100) (see Table 5.9). Again, Germany was the best performer in the table, with Italy lagging behind the other Western countries. Three countries –​Bulgaria, Hungary and Romania –​are all outside the top third of countries and behind the three other East European countries. Russia and six other post-​Soviet republics were ranked in the most corrupt third of countries globally. The rule of law is another of the bulwarks needed for a well-​functioning democracy. The World Justice Project, founded in 2006, has constructed an index to look at the rule of law in practice, both from the viewpoint of ordinary people and from its practitioners.

58

59

How Russia compares

The scores are derived from more than 138,000 household survey responses and 4,200 legal practitioner and expert responses worldwide. Scores are between zero and one hundred, with a higher score signalling a better functioning legal system. The WJP Rule of Law Project has four key principles: Accountability (of government as well as private actors); Just Law (the law is clear and applied evenly and recognises procedural, contract and property rights); Open Government (processes are accessible, fair and efficient); and Accessible and Impartial Justice. It examines these across eight factors: Constraints on Government Powers, Absence of Corruption, Open Government, Fundamental Rights, Order and Security, Regulatory Enforcement, Civil Justice and Criminal Justice. The top three ranked countries of the 139 countries included in 2021 were Denmark, Norway and Finland, and the bottom three were the Congo, Cambodia and Venezuela (see Table 5.10). The scores provide some similarities with the other measures of democratic governance. Yet again the Czech Republic is the top rating East European country, with Hungary Table 5.10  Rule of law Country

2021 Score

Global Rank

Russia

.46

101

Former Soviet Republics Belarus Estonia Georgia Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Latvia Lithuania Moldova Ukraine Uzbekistan

.48 .81 .61 .52 .47 .71 .75 .51 .51 .49

97 11 49 66 99 24 18 73 74 85

Eastern Europe Bulgaria Czech Republic Hungary Poland Romania Slovak Republic

.54 .73 .52 .64 .63 .66

62 22 69 36 41 33

Major Western Countries France Germany Italy United Kingdom United States

.72 .84 .66 .79 .69

23 5 34 16 27

World Justice Project Rule of Law Index 2021. https://​worl​djus​tice​proj​ect.org Note: Scored between 0 and 1; the higher the score, the better the rule of law. Global rank is out of 139 countries. No data on Armenia, Azerbaijan, Tajikistan or Turkmenistan.

59

60

Rodney Tiffen

and Bulgaria the two worst on this measure. The three Baltic countries are again the best performing former Soviet republics. Russia is the worst performing country in the table, well within the worst third of countries globally. Not surprisingly, Russia did best on Order and Security and worst on Constraints on Government Powers and Criminal Justice, with the latter being compromised by government influence and corruption. Apart from its impact on citizens’ rights and official accountability, Stoner points out (2021: 51–​2) that a weak rule of law is an impediment to economic innovation and risk taking. In sum, these tables do not give any heart to those who hoped that a more democratic future would lie ahead for Russia after the fall of communism.

Conclusion The changes during the 1990s in Russia were some of the most extreme that any economically developed country has experienced since at least the end of World War II. The economy shrank; inequality grew; inflation was out of control; life expectancy fell; and alcoholism increased, as did homicide and suicide rates. The decade seems a case study of what the great sociologist Emile Durkheim called anomie. The instability brought great social costs. One imagines that public sentiment at the end of the decade was very different from at the beginning. By 2000, narratives of nostalgia would have had a ready constituency, while yearnings for order, stability and security would have been widely felt. The following two decades have brought far more stability. The new normal has both continuities and contrasts with the old normal. Whatever the strengths and weaknesses of the current regime, the stability has greatly reduced several of the social problems from the 1990s. The tables on governance give fewer grounds for optimism than the more economic ones. The former Soviet Union embraced greatly contrasting regions and republics, and that variety has continued in the post-​Soviet era. The three Baltic states have prospered most by almost all measures, while several others have failed to reap either economic or political benefits. On the whole, the end of Soviet rule has been good for the East European countries. The Czech Republic and Slovakia have done best, while developments in Bulgaria and Romania have been more problematic. The tables in this chapter point to a complex and interesting series of developments in Russian politics and society, one with little resemblance to the grand narratives that greeted the end of Soviet rule at the time.

References Chancel, L., T. Picketty, E. Saez and G. Zucman (2021), World Inequality Report 2022 (World Inequality Lab). Stoner, K.E. (2021), Russia Resurrected. Its Power and Purpose in a New Global Order (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Tiffen, R. (2012), “How Russia Compares”, in G. Gill and J. Young (eds.), Routledge Handbook of Russian Politics and Society (London: Routledge): 45–​68. Tiffen, R., A. Gauja, B. O’Connor, R. Gittins and D. Smith (2020), How America Compares (Singapore: Springer Nature). UNDP (1990), Human Development Report 1990 (New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press): 10.

60

61

PART 2

Politics

62

63

6 VLADIMIR PUTIN Great leader or ordinary authoritarian? Kenneth Wilson

Vladimir Putin has been the dominant figure in Russian politics for more than two decades. He served two four-​year terms as president from 2000 to 2008, followed by a term as prime minister until 2012.1 He returned to the presidency for a longer six-​year term in 2012 and was re-​elected in 2018. When Putin’s current term expires in 2024 he will have been running Russia for a quarter of a century –​making him the longest serving leader since Stalin –​and it is possible that he could remain in power until 2036. Putin has enjoyed high approval ratings in Russia throughout this time in office. He is, nonetheless, a polarising figure: to his acolytes he is a great leader who has raised Russia from its knees and restored it to greatness; to his strongest critics, he is a dictator, a thief and even a killer.2 The purpose of this chapter is to consider what kind of leader Putin is and evaluate what his leadership has meant for Russia. This is done here, principally, by considering Putin’s actions and the results of his time in office (rather than by focusing on what he has said or purportedly believes), measured against the claims made for his leadership by his supporters and the regime.

Presidential powers and authoritarianism Whatever one thinks of Putin it is undeniable that he is lucky, for he became president of Russia largely by chance. He was not even a politician when he was appointed Prime Minister by (then) President Boris Yeltsin in August 1999. On 31 December 1999 Yeltsin resigned and Putin (following the requirements of the Constitution) became acting president of the Russian Federation. In March 2000, Putin contested and won his first-​ever public election and became president in his own right. The Kremlin has always maintained that Putin is a popular and democratically elected leader, but one of the clearest features of his leadership has been his authoritarianism. On ascending to the presidency Putin inherited a set of formal powers widely regarded as formidable. The Constitution of the Russian Federation establishes a presidency that enjoys very extensive powers, faces only weak institutional checks and balances, and in which the “decision-​making primacy” of the president is clear (Willerton 2012: 82). It is for this reason that the Russian Constitution is commonly described as “superpresidential” (Fish 2005). On becoming president, this institutional inheritance made Putin, as Gel’man (2015: 73) puts it, “a dominant actor almost by default.” DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-8

63

64

Kenneth Wilson

Putin, moreover, has overseen the construction of an authoritarian polity that has greatly enhanced his powers. This process, which began only a few days after Putin’s inauguration and has continued ever since, can be conceptualised, following Gill (2015), as having two dimensions, namely the structuring of public political activity and the structuring of the regime. The structuring of public political activity refers to steps taken to manage and control civil society, the party system and electoral politics. This includes exerting strict control over the mass media (particularly the national television stations), introducing a range of restrictions on the activities of NGOs (while forming and supporting pro-​Kremlin groups), outright repression of outspoken critics of the regime, increasing state control of strategic sectors of the economy, the creation of the “party of power” United Russia (UR), and the use of administrative resources and electoral fraud to facilitate electoral results favourable for the Kremlin. Structuring of the regime concerns steps taken to centralise the political system, thereby giving the centre (primarily the executive) control over the regions. This involved, inter alia, the creation of federal districts supervised by presidential plenipotentiaries (or “supergovernors”), removing regional governors from the Federation Council, giving the president the power to dismiss governors and later to appoint them, the creation of a “single legal space” whereby regional laws have to accord with federal legislation, and the regional development of UR.3 These steps, together with the dominance of UR in regional and municipal elections, have brought regional politics under presidential control (see Chapter 13 by Ross in this volume). Putin, thus, has overseen the creation of a system wherein the regime has established dominance over society, with the presidency, indeed Putin himself (as shall become evident below), ascendant over the regime. The result of this is that the already formidable formal powers of the president have been strengthened even further. At the same time, Russia has become significantly more authoritarian.4 It is often pointed out, however, that Putin does not rule or govern alone but rather in concert with a group of close associates. This inner circle has been referred to variously as “the ruling group”, “Putin’s team”, “the collective Putin”, “Putin’s friends”, “Putin’s politburo”, and so on; it is usually considered to be more influential than formal governmental structures and, as such, to be the real government of the Russian Federation (Wilson 2021). While the internal dynamics of this inner circle are essentially unknown, the idea that it serves as a check on Putin is unpersuasive. Those who are in the inner circle are there because Putin wants them there, not for any other reason such as their standing in UR or the government or their popularity with the public. Moreover, most of these individuals, and especially the most important ones, have long personal associations with Putin and are therefore obviously both loyal and like-​minded. The existence of this team of trusted confidants, in other words, buttresses Putin’s position rather than weakening or constraining it. Indeed, while there may be disagreements within the elite, none of the inner circle has the stature to challenge Putin and none has ever done so publicly. It is clear that Putin heads this group, and the view that Putin is only first among equals is unconvincing. Rather Putin is, at a minimum, first above equals, or more likely, as Taylor (2018: 104) puts it, he is “first, full stop.”5 The most obvious demonstration of Putin’s pre-​eminence is that he has remained in office for some two decades without facing a single serious challenge to his position. A particularly important instance concerns the tandem, which was the arrangement that operated in 2008–​2012 whereby Dmitry Medvedev was president while Putin served as prime minister but remained the more powerful of the two. This means, in other words, that Putin decided the following: who would replace him as president (a loyal subordinate); that he (Putin) would be prime minister; that as prime minister he would remain the dominant figure in Russian politics despite the Constitution’s stipulations to the contrary; and that he would return to 64

65

Vladimir Putin: Great leader or ordinary authoritarian?

the presidency in 2012. The fact that Putin was able to determine all of this demonstrates the extraordinary powers that he possesses and, indeed, the extent to which he has personalised political power in Russia. The alterations made to the Constitution of the Russian Federation in 2020, which make it possible for Putin to serve two more terms as president, reaffirm this. That Putin is able to have the Constitution re-​written specifically to allow him to stay in power (potentially until 2036) is additional confirmation of the extent of Putin’s personal control. There can be no doubt, then, that Putin has constructed a personalist authoritarian regime in which he is possessed of very extensive powers and is, and always has been, the dominant or hegemonic figure. It seems, furthermore, that Putin is intent on staying in power beyond 2024, possibly for life.

Great leader? It is clear, then, that Putin is an authoritarian leader possessed of prodigious powers, both formal and informal. The regime has made extensive efforts to present Putin as a great leader who has restored order, made Russians wealthier than ever before, and turned the country into a force to be reckoned with internationally. Putin, thus, is the strong leader who saved Russia from the chaos of the 1990s and whose continued rule is a guarantee that there will be no return to the undesirable conditions of that decade. All of this was encapsulated, famously, in the words of one of Putin’s acolytes Vyacheslav Volodin (then First Deputy Chief of Staff of the Presidential Administration, currently Chairman of the State Duma), who said, “With Putin, there’s Russia. No Putin, no Russia.”6 It has even been suggested, on several occasions, by those close to Putin that he was sent by God to save Russia (Arutunyan 2014: 241, 259; Belton 2020: 248). Whether Putin really is a “great leader”, or even just a successful one, however, is another matter.7 Putin’s reputation as president has always been based mainly on improved performance in the areas of the economy, order and stability, and international standing. There have, indeed, been many improvements in these areas in Putin’s time in office. It is clear, for instance, that economic conditions have been far better since 2000 than they were in the 1990s. Russia’s economy has grown, GDP per capita (PPP) has increased, unemployment has decreased, there is less poverty, inflation is down, and government debt has been greatly reduced (Wilson 2021). All of the countries of the former Soviet Union, however, experienced a similar decline in the 1990s, followed by greatly improved economic performances since 2000 (see Figure 6.1). These improvements, therefore, did not depend on leadership (or a change of leader) but rather were principally the result of structural factors, such as higher prices for commodities, especially oil, and recovery from the dislocation that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union. Advances in these areas in Russia, therefore, were not exceptional but were part of a wider regional pattern. Russia under Putin, moreover, has often been one of the poorer performers in the former Soviet Union (FSU). Russia’s GDP growth per annum, to take just one example, has persistently been below average compared to the other post-​Soviet states (Figure 6.1). In fact, the average growth of 3.43 percent registered in Russia in the period 2000–​20 is the second lowest of the 15 post-​Soviet states (see Table 6.1; for a fuller analysis of Russia’s performance, in comparative terms, according to these economic variables, see Wilson 2021). Likewise, there have been improvements across a number of variables associated with order and stability. For instance, the World Bank Governance Indicators (WBGI) for Political Stability, Government Effectiveness, Rule of Law and Control of Corruption (see Table 6.2) show that Russia’s performance in all of these areas has improved during Putin’s tenure in office (2000–​ 20). Again, though, improvements in these measures were recorded in most of the countries 65

66

Kenneth Wilson 15

% GDP growth

10 5 0 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019 2020 –5 –10

Years Russia

FSU 14

Figure 6.1  GDP growth per annum (%), 2000–​20.

Table 6.1  Average GDP growth (%) Country

2000–​20

Armenia Azerbaijan Belarus Estonia Georgia Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Latvia Lithuania Moldova Russia Tajikistan Turkmenistan Ukraine Uzbekistan

5.9 8.08 4.28 3.71 4.85 6.09 3.84 3.47 3.95 3.96 3.43 7.54 8.07 2.29 6.34

Source: World Bank Open Data.

of the FSU, with Russia typically remaining one of the poorer performers. Russia’s score for Political Stability improved, for instance, but the same was true of 8 other states, and in 2020 only Ukraine’s result was worse than Russia’s. Russia was one of 13 states with an improved score for Government Effectiveness and was in 6th place for this in 2020. Russia also recorded an advance for the Rule of Law but so did 12 other countries, and in 2020 Russia ranked only 10th. Russia likewise shows improvement in Control of Corruption, but so do 11 others, and Russia was again in a lowly 10th place in 2020. There has also been progress in Russia in terms of various social indicators. The fertility rate has increased, the population has started growing again, life expectancy has improved, and the number of homicides and suicides has decreased. Again, though, this is part of a regional trend, with most of the countries of the FSU experiencing improvements in these areas (Wilson 66

67

Vladimir Putin: Great leader or ordinary authoritarian? Table 6.2  World Bank Governance Indicators (WBGI)(Scale from –2.5 to +​2.5: higher values correspond to better governance) Political Stability & Absence of Violence/​ Terrorism

Government Effectiveness

Rule of Law

Control of Corruption

Country

2000

2020

2000

2020

2000

2020

2000

2020

Armenia Azerbaijan Belarus Estonia Georgia Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan Latvia Lithuania Moldova Russia Tajikistan Turkmenistan Ukraine Uzbekistan

–0.68 –0.83 0.14 0.90 –0.81 0.09 –0.18 0.42 0.42 –0.43 –1.40 –1.65 0.01 –0.41 –1.31

–0.57 –0.73 –0.73 0.71 –0.43 –0.26 –0.43 0.46 0.87 –0.42 –0.73 –0.52 –0.29 –1.16 –0.44

–0.52 –1.01 –0.60 0.74 –0.65 –0.69 –0.50 0.33 0.14 –0.51 –0.72 –1.19 –1.27 –0.70 –0.98

–0.12 –0.17 –0.73 1.34 0.79 0.16 –0.54 0.88 1.06 –0.46 0.03 –0.71 –1.16 –0.36 –0.51

–0.48 –1.15 –1.13 0.65 –0.93 –1.11 –0.87 0.20 0.29 –0.48 –1.10 –1.39 –1.33 –1.11 –1.22

–0.08 –0.69 –1.00 1.38 0.29 –0.40 –0.93 0.96 0.99 –0.41 –0.76 –1.22 –1.41 –0.67 –1.06

–0.76 –1.30 –0.38 0.84 –1.01 –1.12 –0.90 –0.07 0.36 –0.66 –1.00 –1.28 –1.13 –1.15 –1.05

0.03 –1.05 –0.17 1.61 0.60 –0.39 –1.11 0.72 0.81 –0.57 –0.91 –1.32 –1.54 –0.78 –1.05

Source: Data from World Bank Worldwide Governance Indicators.

2021). The pattern that emerges, then, is that while socio-​economic performance has improved in Russia since 2000, it has also improved in other post-​Soviet states. Performance in Russia, moreover, has been unexceptional: sometimes Russia is one of the better performers but more often is average or poor. This, plus Russia’s continued distinct failings in areas such as control of corruption and the rule of law, surely suggests failures of governance and performance rather than greatness. What, then, of the claim that Putin has restored Russia to its traditional great power status following a period of weakness in the international sphere in the 1990s? In general terms Russian foreign policy has become more assertive, indeed aggressive, under Putin, and a principal aim of this foreign policy has been to restore Russia’s status as a great power. It is not possible here to consider all aspects of Russian foreign policy since 2000 (and many of these issues are discussed elsewhere in this volume). The concern, rather, is to consider the main results of Putin’s foreign policy and whether they have actually made Russia stronger. The invasion of Ukraine in 2022 obviously has a major impact on this assessment. There is widespread agreement that increased military budgets and extensive reforms have greatly improved Russia’s armed forces since the 1990s and early 2000s (Renz 2018). This judgement seemed to be borne out by the improved performance of Russia’s military forces in Crimea and Syria but has been seriously questioned by events in Ukraine. There is also plenty of evidence of Russia pursuing a more activist and confrontational foreign policy under Putin (especially, but not exclusively, since 2014). Russia, for instance, fought and won a controversial war with Georgia over South Ossetia in 2008. In 2014, Russia annexed Crimea (or “returned” it, as the Russian government would have it) and fomented a conflict in the Donbas, which gave Moscow significant influence in that region (Grigas 2016; Wilson 2014), and then launched a full-​scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022. Russian military involvement in 67

68

Kenneth Wilson

Syria since 2015 has helped keep the government of an ally, Bashar al-​Assad, in power (Trenin 2018). Russia has also launched an aggressive information campaign (overt and covert) against the West and interfered in politics in several Western countries in a variety of other ways, most notably the United States Presidential Election of 2016 (Galeotti 2019; US Senate Committee on Foreign Relations 2018; Sherr 2013). These policies, however, have entailed significant costs. The South Ossetia conflict, for instance, resulted in severely strained relations with Georgia and the West. Likewise, even before the war in 2022, Russia had ruined relations with Ukraine and succeeded in pushing that country farther into the West’s orbit than ever before, something that Moscow had long sought to avert. Putin, in other words, won Crimea but has lost Ukraine. Russia, further, in early 2022 was under several layers of sanctions due to its actions in Ukraine and other forms of meddling in Western politics and was isolated internationally. Since the invasion of Ukraine both the severity of the sanctions and the degree of isolation, as we shall see, have increased. More than two dozen countries expelled in excess of 150 Russian diplomats following the attempted assassination of Sergei Skripal in the United Kingdom. The campaign in Syria has seen Russia accused of complicity in alleged war crimes. Russia’s foreign policy has also provoked security counter-​balancing. NATO has strengthened its forces in Eastern Europe, and Finland and Sweden have increased cooperation with NATO (Renz 2018). This tendency seems likely to continue in light of the attack on Ukraine. In many ways, then, Putin’s foreign policy has arguably been counter-​productive. It is hard to see how the Russian people have benefited, other than in the abstract sense of feeling a sense of national pride. These policies, particularly the military campaigns, are expensive, and there is a strong argument that those monies would be better spent on domestic needs. Additionally, sanctions against Russia before 2022 were already damaging the economy, thereby contributing to slower economic growth; those imposed after the invasion of Ukraine are potentially ruinous. Likewise, overall, there seems to be little benefit to Russia in realist terms. NATO has stepped up its force posture in Europe, thereby maintaining a balance of military power that favours the West. Russia has failed to achieve a stable outcome in either Ukraine or Syria, remains under sanctions and has suffered severe reputational damage. Russia has undoubtedly accrued zero-​sum benefits, principally in the sense of stymieing the West, but tangible gains (and evidence, thus, of great leadership) are scarce. In the area of foreign policy, Putin has been successful at giving the impression of standing up to the West and restoring Russia’s great power status. This has certainly benefited him personally thus far, as it has significantly boosted his approval ratings (Hale 2018; Sharafutdinova 2020; Wilson and Lee 2020), but there is little evidence that Putin’s foreign policy has worked in the interests of the Russian state or its people. Indeed, it seems clear that its results were, on balance, already negative prior to the invasion of Ukraine; such results are certain, as we shall see, to become much worse, and possibly even catastrophic, as a consequence of it.

Strongman? Vladimir Putin has always presented himself as a strongman or strong leader. This tough-​guy image is a key part of Putin’s political style that goes hand in hand with the idea that he is a great leader who has resurrected Russia. Putin’s macho image, indeed, has served as one of the central features of the Russian president’s legitimation strategy (Sperling 2015: 29). This portrayal of Putin as a strongman began in the autumn of 1999 when he, then prime minister, ordered military action in Chechnya, promising even (in crude slang) to “bump off terrorists in the outhouse.” Putin, thus, was introduced to the Russian people as a war 68

69

Vladimir Putin: Great leader or ordinary authoritarian?

leader who was going to protect the Russians and the Russian state from the terrorist threat in Chechnya. Around the same time much was also made of his tough childhood, service in the KGB and black belt in judo (Gevorkian et al 2000). These traits –​physical vigour, directness, competence, decisiveness –​have been central to his image ever since (see, for example, Goscilo 2013; Sperling 2015). Most obviously, Putin has performed a large number of macho stunts, often bare chested, in well-​publicised photo ops involving, amongst other things, wild animals, weapons, a bikers’ gang, hunting, fishing, swimming, diving, flying and horse riding. (Such stunts have been less frequent of late, presumably due to Putin’s advancing age.) More generally, the regime has gone to great lengths to depict Putin (as we have already seen) as a national saviour. The reality, however, in many ways does not accord with this image. Putin generally, for instance, clearly does not –​as a tough guy or strongman surely should –​relish or embrace political competition and struggle. He prefers, rather, to shelter behind an authoritarian system that protects him from public criticism and meaningful opposition. Putin, for instance, has never participated in a direct debate with any opponents, nor does he ever face hostile questioning from the parliament, nor has he had any unscripted meetings with the press since the early days of his presidency. Putin does participate in elections, but only against “opponents” who do not actually oppose him, while genuine adversaries such as Aleksei Navalny are not allowed to run. Given this absence of real opposition and Kremlin control of the mass media, Putin runs, wins and stays in office effectively unopposed. The strongman street fighter with the black belt in judo, in other words, goes to great lengths to obviate and avoid political competition and never participates in anything that remotely resembles a fair fight. Putin also displays a tendency to avoid, delay or distance himself from difficult decisions (Galeotti 2019), thereby failing to provide leadership. In 2018, for instance, a proposal was made to raise the retirement age in Russia. This was unpopular and even sparked protests. Putin distanced himself from this measure by saying nothing on the matter for several weeks and leaving the government to take responsibility for it. When Putin finally commented on the reform it was to introduce a compromise that watered down the original proposal. Putin has also failed to offer strong or effective leadership during the COVID-​19 pandemic (although he is scarcely alone in this). His leadership, indeed, has been notable by its absence and Russia has been one of the world’s poorer performers. Putin has appeared disengaged and has spent most of his time isolated in his residence outside Moscow (he was mocked for this by Navalny as “a grandpa hiding in a bunker”). Management of the crisis has largely been delegated to regional leaders (Chaisty et al 2021). One of Russia’s main problems has been vaccine hesitancy, with Russians unwilling to receive the jab (by the end of October 2021 only around one-​third of the population had done so). Putin himself only received the vaccine some six months after it had become available and did so behind closed doors. In so doing, Putin missed an obvious opportunity to lead by example and encourage his fellow citizens to get the vaccine, a move that would likely have saved a significant number of lives.8 The idea of standing up for Russia internationally and particularly of confronting or standing up to the West is another key element of Putin’s strongman persona. Yet here, too, there is much that does not fit with the image. Russia’s foreign policy has undoubtedly been more assertive, even confrontational, under Putin, but at the same time it has been accompanied by a desire for deniability. When Russia moved to seize Crimea in 2014, for example, the troops that were deployed had no identification on their uniforms. Putin also publicly denied that they were Russian troops before subsequently admitting that they were. Another tactic used to avoid responsibility, aside from plain mendacity, is the use of proxies. This was evident in both the seizure of Crimea and the subsequent conflict in the Donbas; in both cases supposedly 69

70

Kenneth Wilson

independent actors instigated unrest at the Kremlin’s behest. Other prominent examples include the use of entities such as the St Petersburg-​based Internet Research Agency (or “troll factory”) to interfere in US elections (and other political processes) and using mercenaries from the Wagner Group in conflicts in Syria and Ukraine (and elsewhere), rather than using regular Russian troops. This could, doubtless, be viewed as clever politics, but there is something contradictory –​not to mention underhand –​about claiming to be increasing Russia’s influence in the world while simultaneously denying responsibility for the very actions that are supposed to be demonstrating precisely that increased influence. Putin also appeared less than tough in 2015 when the Turkish air force shot down a Russian warplane that had entered Turkey’s airspace. Putin expressed outrage, imposed sanctions (later removed) and threatened to take stronger measures but did not do so. Also, at the personal level, it is hard to understand why a strongman would care so much about his image, which is obviously very carefully curated, or use (it seems) anti-​ageing treatments such as botox.9 Such vanity is scarcely masculine, let alone macho. Similarly, if Putin is a strongman, why is he so sensitive to criticism? And why does he feel it necessary to persecute those, such as Navalny, who cross him instead of simply winning the political argument? As Mark Galeotti (2019: 88) points out, “One can legitimately ask how far Putin’s macho antics reflect not an alpha male in his prime, but a leader using them to mask a lack of confidence, to mask a lack of strength.” To reiterate, all of this could be considered smart politics, rational calculation, standard authoritarianism, sensible caution, risk aversion, or some combination thereof. Many of these features of Putin’s leadership, however, could also be called indecision, weakness or cowardice. What they are not, surely, is macho or strong or tough or hyper-​masculine or the actions of a real man (or however one wishes to put it). Putin’s image as a strongman, thus, is just as doubtful as the claim that he is a great leader.

A post-​Soviet authoritarian A more discerning way to view Putin is to consider him as a type of leader (as identified by political science), namely a personalist authoritarian one (Frye 2021). Personalist regimes are, according to an influential definition, a form of non-​democratic government in which “the leader himself maintains a near monopoly over policy and personnel decisions” (Geddes 2003: 53). While such leaders are often supported by parties and militaries, “these organizations have not become sufficiently developed or autonomous to prevent the leader from taking personal control of policy decisions and the selection of regime personnel” (Geddes 2003: 53). A personalist authoritarian leader, thus, is one who possesses formidable powers as an individual rather than as a representative of a party or other organisation (such as the military). Putin, as we have already seen, clearly meets this definition. Other prominent contemporary examples of such leaders include Rodrigo Duterte in the Philippines, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan in Turkey, and Viktor Orbán in Hungary (Frye 2021: 39). More relevantly, there are six other presidents in the FSU who can be regarded as personalist authoritarian leaders (Huskey 2016). Like Russia, the leaders of Azerbaijan, Belarus, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan operate in political systems in which very significant formal powers are accorded to the president.10 These presidents have also, as in Russia, actively created (or maintained) authoritarian systems in which the executive has decisive control over public political activity and the regime. This greatly enhances the already formidable powers that these leaders hold. All of these regimes are clearly –​indeed by definition –​undemocratic and, unsurprisingly, are ranked “not free” by Freedom House (see Table 6.3). The dominance of these personalist 70

71

Vladimir Putin: Great leader or ordinary authoritarian? Table 6.3  Personalist authoritarian leaders in the FSU Country

Leader

Period as Leader

Freedom House Ranking

Azerbaijan

Heyder Aliyev Ilham Aliyev

1993–​2003 (deceased) 2003–​Present

Not Free (2000–​20)

Belarus

Aleksandr Lukashenka

1994–​Present

Not Free (1996–​2020)

Kazakhstan

Nursultan Nazarbayev Kassym-​Jomart Tokayev

1992–​2019 (resigned) 2019–​Present

Not Free (1994–​2020)

Russia

Vladimir Putin

2000–​Present

Not Free (2004–​2020)

Tajikistan

Emomali Rahmon

1994–​Present

Not Free (1992–​2020)

Turkmenistan

Saparmurat Niyazov Gurbanguly Berdymukhamedov

1992–​2006 (deceased) 2006–​Present

Not Free (1991–​2020)

Uzbekistan

Islam Karimov Shavkat Mirziyoyev

1992–​2016 (deceased) 2016–​Present

Not Free (1991–​2020)

leaders in their polities is evident in various ways. For one thing, all of these rulers serve long tenures as president. Indeed, as Table 6.3 shows, only four of these presidents have left office, three on death (Heydar Aliyev, Saparmurat Niyazov and Islam Karimov) and one (Nursultan Nazarbayev) by resigning and handing power over to a handpicked successor.11 These leaders participate in elections, but they are effectively uncontested because their opponents have no chance of winning. The presidents secure landslide victories, often receiving more than 80 or 90 percent of the vote (and almost always more than 70 percent) (Huskey 2016: 77; Wilson and Lee 2020). These personalist authoritarians, likewise, have all posed as great leaders. In some cases, this image making has exceeded even that found in Russia and has entailed full-​blown personality cults, although Putin’s identity has been the most overtly macho. Putin’s Russia also shares several features with these regimes in terms of performance. All of these states with personalist authoritarian leaders have improved (as already discussed) their socio-​economic records since 2000 but continue to perform badly in terms of corruption, the rule of law, government effectiveness and political stability. Putin obviously has much in common with these presidents and, indeed, emerges not as an exceptional but rather as a fairly standard post-​Soviet authoritarian leader who is unremarkable both in terms of his personalist style and his record in office. Putin is, however, clearly distinguished from the other chief executives in this group by his prominence in international affairs. This is largely a reflection of the fact that Russia is by far the most powerful state in the FSU and is a major player in international politics in a way that no other post-​Soviet state is.

The invasion of Ukraine Putin’s decision to invade Ukraine in February 2022 shocked much of the world and immediately became the defining action of his presidency (thus far). One of the criticisms of Putin’s foreign policy, as discussed above, is that its costs have outweighed its benefits. The attack on Ukraine has made this more apparent than ever. The justifications for the war (or “special military operation” as the regime has termed it) proffered by Putin and his regime were generally not accepted outside Russia. The invasion, rather, was viewed as an act of unprovoked aggression and, thus, illegal. The attack, indeed, outraged Western leaders and public opinion. The international community, led by the US and the European Union, increased military aid 71

72

Kenneth Wilson

to Ukraine and rapidly imposed sweeping sanctions targeting Russia’s economy and political elite. These measures, which effectively cut Russia off from the global economy, are believed to be the strongest ever imposed on a major economy in the modern world and threaten to reverse much of the economic progress that Russia has made since the 1990s. Russia has also been left isolated politically. In March 2022 the United Nations General Assembly passed a resolution condemning Russia’s aggression and called on Russia to unconditionally withdraw its military forces from the territory of Ukraine.12 Shortly thereafter, the International Court of Justice ordered Russia to “immediately suspend” its military operations in Ukraine. In addition to these economic and political costs, Putin’s war quickly incurred thousands of casualties and turned Ukrainians into mortal enemies while failing to advance Russia’s interests in any observable way. The invasion also raised questions about Russia’s military prowess. A campaign intended to demonstrate military strength has mainly done the opposite. In the early weeks of the war the Russian military performed poorly and was unable to take (let alone hold) any major Ukrainian cities. The offensive –​intended to be a lightning strike against a numerically inferior opponent –​ became bogged down and Russian forces sustained heavy casualties. The Ukrainians’ valiant defence thus exposed the limitations of the Russian military’s fighting capabilities and, thereby, any notion that Putin has restored Russia’s military might. There can be no doubt that the decision to invade Ukraine was taken personally by Putin, in consultation with (at most) a very narrow group of his closest associates. The fact that such a momentous decision (and one so injurious to Russia’s national interests) could be made by (effectively) one man, in a manner that precluded serious discussion, serves to highlight the dangers of Putin’s personalised system of leadership. And while the choice to wage war is certainly in keeping with Putin’s image as a strongman, it is likely to have unintended consequences for his standing as a leader. The decision to invade has already ruined Putin’s reputation in the West, where he is now a pariah. How the war will affect Putin’s position at home depends largely on the outcome of the conflict and the impact of sanctions on Russia. In the early days of the fighting, Putin, buoyed by state propaganda and the suppression of dissent, remained popular and unchallenged (small, sporadic protests aside). However, while the longer-​ term consequences remained unclear, it was already hard to see how Putin’s attempt to restore Russian hegemony over Ukraine could succeed, given that it seemed obvious that this was something that the West, and more importantly the Ukrainians themselves, would not accept. The question, thus, was what would happen to the strongman if his attempt to strongarm Ukraine failed? And how far, in turn, would Putin go to avoid this failure coming to pass?

Conclusion Since 2000 it has become increasingly clear that Putin is an authoritarian leader who is intent on concentrating power in his own hands. He also, evidently, has no desire to leave office. Putin has already served as Russia’s top leader for more than 20 years –​a period of time that is generally only possible in an authoritarian regime. To do this, he has already employed the chicanery of the tandem and extended presidential terms of office from four years to six. The changes made to the Constitution in 2020 that allow him (potentially) to stay in office until 2036 suggest that he wants to remain president in perpetuity. Putin has not yet made his intentions regarding 2024 clear, but it will be extremely surprising if he does not run and win. Putin has presided over a number of significant socio-​economic improvements. Claims, though, that he is a great leader who has transformed Russia are overblown, as similar progress has been evident across the FSU and Russia’s performance has been unexceptional in comparative terms. 72

73

Vladimir Putin: Great leader or ordinary authoritarian?

In other areas Russia has continued to perform poorly, with deficient governance, weak rule of law and pronounced corruption emerging as defining features of Putin’s tenure (on allegations of vast corruption around Putin personally and his closest associates, see Dawisha 2014; Belton 2020). Putin’s more assertive foreign policy has generated a sense of national pride in Russia (and significantly boosted his approval ratings), but tangible gains have been scarce and the costs have been significant and, given the war in Ukraine, are still mounting. What Putin has been really successful at, however, is maintaining control over politics and society in Russia while creating the impression of being a successful and popular president, something he shares with other personalist authoritarians in the FSU. Playing the strongman leader who has saved Russia has certainly served Putin (and his regime) well thus far. Whether the reality of Putin’s authoritarian leadership has really been in the interests of Russia and its people, however, is altogether more doubtful (and all the more so following the invasion of Ukraine).

Notes 1 It is widely accepted that Putin, when prime minister, remained Russia’s top leader. 2 While such views are common in public and political discourse, academic assessments of Putin tend to be more balanced. Particularly nuanced accounts include Hill and Gaddy (2013), Taylor (2018) and Frye (2021). 3 Gubernatorial elections were reintroduced in 2012 but are highly controlled. 4 Worsening authoritarianism is reflected in Russia’s Freedom House ranking, which has declined from “partly free” in 2000 with scores of 5 for both “political rights” and “civil liberties” (where 1 represents the greatest degree of freedom and 7 the least) to “not free” in 2020 with scores of 7 and 6, respectively. Regime repression has even escalated to the murder, or attempted murder, of political opponents. 5 This is not to say that Putin controls everything or that all of his decisions are implemented to his satisfaction. Putin, for instance, regularly complains that problems he wishes solved persist (Galeotti 2019: 126). This may be, in part, because personalised systems, as Frye (2021: 40) points out, have weak institutions, which makes it harder to govern. It may also be because Putin’s complaints are made out of political expediency rather than genuine concern about policy failings. In any case, his decision-​ making primacy is unrivalled. 6 In Russian the line was “Est’ Putin –​est’ Rossiya, net Putina –​net Rossii” (Galochka 2014). 7 Putin has plainly been successful with respect to continuing in office and maintaining favourable approval ratings. The question here, however, is whether he has succeeded (as claimed by the regime) in terms of transforming performance vis-​à-​vis order, the economy and foreign policy. 8 Other instances when Putin failed to lead include the sinking of the Kursk submarine, the Dubrovka theatre siege (Belton 2020: 241, 243) and his failure to act following the assassination of Boris Nemtsov in 2015 (Galeotti 2019: 81–​4). 9 Putin’s face is notably less wrinkled and lined than it was when he was younger. This is only possible with some kind of medical intervention, and the use of botox has been suspected. 10 A case could be made, as of 2021, for adding Kyrgyzstan under Sadyr Japarov to this list. We include, however, only those personalist regimes that have endured for longer than two presidential terms of office. 11 Additionally, Gurbanguly Berdymukhamedov did not participate in the March 2022 presidential election in Turkmenistan. His son Serdar did, however, and won with 72.97 percent of the vote. At the time of writing, Berdymukhamedov senior was still in office, but a handover of power was clearly underway. 12 The resolution was supported by 141 member states. Only Russia and four others (Belarus, Eritrea, Syria and North Korea) voted against.

References Arutunyan, A. (2014), The Putin Mystique: Inside Russia’s Power Cult (Newbold on Stour: Skyscraper Publications).

73

74

Kenneth Wilson Belton, C. (2020), Putin’s People: How the KGB Took Back Russia and Then Took on the West (London: William Collins). Chaisty, P., C.J. Gerry and S. Whitefield (2021), “The Buck Stops Elsewhere: Authoritarian Resilience and the Politics of Responsibility for COVID-​19 in Russia”, Post-​Soviet Affairs, https://​doi.org/​ 10.1080/​10605​86X.2021.2010​397. Dawisha, K. (2014), Putin’s Kleptocracy: Who Owns Russia? (New York: Simon & Schuster). Fish, S.M. (2005), Democracy Derailed in Russia: The Failure of Open Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Frye, T. (2021), Weak Strongman: The Limits of Power in Putin’s Russia (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Galeotti, M. (2019), We Need to Talk About Putin: How the West Gets Him Wrong (London: Ebury Press). Galochka, E. (2014), “Volodin: ‘Est’ Putin –​est’ Rossiia, net Putina –​net Rossii’”, Moskovskii komsomolets, 23 October 2014, www.mk.ru/​polit​ics/​2014/​10/​23/​volo​din-​est-​putin-​est-​ross​iya-​net-​put​ina-​net-​ros​ sii.html (accessed 9 September 2019). Geddes, B. (2003), Paradigms and Sand Castles: Theory Building and Research Design in Comparative Politics (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press). Gel’man, V. (2015), Authoritarian Russia: Analyzing Post-​Soviet Regime Changes (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press). Gevorkian, N., N. Timakova and A. Kolesnikov (2000), Ot pervogo litsa: razgovory c Vladimirom Putinym (Moscow: Vagrius). Gill, G. (2015), Building an Authoritarian Polity: Russia in Post-​Soviet Times (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Goscilo, H. (2013), Putin as Celebrity and Cultural Icon (Abingdon: Routledge). Grigas, A. (2016), Beyond Crimea: The New Russian Empire (New Haven: Yale University Press). Hale, H.E. (2018), “How Crimea Pays: Media, Rallying ‘Round the Flag, and Authoritarian Support.” Comparative Politics 50, 3: 369–​80. Hill, F. and C.G. Gaddy (2013), Mr. Putin: Operative in the Kremlin (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution Press). Huskey, E. (2016), “Authoritarian Leadership in the Post-​Communist World.”, Daedalus 145, 3: 69–​82. Renz, B. (2018), Russia’s Military Revival (Cambridge: Polity Press). Sharafutdinova, G. (2020), The Red Mirror: Putin’s Leadership and Russia’s Insecure Identity (New York: Oxford University Press). Sherr, J. (2013), Hard Diplomacy and Soft Coercion: Russia’s Influence Abroad (London: Royal Institute of International Affairs). Sperling, V. (2015), Sex, Politics, and Putin: Political Legitimacy in Russia (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Taylor, B.D. (2018), The Code of Putinism (New York: Oxford University Press). Trenin, D. (2018), What is Russia Up To in the Middle East? (Cambridge: Polity Press). US Senate Committee on Foreign Relations (2018), Putin’s Asymmetric Assault on Democracy in Russia and Europe: Implications for U.S. National Security, 10 January, www.govi​nfo.gov/​app/​deta​ils/​CPRT-​115SP​ RT28​110/​CPRT-​115SP​RT28​110/​cont​ext (accessed 24 January 2018). Willerton, J.P. (2012), “Presidency”, in G. Gill and J. Young (eds.), Routledge Handbook of Russian Politics and Society (London: Routledge): 81–​91. Wilson, A. (2014), Ukraine Crisis: What it Means for the West (New Haven: Yale University Press). Wilson, K. (2021), “Is Vladimir Putin a Strong Leader?”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 37, 1: 80–​97. Wilson, K. and J. Lee (2020), “Questioning Putin’s Popularity: Presidential Approval in an Electoral Authoritarian Regime”, Problems of Post-​Communism 67, 1: 37–​52. World Bank Group, World Bank Open Data, https://​data.worldb​ank.org/​ (accessed 5 December 2021). World Bank Group, Worldwide Governance Indicators, https://​info.worldb​ank.org/​gov​erna​nce/​wgi/​ (accessed 5 December 2021).

74

75

7 THE RUSSIAN CONSTITUTION Elizabeth Teague

A constitution is the supreme law of a state, establishing the fundamental principles that determine how that state is governed. A constitution usually both creates and limits the powers and duties of central and local government and defines the rights of citizens. In her study of how constitutions are written, however, Linda Colley stresses that constitutions are “emphatically not innocent devices and never have been. From the outset … written constitutions have been as much to do with enabling varieties of power as they have been with restricting power” (Colley 2021, quoted in The London Review of Books, 1 April 2021: 3). Colley argues that constitutions are often adopted in response to violent conflicts, social unrest or intra-​elite strife, and in an effort to establish stability in times of trouble. Russia is no exception. Russia’s current constitution was adopted in 1993, following the 1991 dissolution of the Soviet Union, which saw the establishment of the Russian Federation (hereafter RF) as an independent state. Moves to draft the new constitution began in 1992, during a time of political turmoil, and proved highly controversial. Russian president Boris Yeltsin wanted a republic with a strong executive president. The opposition-​dominated parliament wanted, by contrast, a republic where the executive would have little independent authority. Failure to reach a compromise led to a full-​blown crisis in 1993. This peaked when Yeltsin dissolved the legislature, shelling the parliament building. Yeltsin published a draft constitution creating sweeping presidential powers at the expense of a parliament with greatly circumscribed powers. This was approved by a nationwide vote and entered into force on 25 December 1993, at the moment of its official publication. It remains in effect today. The 1993 Constitution was controversial from the outset because of the imbalance of powers it established between president and parliament. But while this prompted numerous calls for constitutional reform, the Constitution proved remarkably stable. Under the presidencies of Vladimir Putin (2000–​8 and 2012–​present) and Dmitry Medvedev (2008–​12), some minor amendments were made. The most significant were introduced by Medvedev in 2008, when the terms in office of the president and of the State Duma (the lower house of Russia’s bicameral parliament) were extended from four to six and five years, respectively. Medvedev did not, however, attempt to amend the provision that an individual might not serve more than two consecutive presidential terms. Putin repeatedly voiced caution about amending the Constitution. Rumours nonetheless bubbled up, increasingly provoked by speculation over how Putin would resolve the “2024 DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-9

75

76

Elizabeth Teague

problem” given that, as things stood, the limit of two consecutive terms meant that he would not be able to run again when his term expired in 2024. But then, in his annual address to the Federal Assembly (the two houses of parliament) on 15 January 2020, Putin unexpectedly announced that, while he saw no need for a new constitution, he wished to propose seven sets of amendments to the existing one (Putin 2020). First, he proposed that the provisions of international law and international treaties should be enforced on Russian territory only if they did not violate the Russian Constitution. Second, all Russian state officials should be forbidden to hold foreign citizenship, residence or bank accounts. Third, the minimum wage should not be lower than the subsistence level minimum and the indexation of pensions should be enshrined in the Constitution. Fourth, the status of the then vaguely defined State Council should be spelled out in the Constitution, enabling regional governors to play a larger role in forming federal policy. Fifth, Putin said there was widespread support for a greater parliamentary role in forming the government. He therefore proposed that the State Duma should be enabled to choose and confirm the prime minister and confirm the appointment of other federal ministers, and that the president would not have the right to reject candidates thus confirmed; the president would still, however, have the right to remove cabinet members for poor performance or loss of trust. Sixth, the president would appoint the heads of all “power ministries” (defined below) after consulting the upper house of parliament, the Federation Council. Last, Putin proposed strengthening the role of the Constitutional and Supreme Courts. He also stated that he considered it necessary “to consolidate the principles of a unified system of public power and to build effective cooperation between state and municipal bodies”. At the same time, he said, “the powers of local self-​government should be expanded and strengthened”. Putin noted that, in order for the Constitution to be amended, the proposals would need to be approved by both houses of parliament and by two-​thirds of the regional legislatures, and that the Constitutional Court should confirm that the amendments were consistent with the Constitution. Then, Putin said, the amendments should be put to a popular vote to ensure that the voice of the population was heard. Immediately following his speech, Putin signed an order setting up a working group, whose membership he himself approved, to draft the proposed amendments and consider additional proposals. It met for the first time on 16 January 2020. On 20 January, Putin submitted to the Duma his proposals entitled “On improving the regulation of various matters concerning the organisation of public power” (Zakonoproekt 2022). While “the unity of state power” was already embedded in Chapter 1 of the 1993 Constitution, the term “public power” introduced what proved to be a significant new concept, although no precise definition was offered at that time. Significant differences were already noticeable between what Putin had said in his original speech and what was in the document he submitted. While the amendments proposed would guarantee the supremacy of the Russian Constitution over the obligations of international treaties and strengthen the social obligations of the state, they would also expand the powers of the president over the government and the judiciary, place new responsibilities on parliament, and weaken the powers of regional governments. On 2 March 2020, Putin submitted to the Duma a package of amendments that was considerably longer than his original proposals, including new proposals such as an article lauding Russia’s millennium-​long history and pledging homage to the “ancestors who bequeathed to us their ideals and belief in God”. Another amendment described marriage as a “union of a man and a woman”, thereby confirming traditional values and effectively outlawing same-​sex marriage. Children were defined as the state’s priority and should be raised to be healthy, patriotic and respectful of their elders. And in line with calls to outlaw disparagement of the Soviet 76

77

The Russian Constitution

Union’s role in World War Two, an article was added pledging to protect historical truth and forbid “belittling the people’s heroic protection of the Fatherland”. The Russian language, already defined in the 1993 Constitution as the state language, was singled out as “the language of the state-​forming people”. Another amendment made it illegal for Russia to give away any part of its territory to a foreign power, an addition clearly related to Russia’s 2014 annexation of Crimea from Ukraine and its long-​going dispute with Japan over the Kuril Islands. On 10 March 2020, the State Duma met to discuss the proposed amendments (Vedomosti 2020) in the second reading –​when lawmakers are able to make substantial changes to draft legislation. Most sensational was that Valentina Tereshkova, 83-​year-​old Duma deputy and the world’s first female cosmonaut, proposed either to remove the presidential two-​term limit from the Constitution or to re-​set the clock by “zeroing out” the four terms that Putin was soon about to have served. Invited to the Duma, Putin rejected the removal of term limits but agreed to Tereshkova’s “zeroing out”. The final text stated that “[o]‌ne and the same person may not hold the office of president more than twice”, but added a special proviso for previous presidents. This meant that, should Putin (or Medvedev) so choose, he could run again for president not only in 2024 but also in 2030, potentially keeping him in power until 2036. The following day, the Duma approved the bill in the third and final reading. This was then approved by the Federation Council and the regional parliaments. It was signed by Putin on 14 March, and the Constitutional Court ruled that the amendments were constitutional. On 16 March, the Constitution was officially published in its new format (Rossiiskaya Federatsiya 2020). However, Putin had said that there must a nationwide vote to bring the amendments into force. This was initially delayed by the coronavirus epidemic but was eventually held on 25 June–​1 July 2020; 79 percent of votes were in favour and the amended Constitution entered into force on 4 July 2020. Once the amendments were adopted, the process began of implementing them by amending existing federal legislation and writing new pieces thereof (for details, see Noble and Petrov 2021).

How the Constitution is structured The constitution has nine chapters. Chapters 1, 2 and 9 stand apart since their content is deemed essential to ensure Russia’s existence as an independent state and, according to Chapter 9, their amendment requires special procedures; these procedures are not however specified, making it virtually impossible to amend Chapters 1, 2 and 9. Chapter 1 “The Foundations of the Constitutional System” defines the RF as “a democratic, federal, law-​bound state with a republican form of government”.1 It stresses that “man, his rights and freedoms are the supreme value”, that all citizens shall have equal rights, freedoms and duties as laid down in the Constitution, and that it is the obligation of the state to protect these rights and freedoms. It asserts the democratic nature of the Russian state by stating that its “multinational people” are the sole bearer of sovereignty and source of power; they “exercise their power both directly and through the bodies of state power and local self-​government … by means of referendums and free elections”. It enshrines the separation of powers between the legislature, executive and judiciary. Russia’s constitution and federal laws “shall have supremacy throughout the whole of the RF” and the federation is based on “the unity of the system of state power … and the equality and self-​determination of peoples in the RF”. “State power” is described as “exercised on the basis of its division into legislative, executive and judicial power”, the bodies of which “shall be independent”. “Local self-​government shall be independent within the limits of its powers” 77

78

Elizabeth Teague

and “[b]‌odies of local self-​government shall not form part of the system of bodies of state power”. This was clearly contradicted in 2020, when Chapter 8 was amended to state that “[o] rgans of local self-​government and organs of state power are part of a unified system of public power”. No definition was given in the amendments of 2020 either of “public power” or of how it differs from “state power”, but the insertion of the words “unified system” portended a significant decrease in the independence of local self-​government. This was borne out in December 2020 when, as explained below, federal legislation defining the “unified system of public power” was adopted (Federal’nyi zakon 2020). This was accordingly one of several places where the amendments of 2020 contradicted principles laid down in the 1993 Constitution. Chapter 1 commits the state to protect people’s labour and health, establish guaranteed minimum wages and salaries, ensure state support for mothers, fathers, children, the disabled and elderly, ensure state pensions and other social security guarantees. Since Chapter 1 is very difficult to amend, Chapter 3 was amended in 2020 to say that the state guarantees all citizens a minimum wage at least the value of the living wage, and that state pensions will be adjusted at least once annually to keep pace with increases in consumer prices. These amendments were seen as sweeteners intended to foster popular support for the amendments as a whole. Chapter 1 states that Russia may have no state or obligatory ideology; political diversity will be recognised; and there will be a multiparty system. It declares that the RF is a secular state and that “[n]‌o religion may be established as a state or obligatory one”. In response to a call by the Russian Orthodox Church to include a reference to God in the Constitution, Chapter 3 was however amended in 2020 to pledge homage to “the ancestors who bequeathed to us their ideals and belief in God”. Chapter 1 asserts the supremacy of the Constitution throughout the RF. But it also states (and Chapter 2 follows up on this) that “[u]‌niversally-​recognised principles and norms of international law and the international agreements of the RF shall be a component part of its legal system. If an international agreement of the RF establishes rules other than those provided for by law, the rules of the international agreement shall be applied”. There was already, therefore, a clash in the constitution over whether priority should be given to international law or to the Russian Constitution. This had provoked controversy, notably over certain decisions of the European Court of Human Rights (ECtHR) and, in 2015, the Constitutional Court ruled that, while Russia was legally bound by the European Convention on Human Rights, it might ignore judgments of the ECtHR if they were judged to conflict with the Constitution. Chapter 3 was accordingly amended in 2020 to state that “[d]ecisions of interstate bodies adopted on the basis of the provisions of international treaties of the RF that in their interpretation contradict the constitution of the RF shall not be subject to execution in the RF”. As William Partlett (2021) and Ben Noble and Nikolay Petrov (2021) note, this was just one example of the constitutionalisation of already existing practice that characterised a number of the 2020 amendments. Chapter 2 “The Rights and Freedoms of Man and the Citizen” spells out rights including equality of all before the law, equal rights for men and women, the right to life, the right to freedom of thought, speech and religion, the right to vote and to peaceful assembly, the right to private property, the presumption of innocence, and a ban on censorship. These rights “shall be recognised and guaranteed in the RF according to the universally recognised principles and norms of international law”. It also states that Russian citizens may not be deported or extradited from Russia to another state. Chapter 3 “The Federal Structure” defines the federal authorities’ responsibilities. These include exercising executive and judicial authority, protecting the rights and freedoms of citizens and of national minorities, managing foreign policy and international relations, managing 78

79

The Russian Constitution

defence and security, controlling Russia’s borders, managing the federal budget and the tax system, and controlling information technology, communications and nuclear energy. Chapter 3 also identifies responsibilities that fall under the joint jurisdiction of both federal and regional governments. The 1993 Constitution stated that the component bodies of the federal and regional governments “shall form a single system of executive power of the RF”. The Constitution thus already envisioned an essentially unitary system, with subnational units having regional representation but within a strong unitary framework. However, local government was not included therein. In 2020 Chapter 3 was amended to state that the responsibilities of the federal authorities include “the organisation of public power in the federal regions” which “shall be established by the relevant federal law”. In November 2021, a bill entitled “On the general principles of the organisation of public power in the subjects of the RF” was submitted to the State Duma (RIA Novosti 2021; Zakonoproekt 2021a). It effectively indicated that “the organisation of public power” meant establishing a “power vertical” throughout the country and removing autonomous power from government bodies at lower levels. Many commentators saw this as signifying the abolition of Russia as a federation. It was followed in December 2021 by another new bill entitled “On the general principles of the organisation of local self-​government in the system of public power” (Zakonoproekt 2021b), which stripped local self-​government of the independence that it is supposedly guaranteed in Chapter 1. The 1993 Constitution guaranteed “the right of all the peoples to preserve their native languages’, but this was amended in 2020 to define the Russian language not only as the state language but also as “the language of the state-​forming people”, thereby giving the Russian nation enhanced recognition. The amendments “preserving the memory of [our] ancestors”, protecting “historical truth” and effectively outlawing same-​sex marriage have already been mentioned. Chapter 3 now also requires Russia to support and protect the rights of compatriots living abroad. Chapter 4 “The President of the RF” describes the president as the protector of Russia’s sovereignty, independence and state integrity. The 1993 Constitution stated that the president “ensures the coordinated functioning and interaction of the bodies of state power”. These last four words were amended in 2020 to read “bodies included in the unified system of public power”. Although its meaning was not spelled out at the time, this amendment subsequently proved highly significant because of its implications for legislation introduced in 2021 on the centralisation of power, as discussed below. Chapter 4 goes on to state that the president “determines the basic direction of the state’s internal and foreign policies”. He has direct control over defence, security, internal affairs and foreign policy. He is Supreme Commander-​in-​ Chief of the armed forces and appoints and dismisses their supreme command, approves the RF’s military doctrine, signs international treaties, and appoints and recalls Russia’s diplomatic representatives to foreign states and international organisations. He may, with the approval of the Federation Council, declare a state of emergency but merely informs parliament about the imposition of martial law. The president may submit draft laws to the State Duma. He may also issue binding presidential legislation that does not require parliamentary approval provided it does not contradict federal law. He signs all federal legislation into force. The president has the right to veto federal laws, but his veto may be overridden by a qualified majority vote of two-​thirds of both chambers of parliament, at which point he must sign the law. As noted below, however, Chapter 5 was amended in 2020 to state that the president may, before signing, refer a federal law or federal constitutional law to the Constitutional Court. If the Court finds that the text conforms to the Constitution, the president is obliged to sign it into law (unless it is a federal 79

80

Elizabeth Teague

law, which he may still veto); if the Constitutional Court finds that the text is inconsistent with the Constitution, the president returns it to parliament. Chapter 4 was amended in 2020 to state that the president “exercises general leadership of the government of the RF”. In the Constitution’s original version, the president appointed the prime minister “with the agreement of the State Duma”. This was amended in 2020 to state that the president “appoints the prime minister whose candidacy is approved by the State Duma on the proposal of the president”. This makes it clear that the president chooses the candidate, not the Duma. So, while the Duma could approve the president’s choice (or, indeed, reject it), the 2020 amendment did not increase the Duma’s power. The powers of the Duma were originally restricted: if it refused three times to confirm the president’s nominee for prime minister, the president might dissolve the Duma and call new parliamentary elections. Putin in January 2020 called for the Duma to be granted more power in this respect, but no such amendment was adopted. Rather, Chapter 6 was amended in 2020 to state that, if the Duma rejects the president’s chosen candidate or the prime minister’s nominees for other federal ministers three times, the president may not only dismiss the Duma and call fresh elections but may also appoint both his nominee as prime minister and the ministers nominated by the prime minister. This weakened the Duma’s power. Chapter 4 was also amended in 2020 to state that the president may dismiss the prime minister at will. The president exercises general leadership of the government, including his power to “approve, at the proposal of the prime minister, the structure of federal executive bodies, and to make changes thereto”. With Duma approval, he appoints deputy prime ministers and heads of federal ministries, except for the heads of the so-​called power ministries. These are the Ministries of Defence, Foreign Affairs, Interior, Justice, Emergency Situations, and the security and intelligence services; their appointments are made by the president following “consultation” with the Federation Council (note that “approval” represents significantly greater influence than “consultation”). The president may dismiss these ministers at will. The president presents to the Federation Council his candidates for the posts of chair, deputy chair and judges of the Constitutional and Supreme Courts. A 2020 amendment now allows the president to request the Federation Council to dismiss any of these judges, albeit for cause. Previously, this procedure could be initiated only by the judges themselves. This new presidential power was seen as seriously violating the fundamental principle that judges should be independent from other branches of state power (Mishina 2020). The president appoints the Prosecutor General, his deputies, the prosecutors in Russia’s regions, and “military and other specialised prosecutors” after consulting the Federation Council. He may, however, dismiss any of them at will. The president presents to the Duma for its approval his nominees for heads of the Central Bank and Accounts Chamber and may also request the Duma to dismiss them. Chapter 4 was amended in 2020 to state that the president “forms the Security Council of the RF in order to assist the president in protecting the sovereignty, independence and state integrity of the RF, and preventing internal and external threats”. The Security Council, which had been only briefly mentioned in the 1993 Constitution, had since come to play a significant role in the formation of Russian foreign and security policy. Another 2020 amendment attracted considerable attention since it officially recognised the State Council, which had not previously been mentioned in the Constitution. The State Council had been set up by Putin as an advisory body in September 2000, but its role had been unclear. The 2020 amendment echoes the president’s role since it states that the State Council will “determine the main principles of domestic and foreign policy”. The president has the sole right to appoint the State Council members. Its inclusion in the 2020 amendments provoked 80

81

The Russian Constitution

speculation that Putin might move to the State Council should he decide to stand down as president in 2024. The functions of the State Council were formally defined in a federal law adopted in December 2020 (Federal’nyi zakon 2020). This legislation was doubly significant since it was used to define the nature of the “unified system of public power”, which, as detailed elsewhere, effectively strips local self-​government of the independence assured it in Chapter 1. The 1993 Constitution guaranteed the president immunity from prosecution while in office. This was amended in 2020 to grant a former president continuing immunity for his activities while in office, though he may be stripped of immunity by the Federation Council “on the basis of charges by the State Duma of treason or another serious crime, confirmed by the Supreme Court and by a decision of the Constitutional Court”. On leaving office, however, a president may choose life membership of the Federation Council and thereby gain lifetime immunity, albeit not unqualified. To recap, the 1993 Constitution granted substantial powers to the president not least because of the controversial circumstances in which it was adopted. In January 2020, Putin said he intended to reduce those powers. In fact, he strengthened them still further. In March 2021, the Venice Commission –​the advisory body of the Council of Europe on constitutional matters –​issued a highly critical assessment of Russia’s 2020 constitutional amendments. They had, the Commission wrote, “disproportionately strengthened the position of the president … and done away with some of the checks and balances originally foreseen in the constitution. … Taken together, [the amendments] go far beyond what is appropriate under the principle of separation of powers”. For example, the Commission wrote, the amendment enabling the president to dismiss high-​ranking judges represented “a danger to the rule of law in the RF” (Council of Europe 2021). Chapter 5 “The Federal Assembly” lays out the powers and responsibilities of Russia’s bicameral parliament consisting of the Federation Council (upper house) and the State Duma (lower house). The Federation Council is portrayed as the collective voice of the regions, representing their interests at federal level. It consists of two representatives (officially known from 2020 as senators) appointed by each of Russia’s 85 federal subjects. Under a 2020 amendment, the president may appoint an additional thirty senators, of whom as many as seven may have life-​ time membership, the others having six-​year terms. The Federation Council works with the State Duma to pass proposed legislation. A bill may originate in either legislative chamber or be submitted by the president, government, local legislatures, or the Constitutional or Supreme Courts, but it is first considered by the Duma and adopted by a majority vote before being referred to the Federation Council. The Federation Council may approve a bill by a majority vote; the Duma may also deem a bill approved if the Federation Council does not disapprove it within two weeks. A federal constitutional law (that is, a special law enacted on an important topic, as defined in the Constitution) requires a two-​ thirds Duma vote and three-​quarters Federation Council majority. If the Federation Council disapproves a federal law, the Duma can override that with a two-​thirds majority vote, or the two chambers can form a Conciliation Committee to draft a compromise document, which will again be put to the vote in both houses. Once appropriately approved, the law passes to the president for signature. The president may veto a law, although this may be overridden by a two-​thirds vote in the legislature. As noted above, an amendment in 2020 gave the president the right to refer both federal laws and federal constitutional laws to the Constitutional Court for a ruling on their constitutionality. If the text is found to conform to the Constitution, the president must sign it into law (unless it is a federal law, which he may still veto); if the text is found to be inconsistent with the Constitution, it is returned to parliament. 81

82

Elizabeth Teague

This gives the president additional leverage, since it means that he can use the Constitutional Court to reject a law that does not please him. For ordinary federal law, the president still has the right to veto (which can be overridden as detailed above). Previously, the president had to sign any federal constitutional law that the parliament sent to him (the justification being that it had already passed with higher than normal majorities), but now he can at least delay his decision while the Constitutional Court (over whose judges the president has considerable influence) assesses the matter; if the Court rejects the law’s constitutionality, the president sends it back to the parliament for a rethink. If the Constitutional Court approves a federal constitutional law, then the president must sign it. The Federation Council needs to approve a presidential decree on introducing a state of emergency but must merely be informed before the imposition of martial law; it rules on the deployment of Russian armed forces abroad; it calls presidential elections; and it may impeach the president. The Federation Council appoints the president’s nominees for judges of the Constitutional and Supreme Courts and other top judges. In 2020, the Federation Council was additionally given the power to terminate these judges’ powers (albeit for cause) following a proposal by the president, thereby increasing presidential leverage, particularly since “cause” includes “besmirching judicial honour and dignity”, a potentially flexible standard. Another 2020 amendment reduced the Federation Council’s input into the appointment of the Prosecutor General, his deputies, regional and other senior prosecutors from “consent” to “being consulted on their candidacies”. As of 2020, the Federation Council will be consulted by the president on the president’s candidates for the posts of heads of the “power ministries” detailed above. This was a potentially significant amendment giving important power to the Federation Council. The State Duma, which consists of 450 members popularly elected for five years, plays a more public and arguably more significant role than the Federation Council, since it plays a leading role in the adoption of federal legislation. The Duma monitors the activity of the government, which submits the federal budget to the Duma for approval. The Duma approves, on the proposal of the president, the candidacy of the prime minister, who is then appointed by the president. In 2020, the Duma’s powers were increased by adding that it would also consider the president’s candidates for all government members with the exception, as mentioned above, of the heads of the “power ministries”, whose appointments are subject to consultation with the Federation Council. Chapter 6 “The Government of the RF” states that the government is subordinate to the president, who determines the direction of both foreign and domestic policy. The opening words of Chapter 6, which in 1993 stated that “executive power shall be exercised by the government of the RF”, were supplemented in 2020 to read “under the general leadership of the president”. Another 2020 amendment makes the prime minister personally responsible to the president, further stressing the president’s authority over the executive. Chapter 6 outlines the responsibilities of the government as follows: the government drafts the federal budget, submits it to the Duma, implements the budget, and reports annually to the Duma on its implementation; the government ensures the implementation of a uniform financial, credit and monetary policy and of a unified, socially oriented (“socially oriented” was added in 2020) state policy in the areas of culture, science, education, healthcare, social security and environmental protection. Additional responsibilities added in 2020 include supporting, strengthening and protecting the family, preserving traditional family values, and ensuring social protection for people with disabilities. Chapter 6 states that “[t]‌he government directs the activities of the federal executive bodies, with the exception of those managed by the president”.

82

83

The Russian Constitution

This underlines the fact that the government focuses on economic and social issues, while the president oversees international, defence and security matters. Chapter 6 states that the State Duma may vote to express no confidence in the government, in which case the president may either dismiss the government or ignore the Duma. If within three months the Duma again expresses no confidence in the government, then the president must either dismiss the government or dissolve the Duma and call fresh parliamentary elections. Chapter 7 “Judicial Authority and the Procuracy” calls for a strong and independent judiciary consisting of the Constitutional and Supreme Courts of the RF, federal courts of general jurisdiction, commercial courts, and district and regional courts. According to the Constitution, judges shall be independent and should, when making their decisions, follow only the constitution and federal law. Open and fair trials, as well as equal application of the law to all parties, are promised. The Constitutional Court resolves cases and disputes where constitutional norms are at play, for example between the higher bodies of state authority and the Russian regions or between the regions themselves. At the request of the president, the Constitutional Court checks the constitutionality of draft legislation before it is signed into law by the president. Originally, the Constitutional Court consisted of nineteen judges, but in 2020 this was reduced to eleven. The Supreme Court is the highest judicial body for civil cases, the resolution of economic disputes, criminal and administrative cases. Constitutional and Supreme Court judges are appointed by the Federation Council on the proposal of the president. Other federal judges are appointed by the president. An amendment adopted in 2020 empowered the president to request the Federation Council to dismiss the chairs, deputy chairs and other judges of the Constitutional and Supreme Courts and other federal courts; as explained above, this amendment was seen as seriously violating the principle that judges should be independent from other branches of state power. Another amendment made in 2020 empowered the Constitutional Court to ignore decisions made by international courts if the Constitutional Court deems them not to be in accord with “the fundamentals of public order”. This expands on the Constitutional Court’s power to disapply decisions of interstate bodies (such as the ECtHR) if these are deemed to be inconsistent with the Russian Constitution, which the Constitutional Court had been able to do since 2015 when its governing law was changed. While this amendment provoked considerable comment in 2020, it was one of several instances where the constitution was in fact amended to codify the already established status quo. Chapter 7 states that the Prosecutor General’s Office is a single, federal, centralised system of bodies that oversees compliance with the constitution and the enforcement of laws and that prosecutes where these laws are infringed. Originally, the Prosecutor General and his deputies were appointed and dismissed by the Federation Council on the president’s recommendation. As of 2020, they are appointed by the president after consultation with the Federation Council but dismissed by the president alone, thereby further increasing his power and reducing that of parliament. In addition, the 2020 amendments state that regional, military and other prosecutors shall in future be appointed by the president after consultation with the Federation Council but may be dismissed by the president alone. This represents a loss of power for the Prosecutor General and for the Russian regions in particular, since under the 1993 Constitution the Prosecutor General appointed regional prosecutors by agreement with the regional authorities. Chapter 8 “Local Self-​Government” states, according to the 1993 Constitution, that “[t]‌he structure of local governments is determined by the population independently”. This was

83

84

Elizabeth Teague

amended in 2020 to state (without further clarification at the time) that local self-​government bodies must now act “in accordance with the general principles of local government established by federal law”. From now on, the 2020 amendments stated, “bodies of local self-​government and of state power are part of a unified system of public power and cooperate in order to achieve the most effective resolution of matters in the interests of the local population”. Another 2020 amendment stated that “[s]‌tate authorities may participate in the formation of local governments, the appointment and dismissal of local government officials in the manner established by federal law”. The implications of this first became clear with the adoption in December 2020 of the federal law on the State Council, which defined the unified system of public power as incorporating federal government bodies, governing bodies of the Russian regions, and local self-​government bodies into a single system. The implications were further spelled out in late 2021 with the enactment of laws aimed at definitively increasing the control of the federal authorities over regional and local governments. It is often said that Russia is too large and complex a country to be efficiently run from a single centre. However, Putin is believed to oppose federalism because of the conclusions he drew from the collapse of the USSR, which in 2005 he called “the greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the twentieth century” and which he supposedly saw as provoked by aspirations for independence among the then Soviet republics. Putin reportedly concluded that regional autonomy could represent a similar threat to the unity of the RF today. The amendments of 2020 and resulting legislation of late 2020 and 2021 may be seen as the latest moves in Putin’s two-​decade, ongoing campaign to centralise power. Not least, they may be seen as Putin’s aspiration to establish his personal legacy as “gatherer of the lands” in the footsteps of Grand Prince Ivan III and Emperor Peter the Great. Chapter 9 “Constitutional Amendments and Revision of the Constitution” lays out the procedure for amending the Constitution. Chapters 1, 2 and 9 may be amended only following the convocation of a Constitutional Assembly. The Constitution does not, however, state how a Constitutional Assembly should be convoked. Rather, it stipulates that a federal constitutional law should establish the procedure. So far, no such law has been adopted, not least because defining a Constitutional Assembly would mean amending Chapter 9, which can be done only by a Constitutional Assembly, thereby creating a catch-​22 dilemma. Chapters 3–​8, however, may be amended by qualified majority votes in the Federal Assembly (two-​thirds in the State Duma and three-​quarters in the Federation Council) plus ratification by the legislatures of at least two-​thirds of the federal subjects, after which they are signed into law by the president.

Conclusion The Russian Constitution of 1993 granted extensive powers to the president of the federation. This came about as a result of the tumultuous circumstances in which the constitution was adopted. The amendments made in 2020 further strengthened the powers of the president while reducing those of other government branches. Bearing out Linda Colley’s argument that constitutions are rarely “innocent devices”, the 2020 amendments may be seen to have served Putin’s interests because they granted him the possibility to remain in power for two more presidential terms but also enabled him to postpone making a decision and thereby to keep the elite guessing about his future intentions. Even more importantly, it became clear, as the 2020 amendments were codified into law, not only that they constitutionalised a number of already existing practices, but that they would have significant impact on the political system as a whole. Presidential power would be further strengthened and, since the president would act over and above the executive, 84

85

The Russian Constitution

legislative and judicial bodies, the separation of powers would be called into question. The increased personalisation of power in the hands of a single individual would weaken the rule of law. The establishment of a “unified system of public power” would undermine the independence of Russia’s regional and local governments, and it would turn Russia from a federal to a unitary state.

Acknowledgements The author is deeply grateful to Jane Henderson for her detailed and inspiring advice on an earlier draft of this chapter. She is much indebted to Graeme Gill, Ben Noble, Nikolay Petrov, Cameron Ross and Carolina Vendil Pallin for their advice and encouragement. She thanks Brill Publishing for permission to cite her article on the constitutional amendments published in the journal Russian Politics.

Note 1 Democracy describes a form of government in which the population has the right to discuss and decide on legislation and/​or to elect or dismiss government officials to do so on their behalf. A federation is a state in which power is divided between the central government and the governments of the constituent regions. A republic is a state in which power is held by the people and their elected representatives and which is led by an elected leader rather than by a monarch.

References Colley, L. (2021), The Gun, the Ship and the Pen: Warfare, Constitutions and the Making of the Modern World (London: Profile Books). Council of Europe (2021), “Venice Commission Adopts New Opinion on 2020 Constitutional Amendments and the Procedure for their Adoption in the Russian Federation”, 23 March, www.coe.int/​en/​web/​mos​cow/​-​/​ven​ice-​com​miss​ion-​ado​pts-​new-​opin​ion-​on-​2020-​con​stit​utio​nal-​ame​ ndme​nts-​and-​the-​proced​ure-​for-​their-​adopt​ion-​in-​the-​russ​ian-​fed​erat​ion. Federal’nyi zakon (2020), “O Gosudarstvennom sovete Rossiiskoi Federatsii”, No. 394-​FZ, 8 December, www.krem​lin.ru/​acts/​bank/​46186. Mishina, E. (2020), “How Putin’s Constitutional Amendments Affect the Judiciary”, Institute of Modern Russia, 4 August, https://​imrus​sia.org/​en/​analy​sis/​3147-​how-​putin%E2%80%99s-​con​stit​utio​nal-​ame​ ndme​nts-​aff​ect-​the-​judici​ary. Noble, B. and N. Petrov (2021), “From Constitution to Law: Implementing the 2020 Russian Constitutional Changes”, Russian Politics 6, 1: 130–​52. Partlett, W. (2021), “Russia’s 2020 Constitutional Amendments: A Comparative Analysis”, Cambridge Yearbook of European Legal Studies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) 23: 311–​42. Putin, V. (2020), “Poslanie Prezidenta Federal’nomu Sobraniyu”, Kremlin.ru, 15 January, http://​krem​lin. ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​62582. RIA Novosti (2021), “Gosduma prinyala v I chtenii zakonoproekt o regional’noi vlasti”, 9 November, https://​r ia.ru/​20211​109/​gosd​uma-​175​8230​843.html. Rossiiskaya Federatsiya (2020), Zakon Rossiiskoi Federatsii o popravke k konstitutsii Rossiiskoi Federatsii, http://​ sta​tic.krem​lin.ru/​media/​eve​nts/​files/​ru/​2fZya​W9dq​V1AA​EuvM​fATC​KONA​cAbT​dCa.pdf. Russia (Federation) (1993), The Constitution of the Russian Federation (adopted by referendum, December 1993), www.const​itut​ion.ru/​index.htm (in Russian) and www.const​itut​ion.ru/​en/​10003​000-​01.htm (in English). Russia (Federation) (2020), The Constitution of the Russian Federation (adopted by referendum, December 1993, with amendments approved by referendum, July 2020), https://​rg.ru/​2020/​07/​04/​konst​ituc​ iya-​site-​dok.html (in Russian) and https://​r m.coe.int/​const​itut​ion-​of-​the-​russ​ian-​fed​erat​ion-​en/​168​ 0a1a​237 (in English). Vedomosti (2020), “Konstitutsiya Rossiiskoi Federatsii. Polnyi tekst so vsemi popravkami”, 10 March, www.vedomo​sti.ru/​soci​ety/​artic​les/​2020/​03/​10/​824​662-​konsti​tuts​iya-​pol​nii-​tekst-​pop​ravk​ami.

85

86

Elizabeth Teague Zakonoproekt (2021a), “Ob obshchikh printsipakh organizatsii publichnoi vlasti v sub”ektakh Rossiiskoi Federatsii”, Zakonoproekt No. 1256381-​ 7, Sistema obespecheniya zakonodatel’noi deyatel’nosti, https://​sozd.duma.gov.ru/​bill/​1256​381-​7. Zakonoproekt (2021b), “Ob obshchikh printsipakh organizatsii mestnogo samoupravleniya v edinoi sisteme publichnoi vlasti”, Zakonoproekt No. 40361-​ 8, Sistema obespecheniya zakonodatel’noi deyatel’nosti, https://​sozd.duma.gov.ru/​bill/​40361-​8. Zakonoproekt (2022), “O sovershenstvovanii regulirovaniya otdel’nykh voprosov organisatsii i funktsionirovaniya publichnoi vlasti”, Zakonoproekt No. 885214-​ 7, Sistema obespecheniya zakonodatel’noi deyatel’nosti, https://​sozd.duma.gov.ru/​bill/​885​214-​7.

86

87

8 THE PRESIDENCY John P. Willerton

Russia’s political system, with a strong emphasis on executive authority, is led by a powerful federal-​level executive, the president, whose extensive formal powers and informal influences cumulate to a “hegemonic” position for the country’s head of state and chief executive. The continuing centrality to the country’s political and socioeconomic life of the president and the supporting presidential administration is a core feature of contemporary Russian reality. Russia’s “paramount leader,” President Vladimir Putin, has been the most important figure not only in fashioning Russia’s post-​Soviet presidency and executive branch, but in setting the norms of Russia’s twenty-​first century political system. Putin’s presidencies have entailed the bulk of the post-​Soviet period, with the Putin team having governed since 2000. Putin’s power and authority are not only grounded in a hegemonic presidency but are based on strong elite and public support, and it could be argued no Russian leader has amassed such formidable power since Joseph Stalin. Meanwhile, neither of post-​Soviet Russia’s other two presidents, Boris Yeltsin (1991–​9) and Dmitry Medvedev (2008–​12), had the authority enjoyed by Putin, though Yeltsin was a historically consequential figure who left a strong mark on the emergence of the post-​Soviet Russian Federation and in ensuring a strong presidency and executive. Medvedev, in contrast, while an energetic member of the Putin team, ultimately proved to be a president of more passing consequence. While Medvedev is associated with a few significant actions and policy initiatives, after four years in office, he declined to run for re-​election and, instead, nominated Putin to be the presidential candidate of their party, United Russia. While there are differences in leadership style and even gravitas among the various Russian presidents, and while each president has had an impact on the federal executive, the presidency itself has remained institutionally strong and highly influential in all aspects of governance. More than thirty years into the post-​Soviet political experience, the position and responsibilities of the head of state, the country’s president, continue the centuries-​old tradition of having a strong figure with overriding (“hegemonic”) power guiding the polity (Shevtsova 2005; Hale 2015; Gel’man 2016). Post-​Soviet Russia adopted a semi-​presidential political system, set out in the 1993 Yeltsin Constitution, with executive powers divided between a popularly elected head of state –​the president –​and a president-​nominated and parliament-​approved head of government –​the prime minister (Huskey 1999). In its institutional logic, the Russian semi-​presidential system bears some formal similarity to that of France and other Western semi-​presidential systems DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-10

87

88

John P. Willerton

(Ogushi 2009). With the president-​nominated prime minister needing majority support of the parliament to assume office as head of government, the president is in a strong position to structure both the composition and programme of the federal government. It is the president and prime minister who together determine the composition of the government –​the Cabinet of Ministers –​with the president now having formal powers to select some members (mainly ministers of foreign affairs and defence), while the prime minister and parliament (State Duma) weigh in on others. Since 1992, eleven men (excluding Boris Yeltsin, who simultaneously served as president and prime minister, 25 December 1991 to 15 June 1992) have held the position of prime minister, during which time there have been only three presidents. All officials who served as prime minister brought considerable administrative prowess to the office, though only Vladimir Putin, serving as Dmitry Medvedev’s prime minister (May 2008–​May 2012) enjoyed a public standing approximating (and surpassing) that of the president himself. These prime ministers are critical members of the executive in managing a large and diverse constellation of government officials who set out and administer policy, but it is the president who provides the vision and determines the broad contours of the federal government’s policy programme. To date, all evidence suggests good-​to-​excellent working relations between the three presidents and all of their prime ministers, while the post-​1991 policy programmes of the Yeltsin–​Putin–​Medvedev teams have been successfully developed and applied by the various governments. An observer could not be faulted in sensing an apparent Russian systemic contradiction between a “hegemonic presidency” and a semi-​presidential system with seeming power-​sharing between the president and prime minister. But this de jure power-​sharing should not confuse anyone as to the de facto power of the country’s chief executive, who enjoys “hegemonic” institutional power and who can rise to a “paramount” leadership position if that chief executive enjoys the widespread support of both the elite and the public. Neither Yeltsin nor Medvedev rose to such a paramount standing, but Putin has. During times of perceived policy success (such as the holding of the 2014 Sochi Olympics and the 2018 World Cup) and perceived policy failure (such as the ill-​fated 2018 pension reform), Putin’s paramount leadership position was evident. It was also evident during arguably the most fateful policy initiative of the Putin presidency: the February 2022 Russian recognition of the two breakaway Donbas regions as independent states and the related Russian move into Ukraine. Looking back, and looking ahead, our effort to understand the real and potential powers of the federal presidency necessitates an ongoing assessment of the institutional strength of the presidency combined with the political standing of the position’s current occupant. Boris Yeltsin’s often poor public standing and personal weaknesses severely compromised his ability throughout much of his tenure to use the hegemonic presidency to effect desired policy ends. In contrast, Vladimir Putin’s political strengths and high public standing, joined with the full range of prerogatives of the federal presidency, enabled him to move an ambitious institutional and policy agenda throughout his presidential terms. Meanwhile, Medvedev’s ability to manoeuvre as president was aided by the presence of the well-​regarded Prime Minister Putin at his side. Neither Yeltsin nor Putin were significantly constrained by the prime ministers who served them, while Medvedev was aided by the power logic of the so-​called “Medvedev–​Putin tandem” governing Russia. As Russia moves through the third decade of the Putin team’s governance, we can see hallmark institutional norms and predictable policy preferences that are at the heart of the functioning of Russia’s semi-​ presidential system. The country’s political system has been reconsolidated, with an increasingly coherent comprehensive policy programme effectuating profound root-​and-​branch change for the economy, society, and Russia’s international position. 88

89

The presidency

Moving through the so-​called “Time of Troubles” of the Yeltsin 1990s, as Russia transitioned out of the collapsed Soviet political-​economic-​social system, major Putin first presidency initiatives, through (a) an enforced, reformed tax system that yielded a major inflow of revenues to the federal state, (b) a well-​funded “stabilisation fund” that left a considerable reserve for the polity and society to withstand predictable economic downturns, and (c) the establishment of high-​profile domestic investment programmes (the Four Priority Projects), yielded evident socioeconomic advances that continued through the Medvedev and second Putin presidencies (see Willerton et al 2021). Both at the macro and micro levels, Russians were aware of a turnaround of the country’s domestic scene, tied with a bolstered standing for Russia internationally. While bedeviled with continuing domestic problems, including widespread corruption and bureaucratic inefficiencies, Putin, the country’s paramount leader, enjoyed high levels of elite and public attitudinal support, the ups and downs in Putin’s national standing never fundamentally altering the hegemonic position of the presidency and the federal executive within which it is nested (Levada Analytical Center website).

Presidential Administration and government The hegemonic presidency spans an array of institutions and officials, its formal powers grounded in the 1993 Constitution (Articles 80–​93). The semi-​presidential system de jure divides executive political responsibilities between a president (and subordinate administration), who is head of state and who sets out the broad contours and directions of policy, and a prime minister (and government), which are responsible for developing, implementing, and managing policies. The decision-​making primacy of the president is assumed in this system, and this certainly has proven true for the entire post-​Soviet period. The early years of the new Russian Federation witnessed a struggle between the presidency and the legislature, then titled the Congress of People’s Deputies with a Supreme Soviet, over the relative positions of the two federal governmental branches, with a dramatic showdown in October 1993 resulting in bloodshed in Moscow and the arrest of many legislators. But the outcome of the struggle, combined with a December 1993 popular federal referendum that approved a new executive branch-​drafted constitution, codified the powerful presidency. With the president possessing the powers to nominate and remove the prime minister, the de jure and de facto deference of the prime minister, who was also responsible to the State Duma that had to approve the prime minister’s nomination, was assumed. Meanwhile, the 1993 Constitution gave the presidency a bolstered position because it noted the legal superiority of the chief executive vis-​à-​vis other formal actors (notably the parliament), with the presidency possessing various means (including presidential decrees, legislative proposals and vetoes) by which to manoeuvre independently and advance its agenda. Subsequent amendments to the Constitution have further codified the strength of the presidency, though some amendments have also codified a more complex positioning of both executive and legislative actors (Birmontėne 2020). A number of subsequent Putin-​period institutional adjustments further strengthened the president’s position (including the president’s nomination of members of the Constitutional Court and a more explicit detailing of the president’s role in selecting top governmental ministers), but these changes only modestly expanded the already advantageous position of the head of state. The 1993 Constitution specified that the president “defines the basic directions of the domestic and foreign policy of the state,” while, as head of state and commander-​in-​ chief of the armed forces, the president could declare a state of emergency and martial law, call for referenda, and even suspend the decisions of other state bodies if their actions violated the Constitution or federal law. Meanwhile, the president directed the federal government 89

90

John P. Willerton

through supervision of the prime minister and other ministers (in particular, the ministers of foreign affairs, defence, internal affairs, justice, emergency situations, and the federal security service). If the word “coordination” fits the relationship between president and prime minister, various public actions, including regularly televised interactions of the president with individual ministers, conveyed a directive role for the country’s chief executive in all policy domains. Putin uses major national addresses, including annual reports to a joint parliamentary session and other press conferences, to promote his agenda while, even more importantly, further consolidating his authority. Meanwhile, annual high-​profile presentations by President Putin, including the marathon 3–​4-​hour live, call-​in, televised “Direct Line” (since 2001) and extended appearances with the influential Valdai Discussion Club (since 2004), provide valuable opportunities to share ideas while reinforcing Putin’s authority (Curanović 2018; Valdai Discussion Club website). One important, constitutionally guaranteed means by which the president can assert himself unilaterally is through the issuance of presidential decrees (ukazy), which have the force of law (Protsyk 2004). Presidential decrees have been especially important when the president is politically weak or confronts a less reliable parliament, as was true during the tumultuous Yeltsin years. The president has extensive constitutional leeway in issuing decrees to make both institutional and policy changes, and while such decrees are inferior to laws, they are binding so long as they do not contradict the Constitution or federal laws. Given the massive state bureaucracy, with numerous and potentially conflicting ministries, there was a desire for powerful top-​down mechanisms such as presidential decrees to direct governmental activities. Confronting significant opposition in the parliament, President Yeltsin made extensive use of decrees. In contrast, with solid parliamentary majorities, neither Presidents Putin nor Medvedev relied heavily on decrees, although both did advance selected priority issues through decrees (such as Putin’s 2000 establishment of the seven macro-​districts and Medvedev’s 2009 advancing of civil service reforms). Beneath the president is a Presidential Administration that entails a vast set of agencies and officials who assist in the development and implementation of presidential decisions (Burkhardt 2021). Constructed on the organisational resources of the defunct Soviet Communist Party central apparatus, this administration includes dozens of agencies and an estimated 2,000 functionaries. President Putin has continued to rely upon roughly 12 directorates that comprise the Presidential Administration –​directorates that have been reorganised across the different presidencies, including Putin’s –​and they span the diversity of policy and supervisory interests of the federal executive. The Presidential Administration can be viewed as a policy-​making, policy-​implementing, and policy-​regulating apparatus; it ties the president to all major institutional actors and serves as a two-​way informational and policy conduit, providing bottom-​ up information and proposals and top-​down presidential preferences and decisions (Fortescue 2017; Pallin 2017). The composition of the Presidential Administration, as well as of the Cabinet of Ministers (beneath the prime minister) that comprises the federal government, has evolved as the senior ranks of the governing Putin team, in its third decade, have also evolved. Broadly speaking, the first Putin presidency (with two terms, 2000–​4 and 2004–​8), even extending into the Medvedev presidency (2008–​12), included a complex constellation of officials that bridged three major groupings, with two of these groupings directly tied to the career of Putin himself: (1) intelligence-​security officials (siloviki) with more traditional conservative statist orientations, many of whom made careers with Putin in his early KGB career, (2) St Petersburg economists and lawyers with more market and reformist political orientations who were tied with Putin’s early post-​Soviet career in St Petersburg mayoral politics, and (3) career officials whose education and careers were grounded in focused areas of professional specialisation (such as foreign 90

91

The presidency

service, economics, and social welfare). The logic of this constellation of contending elements made decision-​making sense, as each grouping brought contrasting perspectives on the state and reform and each group brought different experience expertise (including in refining market arrangements or constructing law) to the tasks of policy-​making (Zygar 2016). As the Putin team has aged, especially since Putin’s return to the presidency in 2012 for his third term and into his fourth term in 2018, many of these officials have been replaced with younger, more technically educated, and highly professional functionaries whose careers have been fully made in the post-​Soviet period. Meanwhile, often, senior protégés once closely tied to Putin have golden parachuted into lucrative, still influential, corporate executive positions (such as heading energy corporations and utilities), with these corporate entities often having close ties with governmental ministries (for example, the siloviki Igor Sechin who heads Rosneft, the state oil company, and Viktor Zubkov, who is chairman of the board of Gazprom, one of the world’s largest energy companies). In some cases, these official-​turned-​corporate executives are among the so-​called oligarchs who receive considerable media attention as major influences in the contemporary economy and society, while other of these executives have lower profiles and operate behind the scenes. Considered as a part of the governing team, these business executives constitute an important human tissue connecting polity and economy (Taylor 2017). Turning to the chief of the Presidential Administration, we find Anton Vaino, more than 15 years younger than Putin, a long-​time functionary in the Presidential Administration with past education and experience focused on global affairs. His surname is recognizable to long-​ time Soviet politics observers because he is the grandson of the last Soviet-​period First Secretary of the Estonian Communist Party. He brings to this top administrative position for the president no long-​term career tie with Putin, but similar to many functionaries of his generation, in their 40s or 50s and completely making their careers in the post-​Soviet period, Vaino brings the past technical training and modern managerial prowess to smoothly operate in a twenty-​first-​ century governmental apparatus. As chief of the Presidential Administration, Vaino manages all aspects of the federal presidency, and lacking the same career tie to President Putin as most of his predecessors, his professional-​technical prowess becomes essential to his administrative success. The first deputy chiefs of the Presidential Administration are also of a younger experiential cohort than Putin and are career professionals: one is Sergei Kirienko, a policy troubleshooter who once served briefly as prime minister under Boris Yeltsin (1998), and the other is Aleksei Gromov, a one-​time foreign ministry official who has worked in the presidential administration since the 1990s. Similar to Vaino, these officials have a “jack of all trades” reputation that permits them to be effective administrative conduits for Putin. One senior member of the Presidential Administration whose relationship with Putin does go back to Putin’s St Petersburg days of the 1990s is Dmitry Kozak, reputedly among Putin’s most trusted confidants and a policy troubleshooter who has overseen developments in the restive Caucasus and who oversaw the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics. Dmitry Peskov, the long-​serving presidential press secretary, is a figure well-​known to both Russian and foreign observers; he is a seasoned professional of a younger generation (born 1967), and he typifies this cohort of self-​confident “team-​player officials” who are at the core of the Putin third presidency team. The Presidential Administration also includes advisory bodies that address more focused policy areas while linking the president and his team to other political actors. Although most of these bodies do not have constitutional status, they operate at the president’s pleasure and, similar to the Presidential Administration, can be reorganised or abolished as the president sees fit. Especially noteworthy, and enjoying constitutional status, are the Security Council (formed 1994), chaired by the president, including top officials of security and defence institutions, and 91

92

John P. Willerton

constituting a critical sounding board and forum for national security matters, and the State Council (formed 2000), also chaired by the president, including very senior federal government officials and the leaders of the various regions, and constituting another advisory forum that in principle addresses any issues of importance facing the president. In addition to the Presidential Administration, the federal executive includes numerous presidential representatives to many federal and sub-​federal institutions, with these representatives serving as liaisons to coordinate those organisations’ actions with presidential preferences. The May 2000 establishment of seven federal administrative districts (now eight, with President Medvedev’s creation of the North Caucasus Federal District in January 2010) supervised by presidential envoys heightened the president’s power. Envoys emerged as important conduits of information even as they inserted themselves in regional politics and ensured the regions complied with federal legislation and directives. Beneath the envoys are chief federal inspectors, one for each of the 83 regions, with these inspectors more involved in the political affairs of their regions. With a split executive that includes both the president and prime minister, governmental institutions formally recognised in the Constitution are also important vehicles through which the president, in de facto terms, governs the country. Given the politically and institutionally strong relationship between (a) the president and his administration, and (b) the prime minister and the Cabinet of Ministers he heads, governmental ministers are also consequential members of the governing team. Prime Minister Mikhail Mishustin (appointed January 2020), the long-​time Director of the Federal Taxation Service (2010–​20), with past experience as an economist and businessman, is an official who has brought a no-​nonsense reputation of professionalism to the top governmental post. Mishustin has a clean reputation, is technically adept, is savvy in personnel matters, and is educated and well-​versed in the complexities of the modern twenty-first century economy. In his first year as prime minister, Mishustin initiated administrative reform aimed at optimising state bureaucratic efficiency, while his frequent trips around Russia and into many regions bolstered his standing with regional and local officials. Gravitas is brought to the government leadership with such senior ministers as Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov, whose career has been based in foreign affairs and who is widely respected by the Russian public, and Defence Minister Sergei Shoigu, who has been a political troubleshooter for Putin and held various senior posts. Both of these senior officials, respected confidants of President Putin, have only seen their positions bolstered since the war with Ukraine occurred. But there are also younger Putin team member ministers whose authority is grounded in their technical and managerial prowess. To note one important policy area, economics-​finances-​ budgeting, Minister of Finances Anton Siluanov (since 2011) and Minister of Economic Development Maksim Reshetnikov (since 2020) are well-​regarded professionals who bring considerable education and macro-​economic planning experience, or considerable service in important regions (Reshetnikov’s work in energy and industry-​r ich Perm region), to their ministerial posts. These officials are joined by Elvira Nabiullina, the head of the Russian Central Bank (since 2013), an official with a rich career involving economic planning and finances, a person who is well-​connected both inside and outside of Russia, and who, in 2017, the British magazine The Banker chose as Central Banker of the Year in Europe. What might be termed a “sectoral whirlpool” of high-​powered officials, interacting across the presidential administration and the government, plays the central role in constructing a domestic economic-​financial programme that has produced considerable policy success over the past decades. Finally, the interesting but not-​easily illuminated position of Andrei Belousov (b. 1959) must be noted as we try to understand the “logic” of the contemporary governing Putin team. Belousov, an economist by training and rising in the area of Russian economic development to serve as a 92

93

The presidency

presidential assistant on the economy and first deputy prime minister, is just the sort of skilled political troubleshooter who can tackle an array of policy tasks, and he operates across the top-​ level presidential-​governmental executive (he filled in as Acting Prime Minister, April–​May 2020, when Prime Minister Mishustin was diagnosed with coronavirus). Considered overall, the Putin governing team of the 2020s, in education and experience, worldview, and evident policy-​making style, has evolved from that which governed in the 2000s. A final observation regarding the Putin team writ large is that its de facto powers extend beyond the constitutional prerogatives and institutional advantages that inhere with the federal executive. President Putin’s strength is also tied to his relationship with other political actors, most notably the federal legislature (especially the State Duma), and with the influence of the political party that supports him, United Russia. United Russia, which has dominated elections from 2000 to the present, enjoys solid –​and sometimes overwhelming –​majorities in the State Duma. Whether in relying on legislation that easily moves through the bicameral parliament or in being able to influence regional leaderships that have a pervasive representation of United Russia members, President Putin has relied far less on unilateral means such as presidential decrees to advance his agenda. Regarding regional leaderships, whether Putin nominated the regional governor, as was true for the period 2005–​12, or whether his United Russia Party competes for the position, as it has since 2012, the governing Putin team is in a strong position to influence the politics of most regions. The importance of such informal realities is underscored when considering the experience of the earlier Yeltsin regime: Yeltsin had found himself in constant struggle with the parliament and with many regional officials; he lacked the support of a strong platform party; and he relied on presidential decrees and other unilateral executive means to promote his interests. Ultimately, such informal factors are greatly structured by elite and public opinion, with the high levels of public support for Putin (and even Medvedev) in the 60–​80 percent range translating into considerable political manoeuvrability on top of the institutional advantages of the hegemonic presidency. Thus, for instance, a Putin team both supportive of and supported by a United Russia official who is the only candidate who can fly into a remote area such as Chukotka with considerable “political pork” is well-​positioned to win and to advance the governing team’s agenda.

Russian presidents An appreciation of the reputations and legacies of Russian presidents must be set against the 74-​year Soviet experience, which entailed the tradition of a strong chief executive directing a massive state bureaucracy (Brown and Shevtsova 2001). The ability of chief executives such as Joseph Stalin (1928–​53), Nikita Khrushchev (1953–​64), and Leonid Brezhnev (1964–​82) to consolidate and maintain power within the Communist Party-​state apparatus was critical to their ability to promote their policy agendas (Hough and Fainsod 1979). Indecisiveness and uncertainty, combined with a weakened state, were understood as hallmarks of failed leadership, and such was the Russian view of the period of reform and system collapse when Mikhail Gorbachev governed (1985–​91); public opinion surveys consistently reveal that Russians judge Gorbachev to be their country’s worst leader in at least a century. While complex and multifaceted, the initial Russian judgement of the Boris Yeltsin leadership (1991–​9) would be similarly negative, as system transformation efforts yielded political confusion, a continuing economic depression, and widespread corruption. Russians have drawn a very different assessment regarding the tenure of Vladimir Putin, though after more than two decades of governance, there is evidence of “Putin fatigue” as the same governing team guides the polity. 93

94

John P. Willerton

President Boris Yeltsin enjoyed single-​digit approval ratings when he unexpectedly stepped down as the country’s chief executive at the end of 1999, but when he died in April 2007, the formal characterisation of him as “Russia’s first president” connoted a more mixed assessment of his complex presidential legacy. Indeed, his thirty-​year political career entailed a varied array of triumphs and setbacks (Colton 2008). A regional Communist Party official with a reputation for getting things done, Yeltsin came to national prominence as an iconoclast, populist, and reformer whose preferences and actions seemed to fit with then-​Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev’s perestroika agenda. Yeltsin assumed a central role in the final collapse of the Soviet system, acting decisively as the Russian Republic president when a coup d’état mortally wounded Gorbachev politically and led to the Soviet collapse. As Russia’s first freely elected president (June 1991), Yeltsin was the charismatic transitional figure who bridged late-​Soviet-​period authoritarianism with emerging democratic proclivities. He was both an opportunist and a pragmatist who promoted profound reform and compromise, and he proved willing to navigate around formal rules to advance his power interests and policy agenda. Indeed, his 1996 re-​election was probably the most questionable of all presidential elections held during post-​Soviet Russia’s first decades. Meanwhile, the logic of the Yeltsin-​sponsored 1993 Constitution laid the legal foundation for the hegemonic presidency that would be central to a re-​strengthened executive branch and federal government; a foundation that once again permitted the chief executive to direct both the massive state bureaucracy and the diverse regions. Yeltsin’s decision-​making legacy was mixed and included many controversial and highly unpopular policies. Dire predictions of the complete collapse and breakup of the Russian Federation did not prove accurate, and many linked the Russian state’s survival through the turbulent 1990s to Yeltsin’s strength. Yet domestic economic policies (such as “shock therapy” and the voucher privatisation programme) were associated with considerable public suffering and widespread corruption, while the ineffectual application of force in Chechnya undermined Yeltsin’s public standing. His use of force in October 1993 to vanquish an opposition-​dominated legislature, with the deaths of citizens in central Moscow, permanently stained Yeltsin’s reputation. Overall, continuing domestic woes, Yeltsin’s declining health, and the open manoeuvrings of many disreputable associates all contributed to the Yeltsin team’s difficulties in governing, his presidency having entailed two serious impeachment efforts. Confused system building efforts and corrupt economic transformation emerged as the core legacy of Yeltsin’s second term. Vladimir Putin’s two presidencies (2000–​8 and 2012–​present) have been profound in consolidating the political and economic foundations set during the Yeltsin period, with Russia re-​emerging from a nearly two-​decades long economic depression and the federal state, executive, and presidency returning as powerful political actors (Flikke 2004). Putin administration initiatives reversed most of the conditions and developments associated with Russia’s “failing state” of the 1990s, that “failing state” having signified a state that was losing its vibrancy and legitimacy as it failed to carry out the tasks or provide the services to which it had been committed (Willerton et al 2005; Willerton 2007). There is a wide array of initiatives and policies that form the more than two-​decade-​old Putin policy programme, but suffice it to note here that the predictable first presidency focus on consolidating the political system, stabilising the economy, and shoring up a very weakened social welfare system were top priorities. Moving through the Medvedev presidency to the second Putin presidency, policies increasingly involved tinkering with a political system essentially grounded in the 1993 Constitution, growing the economy with both an emphasis on traditional strengths and fostering initiatives in new twenty-​first-​century technologies, and building up and better funding the social welfare system. Many developments in the realm of foreign and security policy were intended to restore 94

95

The presidency

Russia’s position in both Eurasia and globally. All of these overall trends, however, must be set against the predictable ups and downs that came with dynamic domestic and international developments, some of which were beyond Russia’s control. Meanwhile, in personality, style, and policy preferences, Putin proved able not only in meeting, but exceeding, the Russian public’s expectations, his initial 50 percent approval rating upon assuming the presidency quickly rising to the 60–​80 percent range for the entirety of his tenure. Indeed, when he left his first presidency in late spring 2008, his approval rating stood at 84.7 percent. When he returned to the presidency four years later, in May 2012, his approval rating topped 70 percent, and this in spite of various systemic and domestic policy challenges that had fuelled significant public upset and that had compromised Medvedev’s presidency (Frye et al 2017). Putin’s modest background and forceful yet unassuming leadership style fitted with Russian preferences (Solov’yov 2008; a sort of “cult of personality” arose around Putin in his second presidency, reminiscent of how past Soviet leaders and tsars were treated). Meanwhile, as already noted, he crafted a leadership team that has been viewed as competent, that has spanned a range of interests and elements, and that has evolved over time. Putin’s life and career experiences of the late-​Soviet and immediate post-​Soviet periods left him subject to divergent and conflicting influences that were evident in his worldview, his rise to power, and the conduct of his presidency (Sakwa 2004). Putin’s oft-​noted reflection that the collapse of the Soviet Union was the greatest calamity of the twentieth century, while disparaged in the West, resonates with most Russians and directly ties in with his worldview and the fact that many Russians find commonality with his life experience and perspectives. Russians –​like Putin –​bemoaned the reality of 25 million Russians finding themselves outside of their home country when the USSR was dissolved (thus potentially being subject to hostile pressures from the governments of the states in which they now found themselves). Also, with the collapse of one superpower, Russians feared that the remaining global power, the US, would be unrestrained, using its immense powers unchecked. By the second Putin presidency, most Russians agreed with Putin’s assessment that, indeed, the US was operating as such a power, this judgement only further spurring support for Putin’s more assertive foreign policy (Tsygankov 2019). President Putin does have domestic opposition, the more serious from the nationalist and jingoistic right (and extremist left), but also opposition coming from a smaller but highly vocal pro-​Western reform element, with such charismatic figures as Aleksei Navalny enjoying an especially high profile in Western countries. Considered overall, Putin predictably enjoys considerable support from the Russian mainstream, both elite and mass public, and, even in the face of policy setbacks (such as the universally decried 2018 pension reform), he has maintained approval ratings in the 60 percent range in his fourth presidential term. Finally, note should be made of Dmitry Medvedev, Russia’s third president, who brought an impressive resumé and considerable high-​level experience to the presidency, though his relatively short four-​year tenure (2008–​12) entailed only modest accomplishments and much wonderment. Many observers, both Russian and foreign, continue to wonder what Medvedev’s presidency had entailed and whether to emphasise Medvedev as a distinguishable executive in his own right who merits attention or understand him as a loyal protégé of the country’s paramount leader whose tenure ensured that the Putin team continued to govern. With Vladimir Putin at his side serving as prime minister, Medvedev had reassured Russian citizens that a leader with gravitas and experience would be a key player in the new governing “tandem.” Medvedev had been a trusted member of the first Putin presidential team and had held top executive positions (head of the presidential administration and a first deputy prime minister). If lacking in gravitas and being rather youngish (aged 42 when he became president), Medvedev brought 95

96

John P. Willerton

to the presidency a reputation as an intellectual egghead with considerable managerial prowess. Medvedev continued the programmatic efforts of the Putin presidency; he had, after all, been a senior manager for those initiatives. Overall, the Putin political-​economic-​social programme advanced, and one is hard-​pressed to find any light between the posturing of Medvedev and Putin during this period. The 2008 surprise attack launched by Georgian President Mikheil Saakashvili on South Ossetia and Abkhazia, just months into Medvedev’s tenure, had provided the young president with an opportunity to exhibit resolve as the Georgian effort was repulsed. Meanwhile, an important START agreement had been signed with the United States (2010). Intriguing efforts to strengthen the legal system and the judiciary were associated with Medvedev, himself a trained lawyer with a long-​term interest in strengthening the judicial branch. But other initiatives failed to deliver or were even setbacks, whether in developing the planned high-​profile research centre Skolkovo, the rebranding of the Russian militsiya as the politsiya (from the English), or the seemingly feckless Russian response to the 2011 Western activism in Libya, with the latter event occasioning Putin to deliver a strong implicit criticism of Russian passivity in the face of perceived Western aggressiveness. Overall, it is challenging to offer a conclusive judgement about the Medvedev presidency. It could be argued that Medvedev essentially continued the governing team’s programme, but with Putin in the second position, that programme advanced further. One might also conclude that Medvedev was mainly a placeholder for the term-​limited Putin, who would return to the presidency in 2012. Whatever the assessment of Medvedev’s presidency, the Putin team continued to govern, the Putin programme continued to advance, only a few of the initiatives specifically linked to Medvedev survived his departure from office, but there was enough regard for Medvedev that Putin nominated him to be prime minister, the public supported the move, and Medvedev held office from 2012 to 2020. Even after leaving the post of prime minister in January 2020, Medvedev continues to be a senior counsellor to Putin.

Important caveat: Constraints on the hegemonic presidency While a hegemonic presidency is positioned atop a massive federal executive, there are genuine decision-​making and implementation constraints on the country’s head of state. The Russian chief executive, Tsarist, Soviet and contemporary, has always confronted countless governing challenges, and this continues to be true in the twenty-​first century. The challenges of the so-​called Potemkin villages of the eighteenth century, where far-​away local and regional officials set out misleading presentations of their bailiwicks and suggested governing successes for St Petersburg leaders, are still true today. Russian leaders are aware of this. Meanwhile, building consensus across the various governmental ministries, and seeing top-​level initiatives implemented by officials below, are ongoing challenges. The chief executive must bring considerable personal authority and gravitas to the country’s highest office to ensure decisions are arrived at and then implemented. But this may not be sufficient. The seemingly unchallengeable Vladimir Putin has faced dilemmas in decision-​making where even high-​profile initiatives have been significantly slowed or gone unrealised. One observer opined there can be “a gulf between what Mr. Putin says and what happens in Russia,” while a Russian political scientist observed, “this [the Russian political system] is not a personally run empire but a huge and difficult to manage bureaucratic machine with its own internal rules and principles” (Higgins 2019). Whether in pressing for an important bridge over the Amur River between Russia and China or for an efficient highway between the country’s two major cities, Moscow and St Petersburg, some Putin initiatives have stalled or even gone unimplemented. Resistance to presidential initiatives takes many forms, from planning and budgetary dilemmas to turf wars 96

97

The presidency

among federal agencies or with sub-​federal authorities. Even powerful institutional allies such as the Federal Security Service (FSB) and the Russian Orthodox Church can obstruct presidential policy preferences. An especially intriguing and important example of constraints on fulfilling presidential intentions involves the high-​profile 7 May 2012 presidential decrees, promoted by Putin when he returned to the presidency and grounded in the policy programme of the preceding decade. These presidential decrees were of the highest priority to the governing Putin team, they were focused on long-​term economic and social policy, and they included measures to implement important demographic policies (along with foreign policy measures). With a specific focus on education, healthcare, housing, and utilities, Putin commented, “we need breakthroughs in all areas of life.” However, over the next years, much that was promised in the presidential decrees foundered and went unrealised, and while international developments (the 2013–​14 events in Ukraine, Western sanctions, and a serious drop in oil prices) played their part, turf wars among federal ministries, budgetary conflicts, and resistance from regional authorities all served to halt policy advance. It would only be six years later, with Putin’s 2018 re-​election to the presidency and his more forceful commitment (with enhanced revenues), that tangible progress on these initiatives would be evident.

The presidency today –​and looking ahead The federal presidency is the most important actor in the Russian political system, its position grounded in a long history of a strong central executive and its power prerogatives set out in the 1993 Constitution. The presidency is comprised of a large array of institutions and agencies that make up the Presidential Administration, the presidency being well positioned in a split-​ executive system that includes an influential prime minister and a massive set of state bureaucracies. The presidency includes various agents who are tied with other federal and sub-​federal institutions, most importantly including the federal parliament and Constitutional Court and the federal districts and constituent provinces. The presidency, while powerful de jure, becomes de facto hegemonic when the politician holding the position of head of state enjoys the authority that comes with elite and public support. Meanwhile, the diverse array of officials working within the presidency taps a range of institutional, sectoral, and regional interests, and they collectively constitute a powerful constellation of individuals who are essential to the functioning of the federal system. Today, with more than two decades of experience behind them, President Vladimir Putin and his governing team are in a strong position to continue to govern –​and for the foreseeable future. The Putin team has evolved with the times, with the changing needs of the polity, and with the aging realities of the personnel at the helm. Throughout the Putin era, and even extending back to the Yeltsin presidency, a recognisable policy programme has emerged, evolved, and even been altered as the needs of Russia dictate and as Putin and his team members determine. Surveys reveal that Russians support the broad policy programme, are comfortable with many initiatives pursued, but are hesitant and even critical regarding some consequences (Willerton 2016, 2017). In its third decade, the Putin team faces profound challenges, whether in seeing through the comprehensive policy programme it has constructed since 2000 or in confronting the challenges of powerful Western sanctions –​with all that they entail –​in the wake of the Ukrainian–​Russian War. Understanding the Russian presidency is essential to understanding the Russian polity and its post-​Soviet evolution. Such an understanding is equally essential for analysing the policy programme being pursued, the post-​1992 achievements that have been realised, and the problems that continue to bedevil the economy, society, and country. 97

98

John P. Willerton

References Birmontėne, T. (2020), “2020 Amendments to the Russian Constitution –​Change of the Constitution or Its Collapse?”, Contemporary Problems and Challenges of the Judiciary in Europe 48, 4: 130–​49. Brown, A. and L. Shevtsova (eds.) (2001), Gorbachev, Yeltsin and Putin: Political Leadership in Russia’s Transition (Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace). Burkhardt, F. (2021), “Institutionalising Authoritarian Presidencies: Polymorphous Power and Russia’s Presidential Administration”, Europe-​Asia Studies 73, 3: 472–​504. Colton, T.J. (2008), Yeltsin: A Political Life (New York: Basic Books). Curanović, A. (2018), “Vladimir Putin On-​Air: The Russian Leader’s Image through the Lens of Pryamaya Liniya (Direct Line) (2001–​2017)”, University of Helsinki, Aleksanteri Institute Papers 1/​2018, www.resea​rchg​ate.net/​publ​icat​ion/​3401​6160​4_​vladimir_putin_on_air_the_russian_leader’s_image_ through_the_lens_of_pryamaya_liniya_direct_line. Flikke, G. (ed.) (2004), The Uncertainties of Putin’s Democracy (Oslo: Norwegian Institute of International Affairs). Fortescue, S. (2017), “The Role of the Executive in Russian Budget Formation”, Post-​Communist Economies 29, 4: 523–​37. Frye, T., S. Gehlbach, K.L. Marquardt and O.J. Reuter (2017), “Is Putin’s Popularity Real?”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 33, 1: 1–​15. Gel’man, V. (2016) “The Vicious Circle of Post-​Soviet Neopatrimonialism in Russia”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 32, 5: 455–​73. Hale, H. (2015), Patronal Politics: Eurasian Regime Dynamics in Comparative Perspective (New York: Cambridge University Press). Higgins, A. (2019), “How Powerful Is Vladimir Putin Really?”, The New York Times, 23 March, www.nyti​ mes.com/​2019/​03/​23/​sun​day-​rev​iew/​how-​power​ful-​is-​vladi​mir-​putin-​rea​lly.html. Hough, J.F. and M. Fainsod (1979), How the Soviet Union Is Governed (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press). Huskey, E. (1999), Presidential Power in Russia (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe). Levada Analytical Center (2003–​present), Various surveys and public opinion results (extending back more selectively to 1987), www.lev​ada.ru/​en/​. Ogushi, A. (2009), “From the CC CPSU to Russian Presidency: The Development of Semi-​ Presidentialism in Russia”, in A. Ogushi and H. Tadayuki (eds.), Post-​Communist Transformations: The Countries of Central and Eastern Europe and Russia in Comparative Perspective (Hokkaido: Slavic Research Center): 3–​25. Pallin, C.V. (2017), “Russia’s Presidential Domestic Policy Directorate: HQ for Defeat-​Proofing Russian Politics”, Demokratizatsiya: The Journal of Post-​Soviet Democratization 25, 3: 255–​78. Protsyk, O. (2004), “Ruling with Decrees: Presidential Decree Making in Russia and Ukraine”, Europe-​ Asia Studies 56, 5: 637–​60. Sakwa, R. (2004), Putin: Russia’s Choice (London: Routledge). Shevtsova, L. (2005), Putin’s Russia (Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace). Solov’yov, V. (2008), Putin: putevoditel’ dlya neravnodushnikh (Moscow: Eksmo). Taylor, B. (2017), “The Russian Siloviki & Political Change”, Daedalus 146, 2: 53–​63. Tsygankov, A. (2019), Russian Foreign Policy: Change and Continuity in National Identity. (Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield). Valdai Discussion Club, Numerous documents and presentations, https://​val​daic​lub.com/​. Willerton, J.P. (2007), “The Putin Legacy: Russian-​Style Democratization Confronts a ‘Failing State’”, The Soviet and Post-​Soviet Review 34, 1: 33–​54. Willerton, J.P. (2016), “Russian Public Assessments of the Putin Policy Program: Achievements and Challenges”, Russian Politics 1, 2: 131–​58. Willerton, J.P. (2017), “Searching for a Russian National Idea: Putin Team Efforts and Public Assessments”, Demokratizatsiya: The Journal of Post-​Soviet Democratization 25, 3: 209–​34. Willerton, J.P., M. Beznosov and M. Carrier (2005), “Addressing the Challenge of Russia’s ‘Failing State’: The Legacy of Gorbachev and the Promise of Putin”, Demokratizatsiya: The Journal of Post-​Soviet Democratization 13, 2: 219–​39. Willerton, J.P., M. Beznosov and M. Carrier (2021), “A Russian National Idea and the International System”, Journal of Political Research 5, 3: 75–​96. Zygar, M. (2016), All the Kremlin’s Men: Inside the Court of Vladimir Putin (New York: Public Affairs Publishers).

98

99

9 THE FEDERAL ASSEMBLY –​ MORE THAN JUST A “RUBBER STAMP”? Ben Noble and Paul Chaisty

For many observers of Russian politics, the country’s bicameral national parliament –​the Federal Assembly –​is a sham institution: a “rubber stamp” body that simply nods through decisions made by the president without providing effective oversight or representation. According to a wide range of analyses, the emergence of United Russia as the dominant “party of power” under President Vladimir Putin facilitated a highly effective “unity of purpose” (Haggard and McCubbins 2001: 16) in a formally separation of powers system, allowing the executive branch to dominate the legislature (Chaisty 2005, 2008; Remington 2007, 2008a; Reuter 2017). The story of the Federal Assembly and its relationship with the executive maps, therefore, onto the broader story of national-​level politics in Russia: from the “feckless pluralism” and executive-​legislative clashes of the 1990s to the “dominant power politics” and legislative docility in evidence under Putin (Gel’man 2006). Executive “capture” of the legislature is certainly a central story of post-​Soviet Russian parliamentarism. And yet, the narrative can be taken too far. The Federal Assembly can certainly “rubber stamp” legislative initiatives, particularly those from the president and from the government when elite groups are united. But there is also much more going on under the surface. Even when votes are unanimous, this can disguise important conflict and negotiation behind the scenes (Gandhi et al 2020: 1367). That should not necessarily give hope to those who strive for an autonomous parliament in Russia, able and willing to act as a check on executive power. But it does mean that analysts of Russian politics cannot simply ignore the national parliament. This chapter provides an overview of the profound changes in the Russian parliament’s place in post-​Soviet politics, looking at important legislative functions that comparative scholarship has noted for assemblies in both democracies and non-​democracies.

Parliamentary power in post-​Soviet Russia In the 1990s, the Federal Assembly (1994–​) and its predecessor, the Supreme Soviet, achieved a level of influence in political life that has never been matched by representative institutions in modern Russian history. During this first post-​Soviet decade, legislators enjoyed a relatively high degree of autonomy in law-​making, and the organisational arrangements and cultures of legislative institutions were shaped in large part by the actions of their members. Despite fears that the 1993 Constitution –​adopted in the shadow of the violent October constitutional crisis that year –​would lead to “fig-​leaf parliamentarism” (Holmes 1993–​4: 124), the second convocation DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-11

99

100

Ben Noble and Paul Chaisty

(1996–​9) of the State Duma –​the lower chamber of the Assembly –​saw a plurality for the Communist Party (KPRF). This meant that President Boris Yeltsin was far from able to dominate the legislature: executive control of parliament was constrained, and inter-​branch relationships took the form of a complex mixture of conflict and bargaining (Chaisty 2005). Notwithstanding their many shortcomings, Russia’s early parliaments were, therefore, a counterweight to executive power and provided a focal point for political activity in the country (Chaisty and Schleiter 2002). In contrast, the first two decades of the twenty-​first century were defined by executive dominance of the Russian parliament. This was a consequence of two important developments. The first was the formation of pro-​executive parliamentary majorities in the State Duma. This political achievement gave the Kremlin under Presidents Vladimir Putin and Dmitry Medvedev levels of parliamentary support that were unachievable during Boris Yeltsin’s rule, and it enabled the executive branch to overcome the parliamentary resilience of the 1990s. This change of direction was achieved at the Third Duma (2000–​3) with the formation of a presidential coalition from four parliamentary party groups.1 And this coalition formed the basis for a new Kremlin party, United Russia, which went on to win majorities –​or super-​majorities –​in the 2003, 2007, 2011, 2016, and 2021 parliamentary elections. The second important development was the removal of powerful regional leaders from the upper house, the Federation Council. This change greatly weakened the political importance of the second chamber, and it eroded the relative autonomy that senators had enjoyed in the last years of Yeltsin’s rule.2 In light of this neutering of the upper chamber, the State Duma is by far the more important of the two chambers and is the focus of this chapter. The sections below trace thesе changing parliamentary dynamics over time by looking at the main functions and roles performed by legislatures: from law-​making to oversight, and from representation and elite recruitment to popular approval and legitimacy.

Law-​making The effects of executive dominance are most clearly visible in the legislative activities of the Russian parliament. The formation of reliable pro-​executive majorities produced a disciplined and loyal assembly –​a useful asset when all federal legislation is constitutionally required to be approved by the legislature. One clear indication of the shift from conflict to control is the change in the frequency with which legislative initiatives adopted by the State Duma have been rejected or returned to the lower chamber by the Federation Council or the president. Figure 9.1 shows the frequency of such “veto” cases by year. The pattern presented is a stark demonstration of quite how different both inter-​chamber and executive-​legislative relations were in the 1990s compared to the 2000s. The second half of the 1990s saw clear conflict, with a rising number of “vetoes”. But politics under Putin saw a dramatic reduction in open conflict both in and with the parliament. Although cases of “vetoes” did not entirely disappear in later years, these did not necessarily reflect policy disputes between chambers and across branches: the executive sometimes used this institutional mechanism to block bills that proved to be more unpopular in society than anticipated (Chaisty 2012: 96). Trends in the passage of yearly budget bills also help provide a general over-​time picture. Between 2001 and 2015, draft budgets passed from Duma introduction to presidential signature quicker, were debated less on the Duma floor, and saw fewer changes made to the bills’ main texts (Noble 2017a: 506–​7). The picture is, again, one of the legislature playing a less muscular role in the law-​making process –​of introducing less resistance. Part of this might be explained by negotiations moving to the pre-​parliamentary stage of law-​making in so-​called “zero readings”, where the Government consulted with United Russia deputies to iron out points before the relative publicity of Duma consideration. Regardless of the reasons for the 100

101

The Federal Assembly – more than just a “rubber stamp”? 160

Number of Duma-approved bills

140 120 100 80 60 40 20 0

Year Figure 9.1  Yearly number of legislative initiatives adopted by the State Duma that were then rejected or returned by the Federation Council or the president, 1996–2016. Source: These figures are taken from the archived version of the Statre Duma’s website – http://www. duma.gov.ru/legislative/statistics/ – which includes law-making statistics, running from the beginning of 1966 to the middle of 2017. Federal constitutional laws and treaty ratifications are excluded.

smoother passage of budget bills, the general dynamics in later years contrast starkly with the protracted, public battles that characterised budgetary politics in the 1990s. In the words of one deputy: “Earlier when we discussed the budget in the autumn session it was the norm for members of the budget committee to return home at two o’clock at night or in the morning. Would it be possible to observe that in the Duma today?” (quoted in Tagaeva 2010). The answer to this rhetorical question is even clearer now than it was then: no. Dominance over the parliament might suggest a unified executive, but that has not always been the case. And intra-​executive factionalism has been one key source of outcomes that do not conform with “rubber stamp” expectations –​that is, of the speedy, unanimous, uncritical adoption of bills supplied exclusively by the executive. For instance, bills proposed by the government and the president have sometimes failed to become laws or have been heavily amended during passage through the Federal Assembly. Rather than a sign of inter-​branch struggle and bargaining, many such cases can be traced to intra-​executive policy disputes that spill over into the parliamentary phase of law-​making (Noble 2020). The legislature acts, therefore, as an important “elite battleground” on which powerful interests and bureaucratic actors hash out their policy differences, with deputies nodding through the resolutions to these disputes settled elsewhere by others but requiring ratification during the legislative stage of policymaking (Noble and Schulmann 2018). But deputies are not completely passive. Although executive bills take precedence and rarely face serious obstacles, Russian parliamentarians are sometimes the formal sponsors of changes successfully made to executive initiatives (Krol 2017), as well as sponsors of whole bills. In the State Duma’s seventh convocation (2016–​21), for instance, State Duma deputies and Federation Council senators introduced around 53 percent of the 5,531 bills submitted overall (Egupets et al 2021). Although it is not always possible to discern who is the first mover of legislative initiatives formally introduced by legislators, there is extensive evidence that deputies 101

102

Ben Noble and Paul Chaisty

and senators lobby the interests of economic and state actors. Indeed, a 2019 investigation by Transparency International concluded that deputies “are often associated with specific commercial or non-​commercial organisations, financial-​industrial groups, and state or municipal organs of power, whose interests are affected by the bills they introduce” (Basmanova et al 2019: 12). This finding is consistent with other studies showing the impact on legislative behaviour of parliamentarians’ sectoral ties (Chaisty 2013). Analysing voting patterns on budget legislation in the State Duma’s seventh convocation, Noah Dasanaike (2021: 9), for instance, finds that “[d]‌eputies are more likely to vote in discord with the party apparatus when they previously held important positions in companies”. It would be a mistake, then, to assume that Russian legislators always act as cookie-​cutter automatons, simply giving formal, unanimous assent to legislative initiatives supplied by the executive. The volume of federal legislation has increased markedly over time (see Figure 9.2), with many of these laws introducing amendments to previous legislation. These amending laws sometimes result from haphazard responses to evolving policy issues, occasionally resulting in swift U-​turns, given mistakes, unintended consequences, or opposition from affected stakeholders (Khmelnitskaya 2015). This legislative “inflation” –​the “proliferation of many small and incoherent pieces of legislation” (Döring 2001: 147) –​is likely a reflection, in part, of the executive’s ease in passing legislation through a compliant Federal Assembly, something also highlighted by the notable increase in the velocity of law-​making (Chaisty 2014). And this legislative instability clearly has negative consequences: as former Federation Council speaker, Sergei Mironov, has observed, “[i]‌t’s difficult to talk about the supremacy of law if it changes or is repealed when something unsettles the Government” (quoted in Chaisty 2006: 199). This impression of the paucity of checks and balances on the executive, and resulting worrying effects, is also clear when considering formal oversight measures.

Overall number of federal laws promulgated

700 600 500 400 300 200 100

2021

2020

2019

2018

2017

2016

2015

2014

2013

2012

2011

2010

2009

2008

2007

2006

2005

2004

2003

2002

2001

2000

1999

1998

1997

1996

0

Year

Figure 9.2  Total number of federal laws produced in Russia per year, 1996–​2021. Source: Russian federal laws are numbered, with a reset to zero at the beginning of each calendar year. The total number of federal laws produced each year corresponds, therefore to the number of the final federal law promulgated in a given year. These figures do not include federal constitutional laws.

102

103

The Federal Assembly – more than just a “rubber stamp”?

Oversight The original version of the 1993 Constitution did not clearly specify the parliament’s powers of oversight. Certain provisions of the Constitution gave the parliament the scope to develop its powers in this area, such as the authority to appoint members of the Accounts Chamber –​a body that has the power to audit the use of budgetary funds by the state bureaucracy –​and the right to hold parliamentary hearings. But other mechanisms of oversight were not mentioned, such as questions to ministers in parliament, interpellations to government ministries (zaprosy), and investigations (see Remington 2008b). In more recent times, the parliament’s powers of oversight have been formalised in a number of ways. For instance, legislation was passed in 2005 detailing rules relating to the conduct of parliamentary inquiries; amendments to the Russian Constitution in 2008 required the government to submit an annual report on its activities to the State Duma, which is subject to questioning by legislators; 2013 saw the passage of legislation relating to parliamentary kontrol’ (“oversight”); and a new article, Article 103.1, was inserted into the Constitution in 2020, enshrining the parliamentary authority of kontrol’ for the first time. In practice, however, these formal institutional changes have not resulted in more meaningfully effective oversight. The annual reporting procedure, for instance, has to date been little more than a platform for the prime minister to showcase the government’s achievements –​yet another manifestation of the unity of purpose created by United Russia’s dominance of the State Duma. There have, however, been some interesting exceptions. During a “government hour” query session in the State Duma in 2019, speaker Vyacheslav Volodin grilled Minister of Economic Development Maksim Oreshkin, requiring the minister to come back at a later date when he was better prepared to answer questions (Noble 2019). But beyond infrequent episodes like this, United Russia leaders have focused more on cooperation with the government than on probing oversight, as an erstwhile head of the Central Executive Committee of the party, Andrei Vorobyov, explained: “We don’t control the Government, we cooperate with it. We engage in active dialogue and in contrast to previous Dumas this is without fisticuffs and other extravagant tricks” (quoted in Khamraev 2007). It is still possible, however, to find quieter forms of oversight and criticism. The Accounts Chamber, for instance, releases occasionally scathing reports into the misspending of budget funds (Mereminskaya 2020). And, less visibly still, the State Duma’s Legal Department occasionally writes critical reports on draft legislation introduced by the executive (Makutina 2015). In both cases, this critical scrutiny is based on technical expertise rather than political factors –​although the Accounts Chamber’s authority was certainly boosted by the appointment of former finance minister Alexei Kudrin in 2018. Caricatures of total, slavish obedience to the Kremlin’s diktats miss these subtler ways through which the executive is monitored and critiqued. But, absent a legislature with political heft and autonomy, this criticism and oversight are distinctly limited in their capacity to check executive power. And this is related, in part, to changes regarding the Russian parliament’s representative function.

Representation and elite recruitment Article 94 of the 1993 Constitution refers to the Federal Assembly as a “representative” as well as a “legislative” body. Article 95 then specifies the number of representatives in each of the two chambers. The State Duma has remained unchanged with 450 seats, although the electoral system for filling these seats has changed over time, moving from a mixed electoral system –​ with 225 seats filled through first-​past-​the-​post races in geographical constituencies and 225 103

104

Ben Noble and Paul Chaisty

seats filled by party-​list proportional representation (PR) –​to a wholly PR system, and back again to a mixed system. The picture for the Federation Council is more complicated. Broadly speaking, the upper chamber is meant to ensure regional representation in national-​level decision-​making, like in many bicameral systems. Under the 1993 Constitution, it has always been the case that two representatives from each federal subject take up seats in the Council. And this has resulted in a changing overall number of senators, as the number of federal subjects has changed over time. But constitutional amendments in 2014 and 2020 have also affected the hypothetical total number of senators. In 2014, the president gained the authority to appoint senators, with the number of such presidential appointees capped at 10 percent of the number of senators coming from the regions. In 2020, this cap was changed to “no more than 30”, of which “no more than seven” could be appointed for life. In addition, presidents themselves gained the right to become lifetime senators on stepping down from office; they also reserved the right to decline taking up this position in the Federation Council. To date, however, all senators have been representatives of their respective regions. There has also been variation in the mechanism for filling seats in the upper chamber: initially by direct election, then by ex officio membership for the heads of the legislative and executive branches of each region, then by appointments made by the two branches in each federal subject. So much have the principal-​agent dynamics shifted over time that Cameron Ross and Rostislav Turovsky (2013: 59) argue that the Federation Council “effectively represents the federal government in the regions rather than providing the regions representation in federal policy-​making”. Incessant institutional tweaking has, it seems, turned legislators into chains in the “power vertical”; the desire for more central control by the Kremlin has undermined the ability of legislators to carry out their work as representatives of their constituents. Again, however, that argument should not be taken too far. A small number of parliamentarians do play a visible, influential role in Russian politics. For instance, State Duma deputy Pavel Krasheninnikov and senator Andrei Klishas were central figures in the 2020 constitutional change project, including shepherding through implementation legislation (Noble and Petrov 2021). Russian media even periodically report the results of legislator “effectiveness” ratings, which purport to take into account factors such as parliamentarians’ law-​making activity and their media presence (TASS 2021). But does this effort pay off? Some deputies rise to positions of importance in parliament, such as Krasheninnikov and Klishas. Others move on to positions in the federal executive, as ministers, deputy ministers, or officials in the government or the Presidential Administration (Ozerova 2021). And others still move to the regional level, including as governors –​such as Sergei Furgal, who became Governor of Khabarovsk Krai in 2018 before his arrest in 2020 and replacement by another State Duma deputy, Mikhail Degtyarev. Other parliamentarians move into business roles or work for public and government relations firms. In fact, a study looking into the career pathways of State Duma deputies, drawing on data from 2004 to 2016, found that greater effort by legislators increased their chances of keeping their seats but did not raise their chances of being promoted into an executive post –​something that was, instead, influenced by personal connections and prior work experience (Shirikov 2021). And this has clear effects on how Russians view the national parliament.

Popular approval and legitimacy “Parliament is not the place for discussions.” This one phrase –​summarising comments made in December 2003 by then State Duma speaker Boris Gryzlov –​has come to distil for many the 104

105

The Federal Assembly – more than just a “rubber stamp”?

Federal Assembly’s peripheral place in Russian politics. In fact, the phrase has become a leitmotif of commentary on the State Duma, including by modifying it to signal putative change. Thus, early on in his speakership of the State Duma, Vyacheslav Volodin said that the Duma “should be a place for discussions” (RIA Novosti 2016). But this proved to be more rhetoric than reality, with many of Volodin’s early initiatives as speaker appearing to be driven more by a desire to enforce discipline in his new institutional domain than to encourage meaningful debate (Noble 2017b). Indeed, analysis released in July 2021 by IStories and Znak.com –​two Russian investigative journalism websites –​provided evidence that parliament was quite literally not a place for discussion for some deputies: during the State Duma’s seventh convocation, 22 deputies did not say a single word in an official capacity in the lower chamber’s plenary hall (Anin and Plyusnina 2021). This all feeds into popular perceptions of the legislature. And the picture is not pretty: in December 2021, Levada Center polling data suggested that 57 percent of Russians did not approve of the State Duma’s activities, versus 41 percent who did (Levada Center 2022). This changed, however, following Russia’s full-​scale February 2022 invasion of Ukraine: in March 2022, 59 percent of respondents said they approved of the Duma’s activities, with 36 saying they disapproved. The only previous time that a higher percentage of Levada respondents have approved of the lower chamber’s activities than disapproved was after Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014. During this period, nominally opposition parties with parliamentary seats –​ most notably, the KPRF; the confusingly named Liberal Democratic Party of Russia (LDPR); and A Just Russia3 (collectively referred to as the “systemic”, co-​opted opposition) –​united in their support of the Kremlin’s actions in a very visible “rally ‘round the flag” effect, which was dubbed the “Crimean consensus” (Noble 2017b). This period of unity jarred with dynamics only a few years previously, following elections for the State Duma’s sixth convocation in December 2011. Widespread allegations of fraud brought an unprecedented number of Russians onto the streets in the “For Fair Elections” movement. According to the official results, United Russia just missed out on securing 50 percent of the vote but still won a simple majority of seats. Some opposition deputies were emboldened by the protest mood and United Russia’s loss of a super-​majority –​so much so that they tried to filibuster a repressive legislative initiative proposing to ramp up punishment for those deemed to have violated rules regulating protests (Noble and Schulmann 2018: 55–​6). But this defiant spirit from opposition deputies was short-​lived. The State Duma’s leadership rode roughshod over the lower chamber’s standing orders to overcome the filibuster –​and, more broadly, the Duma quickly gained the reputation as a “mad printer”, hastily producing a wide range of repressive legislation, including relating to so-​called “foreign agents” and “gay propaganda” (BBC News Russian 2013). Instead of providing a platform for debate between a wide range of voices, the Federal Assembly is often used as a platform to demonstrate regime support –​and thereby bolster legitimacy. For example, on 22 February 2022, both chambers voted unanimously in support of “friendship, cooperation, and mutual assistance” treaties with the so-​called Donetsk and Luhansk People’s Republics –​something the Federation Council speaker, Valentina Matvienko, called a “very important, possibly historic decision” (BBC News Russian 2022). It is certainly not the case that all legislative votes are unanimous, but, given United Russia’s super-​majority in the State Duma, the Kremlin can afford nominally opposition parties voting against certain proposals, particularly when the symbolism of national unity is less important. All legislatures function to some degree as stages for political theatre. A key variable, though, is the degree to which this theatre is scripted or unscripted. One incident that was obviously highly choreographed –​in spite of official statements to the contrary –​was the intervention 105

106

Ben Noble and Paul Chaisty

of Valentina Tereshkova in the State Duma’s plenary hall during the second reading of Putin’s constitutional amendments bill in March 2020. The Duma deputy (and first woman in space) proposed an amendment allowing the sitting president to run again in 2024 and stay in power until 2036. Despite claiming that the Russian people had implored her to propose the amendment, subsequent investigative reporting showed that the idea originated within the executive (Vinokurov and Makutina 2020; Pertsev 2020). In effect, the Kremlin used a proxy parliamentarian to propose an idea, in the hope –​one imagines –​that it would give the amendment the authenticity of an initiative appearing to come from the people, rather than the self-​serving change of a president set on staying in power. And this shows how the Federal Assembly is still used to provide a veneer of legitimacy for the political system, with the executive’s policy agenda realised through federal legislation.

Conclusion When announcing his project to amend the 1993 Constitution on 15 January 2020, President Vladimir Putin stated that the changes would, among other things, “increase the role and significance of the country’s parliament, the role and significance of the State Duma” (Putin 2020). But, to the surprise of very few, this has not happened. One clear demonstration relates to the role of the State Duma in the passage of legislation implementing the 2020 constitutional changes. Some key committee discussions simply did not take place, and, following resistance to the passage of certain bills by KPRF deputies, the president’s plenipotentiary representative in the Duma, Garri Minkh, intimated that Communist Party legislators should stop their critical scrutiny of changes already approved by Russians in the “all-​Russian vote” that ended on 1 July 2020 –​or else give up their mandates (Noble and Petrov 2021: 141). One much-​touted change relates to the State Duma’s role in the formation of the government. According to the original version of Article 111 of the 1993 Constitution, for instance, the president appoints the prime minister “with the agreement of the State Duma”, but a 2020 amendment modifies this language, meaning that the appointment of the premier only takes place “after the approval of their candidacy by the State Duma”. Although this was seen by some as superficially empowering the State Duma, other amendments clearly “strengthened rather than weakened the powers of the president” (Teague 2020: 319–​20). For example, whereas the president was previously required to dissolve the Duma and hold parliamentary elections after three rejections of a prime ministerial candidate, a 2020 constitutional amendment means that the president simply has the “right” to do so. This change allows the president to appoint their desired prime minister in the face of resistance from the lower chamber but without incurring the disruption associated with dissolution. Besides, with the current unity of purpose between the executive and legislative branches in Russia, this is a decidedly hypothetical situation. It is difficult, in fact, to exaggerate the role United Russia plays as the “party of power”, allowing the Kremlin to dominate the legislature. Indeed, research on Russian law-​making highlights how executive power has its limits when the president lacks political support in the legislature, even within the confines of the 1993 Constitution (Remington, Smith and Haspel 1998; Shevchenko and Golosov 2001; Chaisty 2006). And that makes retaining a United Russia (super)majority vital if the executive wants to continue realising its legislative agenda with ease and prevent needling scrutiny from anti-​executive parliamentary forces. This is the basic reason why the authorities invest so many resources and so much effort into achieving the electoral results they want by un-​levelling the electoral playing field (Noble 2021). The Kremlin has clearly focused on controlling the legislature. But one result of this is the legislature’s neutered role as a source of information on, and initiatives from, society. And 106

107

The Federal Assembly – more than just a “rubber stamp”?

that is one reason why the Public Chamber was created in 2005 –​as a venue for the articulation of ideas from civil society. This “para-​constitutional”, “substitute” institution (Petrov et al 2014: 16) was, in effect, created as an ersatz parliament: “[w]‌ork that should properly have been the preserve of the State Duma was transferred to this new body, a type of non-​political parliament” (Sakwa 2008: 889). Indeed, the Chamber holds “zero readings” and conducts scrutiny of certain legislative initiatives. Although there are still instances when non-​governmental organisations can cooperate somewhat fruitfully with legislative and other state actors on legislation (Bindman et al 2019), the Federal Assembly in general does not function as a bridge between Russian civil society and the state. Does all of this mean that parliamentarism simply does not exist in Russia? According to the head of the Russian Presidential Administration during the constitutional crisis of October 1993, Sergei Filatov, “[p]‌arliamentarism in Russia only has a very brief history. In fact, it is limited to the period from 1990 to 1993, because that was the time when there was division of power and, particularly important, the country’s parliament was playing the leading role in our life. This is what parliamentarism means” (quoted in Interfax 2006). And yet, despite modern-​day assertions that it is not worth paying attention to legislative politics in Russia, it is still important to study the Federal Assembly. Russia’s national parliament is certainly not the centre of decision-​making. And the importance of the Assembly does not lie in its ability and willingness to check executive actors, nor does it lie in its role as a venue for vigorous, critical debate between democratically elected representatives. But we should not discount the Russian parliament simply because it does not function like legislatures in democracies. One such difference relates to the place of nominally opposition parties. In the State Duma’s eighth convocation –​which started in 2021 and is scheduled to sit until 2026 –​United Russia deputies hold the chairmanships of only 17 of the 32 committees, even though the party has a much higher proportion of seats (over 70 percent). This mismatch likely reflects one way by which systemic opposition parties are co-​opted. Indeed, research on regional legislatures in Russia finds that the co-​optation of systemic opposition parties through committee chairmanship appointments –​and the rent-​seeking opportunities that these enable –​results in fewer street protests organised by these parties (Reuter and Robertson 2015). This all means that paying attention to the legislative behaviour of parties does not constitute falling for the façade of a decorative opposition; rather, it is an important part of understanding how nominally opposition party organisations fit into the broader governance of a non-​democratic political system. The “rubber stamp” moniker represents an important reality –​of legislative subservience and executive dominance. The president faces no meaningful resistance from the Federal Assembly, and occasions that appear to show legislative defiance of the government are either political grandstanding rooted in broader parliamentary impotence or they reflect intra-​ executive policy splits. But that means that, by focussing on parliamentary behaviour, we can gain a rare window into debates and relationships that are often beyond reach in the corridors of the Presidential Administration and the government. As long as Russia maintains the constitutional requirement for all federal legislation to pass through the Federal Assembly, the parliament and the legislative stage of policy-​making will remain important as a venue and opportunity, respectively, for the resolution of policy differences, even if legislators themselves play a decidedly secondary role.

Notes 1 This coalition was formed in spring 2001 from the Unity, Fatherland-​All Russia, People’s Deputy, and Russia’s Regions parliamentary party groups.

107

108

Ben Noble and Paul Chaisty 2 Although the term “senator” has been frequently used colloquially to refer to members of the Federation Council, an amendment to Article 95 of the 1993 Constitution –​made along with many other changes in 2020 –​introduced the term into the constitutional text itself, thereby formalising its usage. 3 Following a merger in 2021 with the “For Truth” and “Patriots of Russia” parties, the party was renamed “A Just Russia –​For Truth”.

References Anin, R. and M. Plyusnina (2021), “Deputat molchit –​sluzhba idet”, IStories, 1 July, https://​istor​ies. media/​inv​esti​gati​ons/​2021/​07/​01/​depu​tat-​molc​hit-​-​sluz​hba-​idet/​. Basmanova, E., O. Berezovskaya and S. Tel’nova (2019), Lobbizm v Gosudarstvennoi Dume Federal’nogo Sobraniya (sed’moi sozyv), Transparency International Russia, https://​dumabi​ngo.ru/​Лобб​изм в Госдуме.pdf. BBC News Russian (2013), “Gosduma: ‘vzbesivshiisya printer’ ili Rossiya v miniatyure”, 28 February, www.bbc.com/​russ​ian/​rus​sia/​2013/​03/​130303​_​dum​a_​cr​azy_​prin​ter. BBC News Russian (2022), “Gosduma i Sovet Federatsii edinoglasno odobrili dogovory s DNR i LNR”, 22 February, www.bbc.com/​russ​ian/​news-​60475​345. Bindman, E., M. Kulmala and E. Bogdanova (2019), “NGOs and the Policy-​Making Process in Russia: The Case of Child Welfare Reform”, Governance 32, 2: 207–​22. Chaisty, P. (2005), “Majority Control and Executive Dominance: Parliament-​President Relations in Putin’s Russia”, in A. Pravda (ed.), Leading Russia: Putin in Perspective (Oxford: Oxford University Press): 119–​37. Chaisty, P. (2006), Legislative Politics and Economic Power in Russia (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). Chaisty, P. (2008), “The Legislative Effects of Presidential Partisan Powers in Post-​Communist Russia”, Government & Opposition 43, 3: 424–​53. Chaisty, P. (2012), “The Federal Assembly and the Power Vertical”, in G. Gill and J. Young (eds.), Routledge Handbook of Russian Politics and Society (London: Routledge): 92–​101. Chaisty, P. (2013), “The Preponderance and Effects of Sectoral Ties in the State Duma”, Europe-​Asia Studies 65, 4: 717–​36. Chaisty, P. (2014), “Presidential Dynamics and Legislative Velocity in Russia, 1994–​2007”, East European Politics 30, 4: 588–​601. Chaisty, P. and P. Schleiter (2002), “Productive but Not Valued: The Russian State Duma, 1994–​2001.” Europe-​Asia Studies 54, 5: 701–​24. Dasanaike, N. (2021), “Businessperson Deputies and Party Cohesion: Evidence from the Russian State Duma”, Party Politics: 1–​10, https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​135406​8821​1025​176. Döring, H. (2001), “Parliamentary Agenda Control and Legislative Outcomes in Western Europe”, Legislative Politics Quarterly 26, 1: 145–​65. Egupets, A., M. Malaev and A. Kosenok (2021), “Sdali sessiyu i sozyv”, Kommersant, 19 June, www.kom​ mers​ant.ru/​doc/​4859​045. Gandhi, J., B. Noble and M. Svolik (2020), “Legislatures and Legislative Politics Without Democracy”, Comparative Political Studies 53, 9: 1359–​79. Gel’man, V. (2006), “From ‘Feckless Pluralism’ to ‘Dominant Power Politics’? The Transformation of Russia’s Party System”, Democratization 12, 4: 545–​61. Haggard, S. and M. McCubbins (2001), “Introduction: Political Institutions and the Determinants of Public Policy”, in S. Haggard and M. McCubbins (eds.), Presidents, Parliaments, and Policy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press): 1–​26. Holmes, S. (1993–​4), “Superpresidentialism and Its Problems”, East European Constitutional Review 2, 4 and 3, 1: 123–​6. Interfax (2006), “Press Conference with a Group of State Duma Deputies and Scientists on Civil Society and Development of Parliamentarism in Russia”, 29 May, https://​adva​nce.lexis.com/​api/​permal​ink/​ 5fd84​55b-​0491-​418d-​9e59-​ad8d0​b861​f37/​. Khamraev, V. (2007), “Zakonodatel’naya vlast’ otlichilas’ ispolnitel’nostyu”, Kommersant, 20 November, www.kom​mers​ant.ru/​doc/​827​303. Khmelnitskaya, M. (2015), The Policy-​Making Process and Social Learning in Russia: The Case of Housing Policy (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan).

108

109

The Federal Assembly – more than just a “rubber stamp”? Krol, G. (2017), “Legislative Performance of the Russian State Duma: The Role of Parliament in an Authoritarian Regime”, East European Politics 33, 4: 450–​71. Levada Center (2022), Indikatory, www.lev​ada.ru/​ind​ikat​ory/​. Makutina, M. (2015), “Popravka dlya bit’ya”, RBK, 8 October, www.rbc.ru/​soci​ety/​08/​10/​2015/​56bc9​ 6059​a794​7299​f72b​a71. Mereminskaya, E. (2020), “Schetnaya palata raskritikovala rabotu ispolnitel’noi vlasti”, Vedomosti, 6 February, www.vedomo​sti.ru/​econom​ics/​artic​les/​2020/​02/​06/​822​363-​schetn​aya-​pal​ata. Noble, B. (2017a), “Amending Budget Bills in the Russian State Duma”, Post-​Communist Economies, 29, 4: 505–​22. Noble, B. (2017b), “The State Duma, the ‘Crimean Consensus’, and Volodin’s Reforms”, in A. Barbashin, O. Irisova, F. Burkhardt and E. Wyciszkiewicz (eds.), A Successful Failure: Russia After Crime(a) (Warsaw: Centre for Polish-​Russian Dialogue and Understanding): 103–​17. Noble, B. (2019), “Volodin’s Duma: Cabinet 2.0.”, Riddle, 23 December, https://​r idl.io/​en/​volo​din-​s-​ duma-​cabi​net-​2-​0/​. Noble, B. (2020), “Authoritarian Amendments: Legislative Institutions as Intraexecutive Constraints in Post-​Soviet Russia”, Comparative Political Studies 53, 9: 1417–​54. Noble, B. (2021), “The Russian State Duma Elections: Costs for the Kremlin”, ZOiS Spotlight, 15 https://​en.zois-​ber​lin.de/​publi​cati​ons/​the-​russ​ian-​state-​duma-​electi​ons-​costs-​for-​the-​ September, krem​lin. Noble, B. and N. Petrov (2021), “From Constitution to Law: Implementing the 2020 Russian Constitutional Changes”, Russian Politics 6, 1: 130–​52. Noble, B. and E. Schulmann (2018), “Not Just a Rubber Stamp: Parliament and Lawmaking”, in D. Treisman (ed.), The New Autocracy: Information, Politics, and Policy in Putin’s Russia (Washington DC: Brookings Institution Press): 49–​82. Ozerova, M. (2021), “Plany byvshikh deputatov: ‘Glavnoe, chtoby zarplata ne nizhe 400 tysyach’ ”, Moskovskii komsomolets, 4 October, www.mk.ru/​polit​ics/​2021/​10/​04/​plany-​byvsh​ikh-​deputa​tov-​glav​ noe-​cht​oby-​zarpl​ata-​ne-​nizhe-​400-​tysy​ach.html. Pertsev, A. (2020), “Gosduma neozhidanno dlya sebya obespechila Putina novymi prezidentskimi srokami”, Meduza, 10 March, https://​med​uza.io/​feat​ure/​2020/​03/​10/​gosd​uma-​neoz​hida​nno-​dlya-​ sebya-​obes​pech​ila-​put​ina-​nov​ymi-​pre​zide​ntsk​imi-​srok​ami. Petrov, N., M. Lipman and H. Hale (2014), “Three Dilemmas of Hybrid Regime Governance: Russia from Putin to Putin”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 30, 1: 1–​26. Putin, V. (2020), “Poslanie Prezidenta Federal’nomu Sobraniyu”, Kremlin, 15 January, http://​krem​lin.ru/​ eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​62582. Remington, T. (2007), “The Russian Federal Assembly, 1994–​2004”, The Journal of Legislative Studies 13, 1: 121–​41. Remington, T. (2008a), “Patronage and the Party of Power: President-​Parliament Relations Under Vladimir Putin”, Europe-​Asia Studies 60, 6: 959–​87. Remington, T. (2008b), “Separation of Powers and Legislative Oversight in Russia”, in R. Stapenhurst, R. Pelizzo, D.M. Olson and L. von Trapp (eds.), Legislative Oversight Budgeting: A World Perspective (Washington DC: World Bank Institute): 173–​82. Remington, T., S.S. Smith and M. Haspel (1998), “Decrees, Laws and Inter-​Branch Relations in the Russian Federation”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 14, 4: 287–​322. Reuter, O.J. (2017), The Origins of Dominant Parties: Building Authoritarian Institutions in Post-​Soviet Russia (New York: Cambridge University Press). Reuter, O.J. and G. Robertson (2015), “Legislatures, Cooptation, and Social Protest in Contemporary Authoritarian Regimes”, The Journal of Politics 77, 1: 235–​48. RIA Novosti (2016), “Volodin schitaet, chto Gosduma dolzhna byt’ mestom dlya diskusii”, 5 October, https://​r ia.ru/​20161​005/​147​8556​872.html. Ross, C. and R. Turovsky (2013), “The Representation of Political and Economic Elites in the Russian Federation Council”, Demokratizatsiya, 21, 1: 59–​88. Sakwa, R. (2008), “Putin’s Leadership: Character and Consequences”, Europe-​Asia Studies 60, 6: 879–​97. Shevchenko, I. and G. Golosov (2001), “Legislative Activism of Russian Duma Deputies, 1996–​1999”, Europe-​Asia Studies 53, 2: 239–​61. Shirikov, A. (2021), “Who Gets Ahead in Authoritarian Parliaments? The Case of the Russian State Duma”, The Journal of Legislative Studies: 1–​24, https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​13572​334.2021.1940​435.

109

110

Ben Noble and Paul Chaisty Tagaeva, L. (2010), “Nizhnyaya palata No. 5”, Novaya gazeta, 24 April, https://​novay​agaz​eta.ru/​artic​les/​ 2010/​04/​25/​3612-​nizhny​aya-​pal​ata-​5. TASS (2021), “Opredeleny lidery reitinga effektivnosti deputatov v nachale goda”, 29 March, https://​ tass.ru/​polit​ika/​11017​169. Teague, E. (2020), “Russia’s Constitutional Reforms of 2020”, Russian Politics 5, 3: 301–​28. Vinokurov, A. and M. Makutina (2020), “S popravkoi na reshayushchii golos”, Kommersant, 14 March, www.kom​mers​ant.ru/​doc/​4289​868.

110

111

10 NATIONAL ELECTIONS IN RUSSIA Derek S. Hutcheson

The Russian word for “election” –​vybor –​also means “choice”. Choice was one thing that Soviet voters did not have (Hermet et al 1978). Though there was no legal restriction on the number of candidates, in practice each electoral district had only one nomination. Strong mobilisation encouraged people to turn out to vote affirmatively (White et al 1997: 8). As in other communist systems, there was a strong fusion of politics and administrative structures throughout the system (Hedin 2021). That first began to change under perestroika. After the collapse of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) in late 1991, Russia’s pluralist electoral history began in earnest with the first State Duma election two years later. But after a tumultuous 1990s, voting outcomes in recent years have been highly predictable. Election scholars tend to adopt one of two approaches. The first is to regard the country as an electoral authoritarian regime in which elections are simply a façade to buttress legitimacy (Gel’man 2014). The other is to use the tools of the psephological trade and treat Russian elections as comparable to any other. This chapter takes a middle road, accepting that many of the outcomes of Russian politics are determined by increasingly restrictive rules of the game, but examining how parties and voters behave within these (ever-​changing) rules. It outlines how national elections have evolved and examines the integrity of the process.

Elections since 1993 Since 1993, the Russian Federation has held eight legislative elections to the State Duma, six presidential elections, and three referenda (two on the constitution, and one in early 1993 about confidence in the president). The results of these elections are summarised in Tables 10.1 and 10.2. As detailed elsewhere (see Chapter 8 by Willerton in this volume), the Russian political system is strongly presidential. Most power lies with a dual executive of elected president and non-​legislature-​based prime minister and cabinet. The State Duma, the lower chamber of Russia’s bicameral Federal Assembly, is directly elected (but not the Federation Council, the upper chamber –​except between 1993 and 1996). However, separation of powers means that there is no overlap between executive and legislative branches. Though imbued with certain powers relating to the confirmation and sanction of the prime minister and government, the DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-12

111

112

newgenrtpdf

Table 10.1  Presidential election results, 1996–​2018 Year

1996 (1)

1996 (2)

2000

2004

2008

2012

2018

75,744,549

74,815,898

75,181,071

69,581,761

74,849,264

71,780,800

73,629,581

69.8 0.0 95.4 4.6 10

68.9 0.0 95.2 4.8 2

68.7 0.2 95.1 4.7 11

64.4 0.2 93.2 6.6 6

69.8 0.3 92.3 7.5 4

65.3 0.3 91.4 8.2 5

67.5 0.3 93.2 6.5 7

Votes for candidates (% of vote) Yeltsin, Boris Putin, Vladimir Medvedev, Dmitry Zyuganov, Gennadii (KPRF) Yavlinsky, Grigorii (Yabloko) Zhirinovsky, Vladimir (LDPR) Mironov, Sergei Lebed’, Aleksandr Kharitonov, Nikolai (KPRF) Prokhorov, Mikhail Grudinin, Pavel (KPRF) Other candidates (combined) Against all candidates

35.3 -​ -​ 32.3 7.3 5.7 -​ 14.5 -​ -​ -​ 2.2 1.5

53.8 -​ -​ 40.3 -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ 0.0 4.8

-​ 52.9 -​ 29.2 5.8 2.7 -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ 6.7 1.9

-​ 71.3 -​ -​ -​ -​ 0.8 -​ 13.7 -​ -​ 10.2 3.4

-​ -​ 70.3 17.7 -​ 9.3 -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ 1.3 -​

-​ 63.6 -​ 17.2 -​ 6.2 3.9 -​ -​ 8.0 -​ 0.0 -​

-​ 76.7 -​ -​ 1.1 5.7 -​ -​ -​ -​ 11.8 3.8 -​

Source: Central Electoral Commission (1996–​2018), compiled, recalculated and rendered comparable by author. Note: Candidates listed in order of victory, then by candidates with multiple candidacies and by year of first candidacy. 1996 figures refer to the two rounds of voting.

Derek S. Hutcheson

112

Total turnout (votes) Total turnout (% of electorate) of which early voters (%) of which in polling station (%) of which outside polling station (%) No. of candidate

113

newgenrtpdf

Table 10.2  State Duma election results (party list votes), 1993–​2021 1995

1999

2003

2007

2011

2016

2021

Total turnout (votes)

58,187,755

69,614,711

66,840,603

60,712,299

69,609,446

65,774,462

52,700,992

56,484,685

Total turnout (% of electorate) of which early voters (%) of which in polling station (%) of which outside polling station (%) Total parties (N) Effective number of parties (ENP) –​Party list vote

54.8 -​ -​ -​ 13 8.3

64.8 0.7 94.7 4.6 43 11.1

61.8 0.1 95.7 4.2 26 6.8

55.7 0.1 94.4 5.5 23 5.4

63.8 0.2 93.4 6.4 11 2.3

60.2 0.3 93.1 6.6 7 3.2

47.9 0.2 93.3 6.5 14 3.2

51.7 0.3 85.3 14.4 14 3.4

Party vote shares (% of votes cast) United Russia (UR) Communist Party of the Russian Federation (KPRF) Liberal Democratic Party of Russia (LDPR) A Just Russia (AJR) New People (NP) Yabloko Union of Rightist Forces (URF) Agrarian Party of Russia (APR) Democratic Party of Russia (DPR) Motherland Unity Fatherland-​All Russia (FAR) Women of Russia Our Home is Russia (OHR) Party of Russian Unity and Accord (PRUA) Russia’s Choice (RC) Other parties, not listed separately Against all parties

-​ 12.4 22.9 -​ -​ 7.9 -​ 8.0 5.5 -​ -​ -​ 8.1 -​ 6.7 15.5 8.7 4.2

-​ 22.3 11.2 -​ -​ 6. 9 -​ 3.8 -​ -​ -​ -​ (4.6) 10.1 (0.4) -​ 36.1 1.8

-​ 24.3 6.0 a -​ -​ 5.9 8.5 -​ -​ -​ 23.3 13.3 (2.0) (1.2) -​ -​ 18.7 3.3

37.6 12.6 11.5 -​ -​ (4.3) (4.0) (3.6) (0.2) 9.02 -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ 14.9 4.7

64.3 11.6 8.1 7.7 -​ (1.6) (1.0) (2.3) (0.1) -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ 3.1 -​

49.3 19.2 11.7 13.2 -​ (3.4) -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ 1.6 -​

54.2 13.3 13.1 6.2 -​ (2.0) -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ 9.2 -​

49.8 18.9 7.6 7.5 5.32 (1.3) -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ -​ 7.5 -​

Source: Central Electoral Commission (1993–​2021), compiled and rendered comparable by author. Notes: Table lists all parties that have won more than 5% of the vote in at least one election. “ENP” reflects the “effective number of parties” (Laakso and Taagepera 1979) and is calculated by the author based on all vote shares (excluding the “against all” vote from 1993–​2003). Parties are listed in reverse order of election (2021 parties at the top), then by vote share. Vote shares in brackets denote the vote shares of parties that failed to cross the electoral threshold in that particular election. All other parties that have never crossed the threshold are summarised in the “other” category. In 1999, the LDPR was called “Zhirinovsky’s Bloc” and was –​technically –​a different list, though it contained most of the same people as the original LDPR list that was disqualified.

National elections in Russia

113

1993

114

Derek S. Hutcheson

threat of dissolution hangs over the State Duma if it does not confirm the president’s choice of prime minister within three rounds of voting. Presidential elections are the most politically significant, but since the mid-​1990s they have generally been fairly tame affairs. Elections are two-​round nationwide contests. The whole country is treated as a single electoral district, and the top two candidates go into a second-​ round run-​off, unless one has already received over 50 percent of the vote. In practice, except for 1996 –​when President Boris Yeltsin’s initially doubtful bid for re-​election was rescued by heavy spending and media saturation –​no Russian presidential contest has been remotely close. Every election since 2000 has seen the incumbent or his endorsed successor (Vladimir Putin four times and Dmitry Medvedev once) easily obtain more than half the vote in the first round. The last time the second-​placed candidate gained more than 18 percent of the vote was more than two decades ago, and the cast of participants often shows little variation, as the number of repeat candidacies in Table 10.1 shows. The main intrigue in presidential elections has come from studying the geographical spread of the Kremlin’s strongholds. Reflecting the fact that presidential elections are Russia’s “first-​ order” elections, turnout is characteristically higher than for State Duma contests, generally in the mid-​to high 60–​70 percent bracket (compared with the low 50 percent bracket for State Duma contests). In the most recent 2018 presidential election, more than three out of four voters cast their ballot for Putin, whose 56.4 million votes represented an absolute majority of the electorate (108.7 million people), even accounting for non-​voters. There was a close connection between the areas in which he won most support and those where people turned out in higher numbers (Hutcheson and McAllister 2018). This has increasingly been a feature of Russian elections in recent years, and it reflects two trends. On the one hand, in some pro-​Kremlin regions, there are clearly very strong efforts made to stimulate turnout, often prompting accusations of fraud (Lukinova et al 2011). On the other, in areas where opposition votes are more likely to be cast, it suits the regime to demobilise interest, reducing the absolute number of votes cast for non-​regime candidates (McAllister and White 2017). In contrast to Soviet elections, the main feature of parliamentary elections is apathy rather than approbation. In the 2016 State Duma election, fewer than half the electorate turned out to vote, and only slightly more in 2021. More significant than the overall turnout has been the range of difference between the most and least mobilised regions. Whereas turnout in the 1990s was normally distributed, it is now heavily skewed, with a handful of regions routinely returning exceptionally high turnout figures (over 90 percent in some cases), while most others are below the mean. These high-​turnout regions are mainly national republics, particularly in the North Caucasus (Chechnya is regularly the record-​holder). This skew contributes to the very positive electoral outcomes for the Kremlin. Those who turn out to vote are more likely to be voters for Putin or the pro-​Kremlin United Russia (UR) party, while opposition voters have a greater propensity to abstain, either out of futility, protest or apathy. Aside from this, the strongest predictor of an individual’s propensity to vote is his or her age, followed by a sense of civic duty and identification with a particular party (Hutcheson 2018: 183–​6). There are two possible explanations for this correlation. Differences in turnout (and support for UR and Putin) are arguably partly connected to the administrative mobilisation of voters (Buzin and Lyubarev 2008), a topic discussed below. But it may also be, as Ora John Reuter (2021) has found, that supporters of the regime are more likely to feel respect for the state, and hence their sense of civic duty is higher than that of opposition voters in the first place. Russia’s first post-​Soviet national electoral contest was actually a 4-​question referendum held in April 1993 in an unsuccessful attempt to resolve the conflict of power between Yeltsin and his parliament (Mendras 1993). At the end of the same year, a national referendum was held 114

115

National elections in Russia

to approve the new constitution, together with the first State Duma election. The only other national vote outside the normal parliamentary and presidential electoral cycle came in 2020 –​a plebiscitary quasi-​referendum to approve a raft of 206 amendments to the constitution, most notably to “zero” the count of presidential terms prior to the amendments. These mean that Putin could potentially stand for two further terms after his current term ends in 2024, as the two-​term lifetime limit would only count from the first time a president is elected after the 2020 constitutional amendments (Hutcheson and McAllister 2021).

Electoral system To understand the context of Russian electoral behaviour, and the election results in Tables 10.1 and 10.2, it is necessary to review briefly the evolution of the electoral and party systems over the three decades since the collapse of the Soviet Union. Following the founding State Duma election of 1993 that elected a two-​year interim parliament, legislative elections were held every four years from 1995 to 2011 before moving to a quinquennial cycle. The first post-​Soviet presidential election was held in 1996 (Yeltsin’s first term had originated in 1991, when Russia was still a constituent part of the USSR), and followed every four years until 2012, when presidential terms were extended to six years. The resultant decoupling of legislative and executive election cycles diminished the parliamentary elections’ role as quasi-​primaries for the presidential elections, previously held a few months apart from each other. Andreas Schedler (2013: 112–​38) highlights the “two levels of struggle” that take place in a typical electoral authoritarian regime between ruler and opposition –​over the rules of the game and within them. Russia conforms to this pattern: electoral rules have been the product of parliamentary majorities rather than just the rulebook for electing them. Russian electoral legislation has several hierarchical levels. There is a framework electoral law (Law on Fundamental Guarantees 2002) and a Law on Political Parties (2001), supplemented by specific laws on State Duma and presidential elections that build on the general norms. Grigorii Golosov (2017) points to a process of “authoritarian learning”, in which international electoral norms have been mixed and matched to maximise the advantage to those drafting amendments to them. The first post-​Soviet election –​the 1993 State Duma election –​was held under a hastily cobbled-​together presidential decree. Though subject to political debate and alteration, the fundamentals –​a mixed unconnected electoral system –​were institutionalised and remained in place for more than a decade (Moser 2001). With the establishment of a pro-​Kremlin majority in the State Duma in the early 2000s, however, electoral reforms started to actively shape the electoral system to favour particular actors over others, particularly in the parliamentary elections. The electoral formula. As noted above, the 1993–​2003 electoral system was a mixed unconnected system: 225 single-​member district (SMD) deputies elected by plurality; and an unrelated 225 elected from party lists using the largest remainders (Hare-​Niemeyer) method. The electoral threshold was 5 per cent. In 2007 and 2011, all 450 deputies were elected by proportional representation (PR) with a 7 percent threshold –​one of the highest in the world (Carter and Farrell 2010: 32) –​the effect of which was to consolidate the party system around a small number of parties.1 Veering back to the other extreme, the mixed unconnected system was reinstated for 2016 and 2021, with some modifications from the original model. Changes to the presidential election electoral system have been less fundamental, retaining the basic majoritarian system throughout. But many of the same changes of detail on eligibility, electoral commissions and campaigning, detailed below, have followed into the presidential 115

116

Derek S. Hutcheson

election law as well. After an early period in which there were minimum turnout requirements, these have since been abolished. Eligibility and administration. Early State Duma elections were contested by an ever-​changing list of associations, movements and blocs, and independents. In the first decade of the century, three major changes led to a narrowing of the opportunities for political representation: • Access to the ballot was confined to political parties, organisational requirements for which were also gradually ratcheted up. • The shift to a fully proportional system with closed lists and a high threshold made large parties the gatekeepers to parliamentary office from 2007 onwards. This removed independent channels of representation through single-​member districts. • The vertical structuring of electoral commissions created a hierarchical subordination of election administration (Moraski 2007). Ever-​increasing restrictions on dual nationality, foreign residence permits, membership of vaguely defined “extremist” organisations, and criminal disenfranchisement mean that up to 8 percent of the electorate can nowadays potentially be ineligible to stand for election (Golos 2021). Moreover, since the constitutional amendments of 2020, presidential candidates need to have been resident in Russia for 25 consecutive years –​effectively removing the passive electoral right from anybody who has studied or lived abroad within the post-​Soviet period. The structure of the ballot and districts. Numerous changes of detail have made it harder for non-​systemic parties to gain entry to the political system. Two in particular have played a role. First, party lists need to be split into short central lists and numerous regional lists, creating a disincentive to vote for smaller parties that cannot expect to win representation for even their first-​placed candidate in every regional list (Kynev and Lyubarev 2011: 554–​8). Second, SMD constituencies cannot cross regional boundaries or leave a region unrepresented, which means that underpopulated regions are over-​represented. Since 2016, constituency boundaries have also been drawn in a manner that splits up major cities and attaches their component parts to neighbouring (generally more pro-​authority) rural districts (Alimov 2016). Other changes to electoral administration. In early Russian elections, it was possible not only to vote for the candidates on the ballot paper but also against all of them (Hutcheson 2004; McAllister and White 2008). This carried only indicative status until 1997, but thereafter, until the abolition of the “against all” option in a 2005 electoral reform, a successful candidate was only elected if he or she obtained more votes than were cast for “against all”. Victories for “against all” occurred most frequently in regional and local elections, where constituencies were smaller and a concentration of “against all” votes was more likely to occur, but they were also a feature of national parliamentary elections on occasion. In the 1999 State Duma election, more votes were cast “against all” than for any real person in eight SMD seats, and in three in 2003. The seats were temporarily left unfilled as a result. A more recent significant change is the general extension of polling to three days instead of one, pioneered during the 2020 referendum as an anti-​pandemic measure. Critics argue that this makes it harder to observe the electoral process; the Central Electoral Commission (CEC) counters that it widens access. As Table 10.2 shows, the number of people who voted via the so-​called “mobile ballot box” more than doubled in the 2021 State Duma election to 14.4 percent of those who voted. This was deemed to have been the result of electoral commissions having more time to visit people’s homes (Adamovich 2021). The comparative literature leads us to expect that electoral reform occurs where actors perceive that they could derive more seats from an alternative electoral system and are in a position 116

117

National elections in Russia

to change it (Benoit 2004; Renwick 2009: 210). The assertion of pro-​Kremlin control of the legislature in the early 2000s removed the 1990s veto players that had hindered substantial electoral system changes (Turchenko and Shevchuk 2016). This motive lay behind both major switches of the State Duma electoral system. The introduction of a fully proportional system in 2007 was primarily focused on removing unpredictable elements from the State Duma (White and Kryshtanovskaya 2011), while the reverse move after 2011 allowed the (by now less popular) UR to take advantage of the disproportionality of first-​past-​the-​post elections to dominate the State Duma from a bare majority or narrow minority of the vote.2

Parties in the Russian system No Russian president has been elected on an explicitly party platform. President Yeltsin rose to the top after a very public split from the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) and remained thereafter largely above party politics. The other two post-​Soviet presidents, Vladimir Putin (2000–​8; 2012–​) and Dmitry Medvedev (2008–​12) have existed in symbiosis with the party system. They played a role in establishing and have both at times formally led the United Russia party, although Putin has never joined and Medvedev did so only after he left the presidency (United Russia 2012).

The current party system Five parties currently sit in the 450-​seat State Duma, following the eighth State Duma election in September 2021. Four have formed a stable “cartel” in the parliament for most of this century. A brief introduction is given to the current parliamentary parties before an examination is made of the party system’s dynamics over the three decades since Russian independence. This can be read in conjunction with the election results listed in Tables 10.1 and 10.2. • United Russia (UR) (324 seats in December 2021) has dominated legislative politics since the mid-​2000s. It is often considered a partiya vlasti (“party of power”) –​a description denoting a legislative party that was initially formed within the power structure to support the executive’s agenda (Laverty 2015). Founded in 2001, it has held a constitutional majority (more than two-​thirds of the seats) in four of the last five legislative periods. • Communist Party of the Russian Federation (KPRF) (57 seats). Headed since its inception in 1992 by Gennadii Zyuganov, the KPRF was originally the self-​proclaimed successor party to the CPSU and has a hybrid Marxist-​nationalist agenda. It won the plurality of the party list vote and the largest number of seats in the 1995 and 1999 elections before enduring a crisis in the early 2000s and eventually settling into the role as a receptacle for in-​system opposition. • Liberal Democratic Party of the Russian Federation (LDPR) (23 seats). Like the KPRF, the LDPR has been a presence in every State Duma,3 starting with its party list victory in 1993. Though its name is something of a misnomer, it was led from its inception until his death in 2022 by the flamboyant nationalist Vladimir Zhirinovsky, whose outlandish pronouncements were designed to give the appearance of an opposition force (Wilson 2005: 23–​7). However, it generally provides legislative back-​up for presidential initiatives and, since the mid-​2000s, has clearly been part of the four-​party “cartel” of parliamentary parties in the State Duma. • A Just Russia –​For Truth (AJR-​ FT) (28 seats). The fourth slot in the Duma “quadrumvirate” has been occupied since 2007 by AJR (renamed AJR-​FT in 2021 after 117

118

Derek S. Hutcheson

incorporating two other small parties). Led by former Federation Council Speaker Sergei Mironov, it was originally an establishment project intended as the “left leg” of a two-​ party-​of-​power system, a role that became redundant when Putin unequivocally backed UR’s dominance instead. Mainly on the back of state funding, it has maintained a presence as an unobtrusive quasi-​opposition party but always suffered from a lack of clear identity. Traditionally fourth by share of the vote, its State Duma faction is currently slightly larger than the LDPR’s due to winning more constituency seats in 2021. • New People (NP) (15 seats) was a new party formed in 2020 by cosmetics entrepreneur Aleksei Nechaev. As its name suggests, its pitch was that it represented a fresh force –​though there were questions over the extent to which its formation was at least tacitly endorsed by the Kremlin. It just scraped past the electoral threshold in 2021, gaining 5.32 percent of the vote. With the exception of the arrival of NP, the party system has remained an almost static constellation of one large pro-​government party surrounded by smaller within-​system parliamentary opposition parties since 2007. Arguably, this has constituted something approaching a “cartel party system” (Katz and Mair 1995), in which parties within the system use their privileges to keep others outside it. Parliamentary parties and those that have won seats in regional legislatures are exempt from signature collection for electoral registration and receive ever-​more generous state subsidies for their political activities (Hutcheson 2013). The within-​system parties segment the electorate between pro-​government (UR), leftist (KPRF), nationalist (LDPR), and residual quasi-​oppositionist (AJR) voters, while extra-​ parliamentary forces have become electorally marginalised or taken their protests to the streets. Though the modest 15-​person NP faction hardly seems to challenge this, Stanovaya (2021) argues that its presence may be more significant than it appears. It represents a new form of synthetic “pro-​government administrative parliamentary party”, bridging a gap between the overtly pro-​government United Russia and the systemic opposition of the other parties. Whereas the KPRF and LDPR were opposition parties that were co-​opted into the system, NP is a “start-​up” that was neither overtly created by the Kremlin nor particularly in opposition to it but can target the residual liberal electorate as well as those tired of the cartel. Laverty (2015: 73) has argued, in contrast to the present author, that “parties of power” cannot be cartel parties, as they were formed by state structures rather than the colonisers of them. Others think that Russia can no longer be viewed through the prism of traditional party system classifications and instead see it as an “electoral autocracy” (for example, Seredina 2021; Golosov 2022) with an authoritarian party system. In this view, interactions between pro-​ regime parties and in-​system opposition parties are essentially cosmetic. The Russian party system was not always as stable, or as stagnant. Alongside the LDPR and KPRF and half-​hearted “party of power” initiatives (Russia’s Choice in 1993 and Our Home is Russia in 1995), early State Dumas also had a liberal presence (Yabloko [1993–​2003] and the Union of Rightist Forces [1999–​2003]), which has been absent for most of this century. Individual party histories can be studied in more detail elsewhere (Barygin et al 1999; March 2002; Hutcheson 2003, 2018; Ivanov 2008; Danilin 2015). More significantly, the 1990s and early 2000s were characterised by extreme flux, with vast numbers of hopeless and short-​lived political organisations that rarely survived for more than a few months. As Table 10.2 shows, there were so many contenders in 1995, 1999 and 2003 that it would not even have been mathematically possible for all to cross the 5 percent threshold. As parties came and went,

118

119

National elections in Russia

respectively 41.0 percent, 52.4 percent and 58.1 per cent of the vote in these elections went to lists that had not been on the ballot in the previous election. There were various reasons for this instability. The long gap between the USSR’s collapse and the founding parliamentary election in 1993 led to an electoral vacuum. The separation of legislature and executive also meant that that “irresponsible opposition” (Sartori 2005: 205) was easier than in a system in which a governing coalition was required. Yeltsin also had a general disinterest in creating a pro-​presidential party in case it rivalled him (Gill 2015: 89). Finally, the loose registration rules and mixed electoral system created a disincentive to consolidate into larger parties. Though the individual parties clearly had some distinctive policies, they generally did not reflect deep-​seated societal cleavages, nor was it possible to establish which parties were “relevant” or had “blackmail potential” in the absence of party-​based government (Robinson 1998). In sum, throughout the Yeltsin era, it would perhaps be more accurate to refer to a “party non-​system” (Sanchez 2009) or, as Rose (2000) put it, a “floating party system”. This led to a shallow linkage of society with the state, low levels of legitimacy, and weak accountability (Thames 2007: 458). The turning point was the 1999 State Duma election. The apparent loss to the Communists of the latest Kremlin-​backed party, Unity, was less significant than its victory over another elite-​ based group, Fatherland-​All Russia (FAR). This ended the presidential ambitions of FAR’s leader (and former prime minister) Evgenii Primakov and led to a realisation that the two elite-​based groups –​one broadly representing the Kremlin and the other, the regional governors –​together held a majority that could create an “imposed consensus” across the national and regional political sphere (Gel’man 2015: 71–​98). Indirectly, this led to Vladimir Putin’s accession to the presidency, which in turn drove the process further. Upon assuming office in 2000, Putin declared that bringing order to the party system was one of his most important tasks. This was achieved in remarkably short time through the aforementioned regulations on party formation, electoral eligibility and –​above all –​the energy invested in creating an elite-​based “party of power” that could provide legislative support for the Kremlin’s initiatives. In their genesis, parties of power are ones formed by the authorities around an existing power base –​rather than fighting their way into power (Golosov 2004: 29). The formation of UR gave the executive a legislative instrument in the State Duma (Oversloot and Verheul 2000, 2006) and provided a stable framework of patronage distribution and career advancement that overcame the “commitment problem” of regional elites (Konitzer and Wegren 2006: 512; Magaloni 2008; Reuter and Remington 2009). UR was a quasi-​state, quasi-​party instrument for synchronising the work of political machines at different levels (Peregudov 2009: 33; Ivanov 2008: 10–​12; Aburamoto 2019). It had three advantages over the short-​lived 1990s “parties of power”. Not only did it have the explicit backing of the presidential administration, but it also occupied the political centre ground and was able to encroach upon both the Soviet nostalgia of the communists and the great power rhetoric of nationalists. Additionally, it fused the regional elites into a nationwide party structure, unlike in the 1990s when governors were often competing against the centre (Gill 2015: 90–​101). UR dominated federal parliamentary politics from 2003 onwards, and from 2006 or so it began to consolidate almost complete control over the regional and local levels of power as well (Reuter and Turovsky 2014). A “hegemonic” party system is one in which one party dominates, and the existence of “licensed, second class parties … may afford the appearance but surely does not afford the substance of competitive politics” (Sartori 2005: 205), a description that seemed to fit the Russian party system at this time, with United Russia apparently as a

119

120

Derek S. Hutcheson

dominant force (Gel’man 2008; Reuter 2017; Smyth et al 2007). Its zenith came when it won 44 million votes –​almost two-​thirds of those cast –​and achieved a constitutional majority in the Duma in 2007. However, it was still essentially a front organisation for the technocratic, non-​party executive, which occasionally tried to distance itself from it (such as in 2011–​12, when UR suffered from being labelled “the party of crooks and thieves” by Kremlin critic Aleksei Navalny). By 2011 there were just seven registered political parties (four of which entered the State Duma) –​ indicating a moribund party system. Following protests about perceived falsification of the 2011 election (Chaisty and Whitefield 2013), the party system was opened up again somewhat through looser membership requirements. In 2016, 74 parties were eligible for the election; in 2021, there were 32. But given that the main parties were by now well established, a profusion of small spoiler parties simply led to them taking votes off each other, leaving the larger parties to come through the middle (Wilson 2016). Research has also shown that the protests were more effective at temporarily denting support for the regime than at boosting the opposition (Tertytchnaya 2020). Although UR continued to obtain majorities in the 2011, 2016 and 2021 State Duma elections, these were to some extent based on apathy and exaggerated by the electoral system. The party won more seats in the 2016 and 2021 elections with approximately 28 million votes than it did in 2007 with 44 million. (By comparison, over twice as many people –​57 million –​ did not vote at all in 2016 as voted for UR, indicating that its ability to win by enthusing the population –​rather than by winning the largest relative share of a small turnout –​has been diminishing over time.)

Assessing the electoral integrity of the Russian political system At least formally, the transparency of the electoral process in Russia has few superiors in established democracies. There are observers, video streams of electoral counts, strict protocols on the integrity of ballot papers, and detailed polling-​level publication of results. Yet throughout post-​Soviet history, there have constantly been doubts about whether electoral outcomes accurately reflect the will of the voters. Significant question marks were raised over the results of the December 1993 referendum that approved the constitution (Sobyanin and Sukhovol’skii 1995), and such concerns have been repeated frequently since (e.g., Borisova 2000; Lyubarev et al 2007; Myagkov et al 2009; Ross 2014; Bader and van Ham 2015; Zavadskaya et al 2017). The international election observation missions of the Organization for Security and Co-​operation in Europe (OSCE) have moved from describing 1990s elections as marking “significant progress in consolidating representative democracy” (OSCE-​ODIHR 2000) to highlighting an “uneven playing field” and “a lack of genuine competition” (OSCE-​ODIHR 2018). It is not only critics that question Russian electoral results: the former chair of the Central Electoral Commission (1999–​ 2007), Aleksander Veshnyakov, lamented the impotence of the courts during his tenure: “We had many facts when election fraud was established, as a rule in favour of candidates from the party in power, and specific violators avoided real responsibility” (Veshnyakov 2018: 25–​6). Even Dmitry Medvedev, while he was president, reputedly speculated about whether Yeltsin had really won the 1996 presidential election (Shuster 2012). Questions raised about the Russian electoral process focus on issues regarding aspects of electoral registration, fairness of media coverage, irregularities in electoral rolls, restrictions on ballot access, and the integrity of official results. Detailed assessment of each of these cannot be conducted here. However, the balance of available evidence from observers, official data 120

121

National elections in Russia Table 10.3  Perceptions of fairness, 1999–​2016 State Duma elections (percentage of respondents) 1999

2003

2007

2012

2016

TV coverage of election Fair Unfair Don’t know

58 39 3

52 33 15

59 28 13

58 34 8

60 25 15

Voting and Counting Fair Unfair Don’t know

69 28 3

58 25 17

61 25 14

52 41 8

44 42 14

Sources: NRB8 survey (2000: D12); Russian Research/​R-​Research surveys (2004–​16). Includes “don’t knows” but excludes “refused to answer”. Used with the kind permission of the original data holders.

and statistical accounts seems to indicate that the majority of regions report results that reflect the overall will of voters, but a small group of regions does routinely stand out from the norm when it comes to questions of turnout, unusual patterns of voting, and reports of administrative pressure being brought to bear on voters (Hutcheson 2018: 219–​55). Given the overwhelming vote shares in favour of Putin and UR, it seems unlikely that they would not win anyway without such irregularities. But the democratic credentials of any system depend primarily on the extent to which the election results are seen as legitimate by those who vote (Norris 2019; McAllister and White 2015). Thus it is useful to examine voters’ perceptions of the fairness of the electoral campaign environment and the vote counting. Table 10.3 summarises the results of a long series of surveys conducted after each of the State Duma elections from 1999 to 2016, which have asked about the fairness of the electoral campaign’s media coverage and vote counting. Around half to three-​fifths of the electorate perceive television coverage to treat all parties fairly, while a quarter to a third perceive bias, numbers that have remained fairly stable over time despite changes in media usage. On the other hand, faith in the vote counts has fallen over time, with only 44 percent perceiving the count to have been fair in 2016. There was a brief improvement in people’s perceptions of the 2018 presidential election when this number increased to 72 percent (Hutcheson and McAllister 2018), but surveys carried out after the 2020 constitutional referendum and the 2021 State Duma election indicated a resumption of the downward trend (Levada Center 2020, 2021). By a majority of almost two to one, non-​voters in both contests regarded the process to have been unfair/​dishonest. Perhaps more worryingly, around a third of those who did participate also held this view.

Conclusion Over the post-​Soviet period, the vibrancy of Russian democracy has diminished significantly, and the national electoral process has become increasingly consolidated and predictable. Whilst this to some extent has reflected sustained support for the president and its reflection in the party system, a significant amount has also come from continual legislative engineering of the electoral system by the regime in order to benefit from incumbency. Until Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022, there seemed to be little prospect that this would change very much in the coming years. Elections had been routinised, and Putin’s rule and the party system were well established after two decades of relative stability, with little realistic 121

122

Derek S. Hutcheson

opposition (even if the KPRF’s support rose slightly in 2021 compared with the previous election). The possible limitation on Putin’s remaining in power beyond 2024 was solved by the resetting of term limits through the constitutional referendum of 2020. Every indication was that inertia could carry the political and electoral system through at least one and possibly two more terms of Putin governance until the mid-​2030s. However, this may be the calm before the storm. The decision to shift the focus from domestic stability to a more messianic foreign policy –​and the international opprobrium as well as system-​challenging economic crisis that has accompanied this –​could expose weaknesses in the system of electoral authoritarianism. Consistently high vote shares for the president and the United Russia party have been achieved through an increasingly small toolbox of methods. Reliance on votes from high-​turnout regions with well-​honed political machines (generally the ones whose democratic credentials are most frequently questioned) has made up for the general lack of engagement in the majority of the country but may prove a risky strategy in the long-​ term, especially if the outcome of the war in Ukraine leaves Russia internationally isolated and living standards start to fall again. State Duma elections have mainly been about maintaining the supremacy of the “party cartel”, but there has also been a general lack of programmatic and party renewal inside that group. United Russia is largely dependent on reflected public support for the Kremlin, and thus on Putin’s continued high approval ratings. Should these fall, there are limits as to how much additional support the KPRF and LDPR can garner, both reflecting particular long-​ standing niches and led until now by septuagenarians with a string of presidential election defeats behind them going all the way back to the previous century. The moribund nature of the parliamentary scene was evident in spring 2022 as Russia invaded Ukraine. Zyuganov and Zhirinovsky were almost simultaneously hospitalised with COVID-​19 just before the war started. Though the Communist leader recovered, the previously firebrand LDPR politician was never seen in public again. Once a giant of the political scene, his eventual death a few weeks later was relegated almost to a footnote in the context of the bigger international crisis. Given how synonymous he was with LDPR’s brand, the viability of the party for the long term must now be in question. Outside the system, the only obvious potential leader –​Aleksei Navalny –​was jailed in 2021 (ostensibly due to parole violations, although this was highly politicised). He may still re-​emerge as a future player, depending on the long-​term fate of the Putin regime. To remain viable, the Kremlin can choose two directions. It could push strongly to re-​ mobilise its support, demonstrating that it maintains a substantial mandate across the whole country and still has fresh ideas for future development. The anti-​liberal and nationalistic language of Putin’s rhetoric around the Ukraine war, coupled with a further crackdown on dissent and independent journalism, indicate that it may already be too late to take this path. Alternatively, it can for as long as possible suppress opposition, reduce the scope for potential challengers to emerge from outside the system, and rely on a narrow base of high-​turnout regions to maintain its formal electoral advantages in a general atmosphere of indifference and distrust. Whereas the 2018 presidential election appeared to make use of the former strategy, increasingly this appears an aberration in a series of elections and referenda in recent years that have been notable for their lack of vibrant debate or competition, and due to post-​2021 developments. It is also of concern that such a high proportion of voters doubted the integrity of the system even before the Ukraine war. Having spent the best part of two decades reconstructing a stable economic and political system from the rubble of the 1990s, the regime can no longer simply rely on long memories of the post-​Soviet chaos if that stability begins to wobble. With a power 122

123

National elections in Russia

base increasingly reliant on the suppression of alternative viewpoints and prevention of the emergence of rival centres of authority, the relationship of trust that has thus far characterised Putin’s relationship with the Russian public may start to unravel. It was noted at the outset that the word vybor in Russian means both “election” and “choice”. Whilst there is still a menu of parties and candidates, it has been increasingly clear in recent years that the regime would prefer that menu to be table d’hôte rather than à la carte. More than three decades after perestroika ushered in a new political pluralism, Russia again has elections without (real) choice.

Notes 1 For 2011, a curious provision was added whereby parties gaining between 5 percent and 7 percent of the vote would be awarded a consolation one or two seats in the Duma –​well short of their proportional share –​but as no parties fell into this bracket, it was a moot point. 2 Due to its ability to finish in first place with a plurality of the vote in most constituencies, UR won 203 of the 225 SMD seats in 2016 and 198 in 2021, even though in many constituencies more votes were cast against it than for it. This significantly boosted its overall seat share of the 450 total seats in the Duma when added to the narrow majorities of 140 (2016) and 126 (2021) out of 225 that it won through the party list part of the elections. 3 Technically, it did not stand in the 1999 election due to registration technicalities, but the temporary replacement –​Zhirinovsky’s Bloc –​was de facto the same movement and reverted back to the original name after the election.

References Aburamoto, M. (2019), “An Indispensable Party of Power? United Russia and Putin’s Return to the Presidency, 2011–​14”, Russian Politics 4, 1: 22–​41. Adamovich, O. (2021), “Pamfilova nazvala sem’ glavnykh otlichii vyborov v Gosdumu 2021 ot predydushchikh”, Komsomolskaya pravda, 3 December, www.kp.ru/​daily/​28365.5/​4513​671/​ (accessed 14 December 2021). Alimov, E.V. (2016), “Dzherrimendering v sovremennoi Rossii: sushchnost’ i perspektivy ispol’zovaniya”, Konstitutsionnoye i munitsipal’noye pravo 5: 59–​61. Bader, M. and C. van Ham (2015), “What Explains Regional Variation in Election Fraud? Evidence from Russia: A Research Note”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 31, 6: 514–​28. Barygin, I.N., M.A. Vasilik, M.S. Vershinin, V.Ya. Gel’man, V.Ya. Kostyushev, V.V. Kolashnikov, Yu.A. Nersesov and S.I. Sterpanov (1999), Politicheskie partii, dvizheniya i organizatsii sovremennoi Rossii na rubezhe vekov: analiticheskii spravochnik (St Petersburg: Izdatel’stvo Mikhailova V.A.). Benoit, K. (2004), “Models of Electoral System Change”, Electoral Studies 23, 3: 363–​89. Borisova, Ye. (2000), “And the Winner is?”, Moscow Times (Weekend), 9 September, I–​VIII. Buzin, A.Yu. and A.E. Lyubarev (2008), Prestuplenie bez nakazaniya: administrativnye izbiratel’nye tekhnologii federal’nykh vyborov 2007–​2008 godov (Moscow: Nikkolo M). Carter, E. and D.M. Farrell (2010), “Electoral Systems and Electoral Management”, in L. LeDuc, R.G. Niemi and P. Norris (eds.), Comparing Democracies 3: Elections and Voting in the 21st Century (London/​ Thousand Oaks: Sage): 25–​44. Central Electoral Commission (1993–​2021), “Arkhiv izbiratel’nykh kampanii”, (spreadsheets of all federal election results since 1993), http://​cikrf.ru/​bann​ers/​vib_​ar​hiv/​. Chaisty, P. and S. Whitefield (2013), “Forward to Democracy or Back to Authoritarianism? The Attitudinal Bases of Mass Support for the Russian Election Protests of 2011–​2012”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 29, 5: 387–​403. Danilin, P. (2015), Partiinaya sistema sovremennoi Rossii (Moscow: Argumenty nedeli). Gel’man, V. (2008), “Party Politics in Russia: From Competition to Hierarchy”, Europe-​Asia Studies 60, 6: 913–​30. Gel’man, V. (2014), “The Rise and Decline of Electoral Authoritarianism in Russia”, Demokratizatsiya 22, 4: 503–​22. Gel’man, V. (2015), Authoritarian Russia: Analyzing Post-​Soviet Regime Change (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press).

123

124

Derek S. Hutcheson Gill, G. (2015), Building an Authoritarian Polity: Russia in Post-​Soviet Times (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Golos (2021), “ ‘New Disenfranchised’: Why Do Russian Citizens Massively Become Ineligible to be Elected in the Elections in 2021”, www.golosi​nfo.org/​artic​les/​145​329 (accessed 15 December 2021). Golosov, G.V. (2004), Political Parties in the Regions of Russia: Democracy Unclaimed (Boulder: Lynne Rienner). Golosov, G.V. (2017), “Authoritarian Learning in the Development of Russia’s Electoral System”, Russian Politics 2, 2: 182–​205. Golosov, G.V. (2022), Authoritarian Party Systems: Party Politics in Autocratic Regimes, 1945–​ 2019 (London: World Scientific). Hedin, A. (2021), “Communist State Administrative Structures”, in Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Politics, Open access, https://​doi.org/​10.1093/​acref​ore/​978019​0228​637.013.1411 (accessed 14 December 2021). Hermet, G., R. Rose and A. Rouquie (eds.) (1978), Elections without Choice (Basingstoke: Macmillan). Hutcheson, D.S. (2003), Political Parties in the Russian Regions (London: Routledge Curzon). Hutcheson, D.S. (2004), “Protest and Disengagement in the Russian Federal Elections of 2003–​04”, Perspectives on European Politics and Society 5, 2: 304–​30. Hutcheson, D.S. (2013), “Party Cartels beyond Western Europe: Evidence from Russia”, Party Politics 19, 6: 907–​24. Hutcheson, D.S. (2018), Parliamentary Elections in Russia: A Quarter-​Century of Multiparty Politics (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Hutcheson, D.S. and I. McAllister (2018), “Putin versus the Turnout? Mapping the Kremlin’s 2018 Presidential Election Support”, Russian Politics 3, 3: 333–​58. Hutcheson, D.S. and I. McAllister (2021), “Consolidating the Putin Regime: The 2020 Referendum on Russia’s Constitutional Amendments”, Russian Politics 6, 3: 355–​76. Ivanov, V. (2008), Partiya Putina: istoriya “Edinoi Rossii” (Moscow: Olma). Katz, R. and P. Mair (1995), “Changing Models of Party Organisation and Party Democracy: The Emergence of the Cartel Party”, Party Politics 1, 1: 5–​28. Konitzer, A. and S.K. Wegren (2006), “Federalism and Political Recentralization in the Russian Federation: United Russia as the Party of Power”, Publius: The Journal of Federalism 36, 4: 503–​22. Kynev, A.V. and A.E. Lyubarev (2011), Partii i vybory v sovremennoi Rossii: evolyutsiya i devolyutsiya (Moscow: Fond “Liberal’naya missiya”/​Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie). Laakso, M. and R. Taagepera (1979), “The Effective Number of Parties: A Measure with Application to Western Europe”, Comparative Political Studies 12, 1: 3–​27. Laverty, N. (2015), “The ‘Party of Power’ as a Type”, East European Politics 31, 1: 71–​87. Law on Fundamental Guarantees (2002), “Federal’nyi zakon ‘Ob osnovnykh garantiyakh izbiratel’nykh prav i prava na uchastie v referendume grazhdan Rossiiskoi Federatsii’ ”, Federal Law N67-​F3, Sobranie zakonodatel’stva Rossiiskoi Federatsii 24, Art. 2253. Latest version, with amendments up to 2021, at http://​pravo.gov.ru/​proxy/​ips/​?docb​ody=​&nd=​102076​507 (accessed 22 December 2021). Law on Political Parties (2001), “Federaln’yi zakon ‘O politicheskikh partiyakh’”, Federal Law N95-​F3, Sobranie zakonodatel’stva Rossiiskoi Federatsii 29, Art. 2950. Latest version, with amendments up to 2021, at http://​pravo.gov.ru/​proxy/​ips/​?docb​ody=​&nd=​102071​991 (accessed 22 December 2021). Levada Center (2020), “Kto i kak golosoval za popravki v konstitutsiyu”, Post-​election survey, published 8 August 2020. N=​1617, fieldwork 24–​25 July, www.lev​ada.ru/​2020/​08/​07/​kto-​i-​kak-​goloso​val-​za-​ popra​vki-​v-​konsti​tuts​iyu-​zave​rsha​yush​hij-​opros/​ (accessed 14 December 2021). Levada Center (2021), “Kak rossiyane otsenivayut itogi vyborov?”, Post-​election survey, published 6 October 2021, N=​1634, fieldwork 23–​29 September 2021, www.lev​ada.ru/​2021/​10/​06/​kak-​rossiy​ ane-​otse​niva​yut-​itogi-​vybo​rov/​ (accessed 14 December 2021). Lukinova, E., M. Myagkov and P.C. Ordeshook (2011), “Metastasised Fraud in Russia’s 2008 Presidential Election”, Europe-​Asia Studies 63, 4: 603–​21. Lyubarev, A.E., A.Yu. Buzin and A.V. Kynev (2007), Mertvye dushi: metod falsifikatsii itogov golosovaniya i bor’ba s nimi (Moscow: Nikkolo M). Magaloni, B. (2008), “Credible Power-​Sharing and the Longevity of Authoritarian Rule”, Comparative Political Studies 41, 4-​5: 715–​41. March, L. (2002), The Communist Party in Post-​Soviet Russia (Manchester: Manchester University Press). McAllister, I. and S. White (2008), “Voting ‘Against All’ in Postcommunist Russia”, Europe-​Asia Studies 60, 1: 67–​87.

124

125

National elections in Russia McAllister, I. and S. White (2015), “Electoral Integrity and Support for Democracy in Belarus, Russia and Ukraine”, Journal of Elections, Parties and Public Opinion 25, 1: 78–​96. McAllister, I. and S. White (2017), “Demobilizing Voters: Election Turnout in the 2016 Russian Election”, Russian Politics 2, 4: 411–​33. Mendras, M. (1993), “Les trois Russie: Analyse du référendum du 25 avril 1993”, Revue française de science politique 43, 6: 897–​939. Moraski, B. (2007), “Electoral System Reform in Democracy’s Grey Zone: Lessons from Putin’s Russia”, Government and Opposition 42, 4: 536–​63. Moser, R.G. (2001), Unexpected Outcomes: Electoral Systems, Political Parties and Representation in Russia (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press). Myagkov, M., P.C. Ordeshook and D. Shakov (2009), The Forensics of Election Fraud: Russia and Ukraine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Norris, P. (2019), “Do Perceptions of Electoral Malpractice Undermine Democratic Satisfaction? The US in Comparative Perspective”, International Political Science Review 40, 1: 5–​22. NRB8 survey (2000), New Russia Barometer VIII, fieldwork conducted by VTsIOM, 13–​29 January 2000, N=​1,940, Centre for the Study of Public Policy, University of Strathclyde. OSCE-​ODIHR (2000), Russian Federation. Elections to the State Duma, 19 December 1999. OSCE/​ODIHR Election Observation Mission Report (Warsaw: ODIHR). Available online: www.osce.org/​odihr/​electi​ ons/​rus​sia/​16293?downl​oad=​true (accessed 22 December 2021). OSCE-​ODIHR (2018), Russian Federation. Presidential Election, 18 March 2018. ODIHR Election Observation Mission Final Report (Warsaw: ODIHR). Available online: www.osce.org/​files/​f/​docume​ nts/​2/​4/​38357​7_​0.pdf (accessed 22 December 2021). Oversloot, H. and R. Verheul (2000), “The Party of Power in Russian Politics”, Acta Politica 35: 123–​45. Oversloot, H. and R. Verheul (2006), “Managing Democracy: Political Parties and the State in Russia”, Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics 22, 3: 383–​405. Peregudov, S.P. (2009), “Politcheskaya sistema Rossii posle vyborov 2007–​2008gg. Faktory stabilizatsii i destabilizatsii”, Polis 2: 23–​38. Renwick, A. (2009), The Politics of Electoral Reform: Changing the Rules of Democracy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Reuter, O.J. (2017), The Origins of Dominant Parties: Building Authoritarian Institutions in Post-​Soviet Russia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Reuter, O.J. (2021), “Civic Duty and Voting Under Autocracy”, Journal of Politics 83, 4: 1602–​18. Reuter, O.J. and T.F. Remington (2009), “Dominant Party Regimes and the Commitment Problem: The Case of United Russia”, Comparative Political Studies 42, 4: 501–​26. Reuter, O.J. and R. Turovsky (2014), “Dominant Party Rule and Legislative Leadership in Authoritarian Regimes”, Party Politics 20, 5: 663–​74. Robinson, N. (1998), “Classifying Russia’s Party System: The Problem of ‘Relevance’ in a Time of Uncertainty”, Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics 14, 1-​2: 159–​77. Rose, R. (2000), “How Floating Parties Frustrate Democratic Accountability: A Supply-​Side View of Russia’s Elections”, East European Constitutional Review 9, 1-​2: 53–​9. Ross, C. (2014), “Regional Elections and Electoral Malpractice in Russia: The Manipulation of Electoral Rules, Voters, and Votes”, Region: Regional Studies of Russia, Eastern Europe, and Central Asia 3, 1: 147–​72. R-​Research survey (2016), Ian McAllister and Stephen White, funded by Australian National University, fieldwork conducted by R-​Research Ltd., 23 September–​18 October 2016, N=​2000. Russian Research survey (2004), “Inclusion without Membership? Bringing Russia, Ukraine and Belarus closer to ‘Europe’ Dataset” by Stephen White, Margot Light and Roy Allison, funded by ESRC grant RES-​000-​23-​0146, fieldwork conducted by Russian Research Ltd, 21 December 2003–​16 January 2004, N=​2,000. Russian Research survey (2008), “National representative survey dataset” by Derek S. Hutcheson, Stephen White and Ian McAllister, co-​funded by British Academy Small Research Grant BA-​40918 (Derek Hutcheson) and ESRC grant RES-​000-​22-​2532 (Ian McAllister and Stephen White), fieldwork conducted by Russian Research Ltd., 30 January–​27 February 2008, N=​2000. Russian Research survey (2012), “National representative survey dataset” by Stephen White and Ian McAllister, fieldwork conducted by Russian Research Ltd., 3–​23 January 2012, N=​1600. Sanchez, O. (2009), “Party Non-​Systems: A Conceptual Innovation”, Party Politics 15, 4: 487–​520. Sartori, G. (2005), Parties and Party Systems. A Framework for Analysis (Essex: ECPR Press).

125

126

Derek S. Hutcheson Schedler, A. (2013), The Politics of Uncertainty: Sustaining and Subverting Electoral Authoritarianism (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Seredina, M. (2021), “Parties in Russia: Party System Nationalisation in Dominant Party Systems”, East European Politics, https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​21599​165.2021.1989​411. Shuster, S. (2012), “Rewriting Russian History: Did Boris Yeltsin Steal the 1996 Presidential Election?”, Time Magazine, 24 February. Available online: http://​cont​ent.time.com/​time/​world/​arti​cle/​ 0,8599,2107​565,00.html (accessed 20 October 2016). Smyth, R., A. Lowry, and B. Wilkening (2007), “Engineering Victory: Institutional Reform, Informal Institutions, and the Formation of a Hegemonic Regime in the Russian Federation”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 23, 2: 118–​37. Sobyanin, A.A. and V.G. Sukhovol’skii (1995), Demokratiya, organichennaya falsifikatsiyami: vybory i referendumy v Rossii v 1991–​1993gg. (Moscow: Project Group for Human Rights). Stanovaya, T. (2021), “Administrativno-​partiynaya sistema. Kak vybory zakrepili novyi tip rossiiskikh partii”, https://​carne​gie.ru/​expe​rts/​1104 (accessed 21 December 2021). Tertytchnaya, K. (2020), “Protests and Voter Defections in Electoral Autocracies: Evidence from Russia”, Comparative Political Studies 53, 12: 1926–​56. Thames, F.C. (2007), “Discipline and Party Institutionalization in Post-​Soviet Legislatures”, Party Politics 13, 4: 456–​77. Turchenko, M. and S. Shevchuk (2016), “Veto Players and Major Electoral Reforms in Russia”, Russian Politics 1, 2: 203–​21. United Russia (2012), “Medvedevu vruchen partbilet ‘Edinoi Rossii’ ”, 22 May, https://​er.ru/​activ​ity/​ news/​medved​evu-​vruc​hen-​partbi​let-​edi​noj-​rossi​i_​84​186 (accessed 22 December 2021). Veshnyakov, A.V. (2018), “Govoryat predsedateli TsIK Rossii 1993–​2016 godov”, Vestnik Tsentral’noi izbiratel’noi komissii Rossiiskoi Federatsii –​Spetsial’nyi vypusk (25 let izbiratel’noi sisteme): 24–​6. White, S. and O. Kryshtanovskaya (2011), “Changing the Russian Electoral System: Inside the Black Box”, Europe-​Asia Studies 63, 4: 557–​78. White, S., R. Rose and I. McAllister (1997), How Russia Votes (Chatham, NJ: Chatham House). Wilson, A. (2005), Virtual Politics: Faking Democracy in the Post-​Soviet World (New Haven: Yale University Press). Wilson, K. (2016), “How Increased Competition Can Strengthen Electoral Authoritarianism”, Problems of Post-​Communism 63, 4: 199–​209. Zavadskaya, M., M. Grömping and F.M.I. Coma (2017), “Electoral Sources of Authoritarian Resilience in Russia: Varieties of Electoral Malpractice, 2007–​2016”, Demokratizatsiya 25, 4: 455–​80.

126

127

11 STATE INTERVENTION AND RUSSIA’S FROZEN DOMINANT PARTY SYSTEM Regina Smyth

Among the most remarkable changes in Russian politics over the past thirty years has been the evolution of electoral competition, political parties, and the party system. While a stable party system has emerged as predicted by the transition paradigm, the mechanism of democratic learning posited in that model did not shape Russian party dynamics. Processes of voter coordination in elections and elite cooperation within legislatures were derailed by state intervention following the 1999–​2000 election cycle, just as they were beginning to affect system development. Instead, the stability and choice embodied in the Russian party system were imposed from above to maintain the dominant party that served the state’s interests. Since Russia’s 1993 founding election, there have been three distinct stages of party system development. The early period, between 1993 and 1999, was marked by a volatile and fluid party system in both the electorate and in the parliament. In the autocratic consolidation period, the rise of the state party, United Russia (UR), which achieved dominant status by 2008, created a systemic logic that supported regime goals of centralisation and limited electoral uncertainty. After 2011, a profound change in state strategy extended state control over the party system and consolidated the electoral autocracy. This chapter begins by showing how the measures used to describe democratic party systems distort the reality of the Russian system. The second section demonstrates the top-​down mechanisms that forged the dominant party system in Russia. These changes occurred incrementally between elections as the regime responded to challenges in the electoral environment and redressed failures in prior elections. The narrative shows that Russian party system consolidation emerged because of state intervention rather than the formation of organised social cleavages or even ideological contestation. The final section explores the legitimation crisis produced by the imposition of stability from above, demonstrating that the Russian regime cannot erase societal factors that continue to challenge its control.

Measuring party system structure: Numbers, spatial relations, and organisation Defining the role of political parties in authoritarian regimes, or even in transitional states, defies concepts developed to describe democratic systems. Democratic party systems are anchored in electoral competition and legislative bargains at all levels of government. As Sartori (1976: DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-13

127

128

Regina Smyth

44) notes, a party system is less a constellation of individual organisations than a “system of interactions resulting from interparty competition.” Implied in this concept is that these parties are locked in a strategic battle to win power –​office, influence over policy, control over state resources, and the perks of office. In autocratic party systems, those interactions are determined by state intervention, often through a dominant party, rather than organisational resources or social preferences. As in a democracy, party organisations in a dominant party system can be described in terms of their numbers, positions within the policy space, and appeals to voters. In theory, each factor shapes a party’s capacity to win votes and influence legislation. However, these measures can be misleading in a dominant party system. In Russia, focusing on these measures generates the illusion of multipartyism, choice among different issue positions, and regime legitimacy. The true nature of the Russian system can only be understood by the ways in which the regime shapes parties and relationships to concentrate power within the dominant party. The most fundamental measure of party systems is the number of parties that compete for office and constitute legislative factions. While almost all systems register minor parties, either regional or single-​issue organisations, these entities rarely shape outcomes on the national level. The presence of opposition parties provides the semblance of competition without genuine competition (Sartori 1976: 205). As Matthijis Bogaards (2004) illustrates in an analysis of African dominant party systems, the effective number of parties measure overestimates the level of competition in the system. Digging more deeply into the data reported in Table 11.1 suggests that this is true in Russia. Table 11.1 reports the evolution of the Russian party system over time. Both the number of parties allowed to compete and the effective number of parties in the legislature suggest vibrant party-​based competition. The data also illustrate the early consolidation of parties in Russia. By 2003, the fragmented, polarised, and volatile party system of the 1990s evolved into a stable structure organised around a centrist dominant party, UR. Fly-​by-​night vanity parties gave way to enduring organisations. Some of the elements of state intervention that shaped these outcomes are evident in Table 11.1. The first two columns, together with data on independent candidates, reflect electoral rule changes, from a mixed, unlinked system that allowed independent candidates to a Table 11.1  Political parties in Duma elections, 1993–​2021 Election

1993 1995 1999 2003 2007 2011 2016 2021

Seats

Parties

Effective Number of Parties**

SMD

PR

Election

Duma*

Election

Duma

225 225 225 225 -​ -​ 225 225

225 225 225 225 450 450 225 225

13 43 26 23 11 7 14 14

8 4 6 4 4 4 4 5

8.47 10.58 6.78 4.79 2.27 3.30 3.14 3.42

8.22 11.15 6.82 5.44 2.28 3.21 3.0 3.35

Source: Compiled by the author from official statistics. Note: *Seats won on the party list race. **Calculated using the formulas in Cruz et al (2021).

128

Independents (%)

32.5 32.0 43.0 26.9 -​ -​ 0.2 1.1

129

State intervention and Russia’s frozen dominant party system

proportional representation system in 2007, then a move back to a mixed system in 2016. This table also underscores that party system consolidation was built on the success of the dominant party, UR, which emerged in 1999 and was consolidated in the 2003 election. The second set of columns indicates the number of parties that have competed for national legislative seats between 1993 and 2021. This list includes both national and regional parties, a point I elaborate on below. The final two columns report the effective number of parties in the electorate and in the legislature, demonstrating the profound effect of the mixed system on the number of parties. On their face, these data suggest a competitive party system in the electorate and in the parliament. The volatility of the early party system gave way to stability over time, as the party system became frozen around four organisations concentrated in the left-​nationalist policy space. What is hidden in Table 11.1 is the critical effect of UR on system formation. As Hiskey and Moseley (2020: 18) write, these systems feature “dominant party citizenry” forged through state intervention and disproportionately represented in the party system. These attributes are clear in Russia. Table 11.1 masks the extreme level of disproportionality as turnout declined, wasted votes increased, the dominant party accrued seat bonuses, and vote margins declined in district races. The fifth column in Table 11.1, the effective number of legislative parties, obscures the second characteristic of a dominant party system: the absence of party system constraint on the dictator. The dominant party is a mechanism to obtain and maintain power rather than represent popular interests or link citizens and government (Magaloni and Kricheli 2010). UR ensures total presidential administration control over the legislative agenda and policy process so that the actual effective number of parties is one. The data depicted in Table 11.1 also show apparent party and party system institutionalisation: a process of building linkages between parties and their voters. In a democracy, these linkages broadly define the currency of the bargain between voters and leaders: coherent party programmes, patronage, or personalism as the payoff for supporting the party (Kitschelt 2000). This perspective assumes that party organisations behave as unitary actors that appeal to voters based on coherent political programmes (Downs 1957). Yet data on the distribution of parties in the space in a dominant party system such as Russia’s can only be understood in the context of state intervention in which carrots and sticks, and not policy compromises, are the currency of the bargains that maintain the political party system. As a result, the dispersion of parties within the political space depicted in Table 11.2 is forged by the deployment of state resources and state control, not institutionalised social cleavages. This effort is clear in the need to include a “party of power” category in a description of Russia’s party families, even though these parties have no ideological anchor. Like Table 11.1, Table 11.2 suggests that the fragmented, polarised, volatile system of the 1990s gave way to stability –​the hallmark of the Putin regime’s appeal to voters –​by 2003. Yet a closer look shows that this conclusion is overstated. While UR vote totals are stable, support for the smaller parties remains volatile, rising and falling as the regime adjusts to electoral challenges. Table 11.2 illustrates two additional ways in which the dominant party system legitimised the regime: obscuring state control of electoral competition and embodying the message of stability after the chaos of the Yeltsin period. UR was crucial to defining this message. While the Yeltsin regime was too weak to launch a successful party of power, the Putin regime relied on institutional change, electoral manipulation, and personalism to consolidate state influence within a single centrist party of power (Smyth 2002). In 1999, two parties of power competed to define the post-​Yeltsin period: Putin’s vehicle, Unity, and the regional challenger, 129

130

Regina Smyth Table 11.2  Party families in Russia, 1993–​2021 Year

1993 1995 1999 2003 2007 2011 2016 2021

Data

PR Votes Total Seats PR Votes Total Seats PR Votes Total Seats PR Votes Total Seats PR Votes Total Seats PR Votes Total Seats PR Votes Total Seats PR Votes Total Seats

Left

Liberals

Nationalists

Party of Power

Percent

Change

Percent

Change

Percent

Change

Percent

Change

20.3 17.5 32.2 41.6 26.5 25.1 16.5 20.2 11.6 12.7 19.2 20.4 13.3 9.3 18.9 12.7

-​ -​ +​11.9 +​24.1 -​5.7 -​16.5 -​10.9 -​4.9 -​4.9 -​7.5 +​7.6 +​7.7 -​5.9 -​11.1 +​5.6 +​3.4

18.7 12.0 32.2 13.3 26.5 10.9 16.5 1.5 1.6 0 3.4 0 2.0 0 5.3 2.9

-​ -​ +​13.5 +​1.3 -​5.7 -​2.4 -​10.0 -​9.4 -​14.9 -​1.5 +​1.8 0 -​1.4 0 +​3.3 +​2.9

22.9 14.2 18.1 12.4 6.0 4.0 20.5 8.0 8.1 8.9 11.7 12.4 14.7 8.9 8.4 4.9

-​ -​ -​4.8 -​1.8 -​12.1 -​8.4 +​14.5 +​4.0 -​12.4 +​0.9 +​3.6 +​3.5 +​3.0 -​3.5 -​6.3 -​4.0

15.5 14.2 11.2 12.8 37.8 32.8 40.7 49.6 64.3 70.0 49.3 52.9 54.2 76.2 49.8 72.0

-​ -​ -​4.3 -​1.4 +​26.6 +​20.0 +​2.9 +​16.8 +​23.6 +​20.4 -​15.0 -​17.9 +​4.9 +​23.3 -​4.4 -​4.2

Notes: Left: KPRF (1993-​2021), APR (1993–​2003), Communists –​Working Russia –​for the Soviet Union (1995–​9), Power to the People (1995). Liberal: Yabloko (1993–​2003), RDDR (1993), PRES (1993), DVR-​OD (1995), Forward Russia! (1995), PST (1995), Pamfilova-​Gurov-​Lysenko (1995), SPS (1999–​2003), New People (2021). Nationalists: LDPR (1993–​2021), Great Power (1995), KRO (1995–​9), Motherland (2003), Rodina (2021). Parties of Power: Russia’s Choice (1993), NDR (1995), Ivan Rybkin Bloc (1995), Unity (1999), OVR (1999), NDR (1999), United Russia (2003–​21), PVR-​Pzh (2003), NPRF (2003).

Fatherland-​All Russia (FAR). UR positioned itself first to the right of centre to destroy the right party organisations, then it moved to the centre-​left to rival the Communist Party of the Russian Federation (KPRF) (Smyth et al 2007). To maintain this illusion of issue-​based competition, the Kremlin created two alternative types of parties. The first type of party organisation is systemic opposition, parties manufactured and supported by the Kremlin to create the illusion of choice and bolster legitimacy. The most successful of these projects is A Just Russia, which merged with Rodina in 2008 and has been a stalwart systemic party. In 2021, the party New People was forged to re-​establish a co-​ opted right opposition. The second type of spoiler parties are registered to provide a stream of co-​opted candidates and parties to run in regional elections and single-​member districts to draw support away from the systemic organisations and ensure that they do not become more powerful and amplify the illusion of choice. As I argue below, programmatic competition declined over time, but the semblance of issue-​ based competition persisted. UR maintained a segmented set of appeals built on programme, patronage, and personalism (Luna 2010). This structure afforded the regime a wide range of strategies to appeal to voters in economic or leadership crises and to meet electoral challenges. The Russian case illustrates that state interventions in party system development undermine not only choice but also systemness –​the potential for autonomous political manoeuvring within the political space. From this perspective, the number and dispersion of parties within 130

131

State intervention and Russia’s frozen dominant party system

the system are tools of state control, as the regime invents and eliminates parties to generate the impression of competition or coordination around policy goals. In the next section, I demonstrate how the Russian state used these tools to build control while trying to preserve the legitimising role of the multi-​party system.

The consolidation of an autocratic party system Lipset and Rokkan (1967) argue that the number of parties that emerge from the interaction between electoral systems and social cleavages are frozen in the party system. As a wealth of studies demonstrate, these attributes embody the political trade-​offs embedded in formal election rules, focusing on minority representation as in multiparty systems or efficiency as in two-​party systems (Lijphart 2012). Importantly, in non-​democratic systems that hold regular multiparty elections, it is often the case that the party system is largely the product of state interference to manage competition, the policy process, and regime legitimacy. To sustain this intervention, a regime must be nimble, adjusting tactical interventions to changes in the electoral context (Smyth 2020). The Russian party system has followed three stages of regime development in the thirty years since the demise of the Soviet Union. Between 1993 and 1999, Russia’s inchoate “feckless” party system gave rise to an unconsolidated predominant party system that served as an important element of reconstituting the state (Smyth 2002). Between the 1999 and 2007 elections, UR served as a mechanism to co-​opt elites across regions and within the legislature, ending the construction of vanity parties that served elite ambition (Reuter 2017). In the 2008 election, a hegemonic party system emerged and was consolidated despite street protests contesting election fraud in 2011. That system remains intact through 2022, even as the mechanisms that froze the system changed from election to election and across regions.

Russia’s first party system Russia’s first party system emerged in the 1993 founding election and ended following the 1999 parliamentary elections. The system was volatile, lacked ties to the electorate, and featured undisciplined legislative factions (Rose and Munro 2002). These characteristics were to be expected. During political transitions, high volatility is a symptom of what transitologists call “practice” as parties build organisations, appeal to voters and leadership teams, and attract viable candidates. As Lucan Way argues (2015), in the face of state weakness, this type of volatility leads to pluralism by default, as a relatively weak state cannot contain the formation of new competitors and therefore must tolerate alternative voices. This inability of the Russian state to shape a coherent system was evident in the “feckless party system” of the 1990s (Gel’man 2006). Permissive electoral rules, the lack of clear social programmes, and elite infighting all fostered instability. Of these factors, the most pernicious obstacle to political party formation was the mixed electoral system that allowed independents to compete for Duma seats. Before 2008, “quality” candidates with significant personal vote connections to constituents, resources, and ties to regional machines avoided membership in uncertain party organisations (Smyth 2006). Even those who joined parties avoided campaigning on parties’ brand names, instead tailoring messages for local constituencies. This dynamic diminished the resources essential to building a programmatic party system. Throughout this period, the Kremlin interfered with elections through several channels. The Yeltsin regime bought vote support through bargains with regional leaders that enabled them to maintain regional machines (Hale 2006; Smyth 2006). Support did not rely on policy promises 131

132

Regina Smyth

but on workplace mobilization, channeling state resources to friendly parties (Smyth 2006) and biasing access to media coverage (Oates 2006). The Kremlin also launched spoiler parties designed to diminish support for opposition organisations. For example, in 1993, Women of Russia was formed to challenge the KPRF through descriptive representation of those most in need of social welfare benefits (Smyth et al 2011). A less effective set of Kremlin interventions in party system dynamics were the attempts to build a state party or party of power. For the Yeltsin administration, these efforts were not successful. By 1995, Yeltin’s prime minister, Viktor Chernomyrdin, organised Our Home is Russia (Nash Dom, Rossiya or NDR) to link regional leaders to the party of power. The unpopularity of the Yeltsin regime hindered NDR’s development. As was true of constituency candidates with opportunities to run as independents, only 16 of the 30 governors who joined the NDR political council would allow their name to be used in the 1999 election (Slider 2010). While the politics of each election are fascinating, the legacy of this period was a foundation of electoral manipulation that the Putin Administration developed over the next twenty years (Smyth 2020).

The consolidation of an autocratic party system, 1999–​2007 As the third post-​transition election approached in 1999, the factors that shaped the party system structure shifted. The Russian economy began to recover following the 1998 crash. President Yeltsin, who had been ill since 1995, faced term limits. Yeltsin appointed the younger, healthier Vladimir Putin as his successor. This status provided Putin with state resources and the support of the oligarch’s media empires, which were needed to quell a serious challenge from a regional party of power, Fatherland-​All Russia. Led by Moscow Mayor Yuri Luzhkov and former Prime Minister Yevgeny Primakov, this party was intended to provide a path to the presidency for either man. Through manipulation of state media and vicious black public relations (Oates 2000), the influx of state resources, and some good campaigning that branded the party as centrist within a polarised system, the party received 23.3 percent of the vote and vanquished FAR (Colton and McFaul 2000). This segmented appeal to voters, based on personalism, policy, and patronage and broadcast on state television, set the tone for the party’s strategy through to 2022. Almost immediately following the 2000 presidential election, the Kremlin used internal legislative rules to weaken rival parties and consolidate UR (Smyth 2002). On the elite level, legislative co-​optation was achieved by deploying carrots such as legislative leadership positions and other perks of office and sticks such as removing key leaders from the ballot. As UR grew, it dominated committee and leadership positions, depriving both left and right parties of electoral resources and policy control, and consistently delivered majority support for the president’s agenda. Control over legislative processes created a third avenue of intervention in the party system: changes to the electoral system and party registration rules that afforded increased control over the competitive space. The Kremlin’s 2001 law “On political parties” established parties as gatekeepers in electoral politics. Critically, the law defined new regulations for party registration with the Ministry of Justice, mandating significant mass membership, the formation of regional organisations across Russia, and a formal charter and party programme. Not only did these rules preclude regional challenges like the one mounted by Fatherland-​All Russia, they also excluded parties unable to build nationwide organisations. A 2002 complementary amendment to the law “On the basic guarantees of citizens’ electoral rights and the right to

132

133

State intervention and Russia’s frozen dominant party system

vote in referenda” mandated that at least 50 percent of regional legislatures be elected by party list, forcing ambitious regional elites to cooperate with national party organisations. New regulations established a trend that continued throughout the Putin regime: the registration of many small party organisations, even if they did not meet the established criteria, and the elimination of credible parties that could provide a significant threat, such as the right-​ leaning Liberal Russia (Wilson 2006). In 2003,18 parties and five coalitions competed in Duma elections –​only three fewer than the previous election. Yet the outcome was very different. Boosted by a high electoral threshold and wasted votes, the newly constituted UR party won 55 percent of the seats, while the right-​liberal opposition was not even strong enough to forge a legislative faction. As living standards improved and political change was sold as democracy, Putin’s popularity increased. UR’s victory, together with the tragic terrorist attack in Beslan, led to additional institutional reforms to recentralise state power. The regime eliminated gubernatorial elections and replaced the mixed electoral system with a national party list vote. Both changes further damaged gubernatorial regimes. A further revision to the law on parties increased the barriers to party registration and ballot access while providing incumbent parties the advantage of automatic registration. It also enacted a seven percent party threshold that increased the seat bonus to the largest party. During this period, regime efforts to regulate and restrict the organisational development of parties divided them into systemic and non-​systemic opposition (Semenov 2020). These strategies also limited opposition. Ian McAllister and Stephen White (2011) report the intimidation of opposition party activists and non-​systemic party funders —​a trend I document in my book (Smyth 2020). All these changes led to the consolidation of the dominant party system in the December 2007 election, in which United Russia won a constitutional majority in the legislature by maintaining its core electorate, stealing supporters from the systemic parties, and bringing new voters to the polls.

Party system autocracy For the next three cycles, elections replicated the 2008 outcome: a four-​party system in which the KPRF, LDPR (Liberal Democratic Party of Russia), and SR were both propped up and constrained by the state. By consolidating a single-​party system, elections shifted from centre-​ periphery regional contestation and voter choice to a Kremlin resource to secure legitimation and control. Systemic consolidation was achieved by increasing electoral misconduct, formal institutional change, elite co-​optation, and voter manipulation. Ironically, the increase in electoral manipulation prompted the 2011 post-​election protest, For Fair Elections. Labeled the “Party of Crooks and Thieves” by Aleksei Navalny, voter support for UR was low, and the controlled system provided few choices for voters who wanted change. The systemic parties provided a vehicle for vote protest, as Navalny called for Russians to vote for any party except UR. Even with significant election fraud, UR could not replicate its constitutional majority, although it did secure over fifty percent of legislative seats. The remaining parties increased their legislative factions, but elite co-​optation ensured that they did not challenge UR’s legislative agenda, which channeled Kremlin policies. For the most part, these shocks increased reliance on manipulation to ensure constitutional majorities. But the regions also experimented with new programmatic linkages based on broad cultural appeals. The shift to conservative values in 2012 and Russia’s annexation of Crimea produced complex changes in popular support, mediated through factors such as

133

134

Regina Smyth

Western sanctions and attitudes toward the West (Frye 2019). The regime’s reliance on coercion to increase turnout also benefited UR. State workers and others dependent on the state budget were recruited to campaign and vote for the party (Forrat 2018). By 2021, increased pension payments and allocations to key loyalist groups from police to security officials did bring voters to the polls. As in previous periods, changes in formal rules played a critical role in maintaining legislative control. In the wake of the 2011 post-​election protest, the Kremlin reinstated the mixed electoral system and loosened requirements for party registration. Those changes increased the types of electoral manipulation that could be used to engineer UR victories in district races, centred on ballot access. The newly registered parties provided the raw materials for manipulation, with regional elections becoming laboratories to test out forms of manipulation (Golosov 2015). The dispersion of candidates in the political space, relying on spoiler parties and candidates drawn from the small parties registered with the Ministry of Justice, helped to position UR as a centrist alternative and diminished support for systemic opposition parties (Smyth and Turovsky 2018). The result was that the structure of ballots varied widely to accommodate local conditions, but it also eliminated signs of party system fragmentation or polarisation, even at the regional level (Panov and Ross 2013). There was also evidence of bargaining with systemic parties to place opposition candidates in gubernatorial and legislative district races that UR could not win. Other formal rule changes, such as at-​home voting, mobile voting, three-​day voting, restrictions on election observers, and experiments with compromised electronic voting systems, have supported outright vote falsification. In 2016, fourteen parties competed on the party list race; seven were new. While UR remained at the centre of the political space, new entrants repopulated the right party family to co-​opt growing liberal opposition from the non-​systemic organisations. This structure supported the redistribution of votes from smaller parties, who failed to surpass the electoral threshold, to UR. This pattern was replicated in 2021 as one new party, New People, managed to pass the five percent electoral threshold, marking the first new party to win national office since 2008. Still, as UR support fell to less than 30 percent in the polls in 2021, manipulation could not obscure growing opposition. Vote margins in SMD races decreased, but they deprived the systemic parties of victories. In Eastern Russia, the KPRF outperformed UR in the proportional representation party-​list race (PR). The KPRF also increased its regional legislative cohorts in 34 out of 39 regions. In Moscow, independent candidates backed by the non-​systemic opposition saw their presumptive victories wiped out as electronic votes reported huge margins for UR candidates. The signs of strain in the system were subtle but clear.

Persistent challenges from below and from outside the system Despite the overwhelming concentration of power in UR relative to other parties in the system, maintaining constitutional majorities continued to be challenging. As Tkacheva and Golosov (2019) demonstrate, turnout in the party’s first open primaries in 2016 mirrored cross-​ national variation in the party’s vote support, underscoring the role of administrative resources in securing turnout and support. The party’s lack of broad programmatic or patronage ties to its electorate remains a significant weakness. Since the 2003 release of the party’s platform –​ Putin’s Plan –​the party’s programme has been inextricably tied to the president. As a result, UR cannot take credit for policy changes or the distribution of goods and services that have marked the state strategy since 2018 (Smyth and Sokhey 2021). 134

135

State intervention and Russia’s frozen dominant party system

Coupled with regional variation in development, structural conditions, and economic growth, regional party systems remain volatile (Panov and Ross 2019). This regional variation in support is reflected in strains in the systemic opposition. Regional KPRF activists continue to defy their national leadership at the ballot box and on the streets as regional organisations mobilise issue-​based protest (Dollbaum 2021; Ishiyama 2022). Electoral manipulation emerged as the most effective tool for constructing UR majorities in the centre and the regions (Turchenko 2020). These strategies included the manipulation of turnout, campaign resources, media, politicised justice, and, increasingly, vote falsification (McAllister and White 2017; Smyth 2020). The result has been a decline in party, regime, and electoral legitimacy. A growing link between elections and protest is a critical legacy of the For Fair Elections protest that engaged the non-​systemic opposition in vote protests to break UR’s stranglehold over the State Duma (Smyth and Soboleva 2016). This strategy included translating protest resources such as activists and slogans into campaign resources for a strategic voting scheme, “Smart Vote,” designed to coordinate support for systemic opposition parties and candidates who can challenge UR (Turchenko and Golosov 2020). The link between protest and vote behaviour requires more study, but as the 2021 elections in Khabarovsk and Nenets illustrate, regional protests reduce UR support, shifting votes to systemic opposition parties. These persistent pressures on UR challenge Russia’s tightly controlled elections and the manufactured party system. They also underscore the difficulty of balancing choice and control. By 2021, the reliance on fraud and manipulation undermined the legitimising value of elections and systemic parties that maintained an illusion of competition. The link between elections and protest, as well as the transfer of resources across the two types of participation, continued. These new tactics extended the role of the non-​systemic opposition as an actor in the party system and emboldened elements of the KPRF. It also prompted a structural change in the party system for the first time since 2008: the emergence of New People, a party rooted in the discontent of Russia’s eastern regions. The solution to these challenges increasingly came from outside the party system, in the form of state intervention and increased repression against media and the non-​systemic opposition following the winter 2021 protests contesting the arrest of Navalny. While this response manufactured electoral outcomes without protest in September 2021, and UR maintained a constitutional majority in the State Duma, the role of the party system in maintaining regime stability was diminished.

References Bogaards, M. (2004), “Counting Parties and Identifying Dominant Party Systems in Africa”, European Journal of Political Research 43, 2: 173–​97. Colton, T.J. and M. McFaul (2000), “Reinventing Russia’s Party of Power: ‘Unity’ and the 1999 Duma Election,” Post-​Soviet Affairs 16, 3: 201–​24. Cruz, C., P. Keefer and C. Scartascini (2021), Database of Political Institutions 2020 (Washington, DC: Inter-​ American Development Bank Research Department). Dollbaum, J.M. (2021), “Social Policy on Social Media: How Opposition Actors used Twitter and VKontakte to Oppose the Russian Pension Reform”, Problems of Post-​Communism 68, 6: 509–​20. Downs, A. (1957), An Economic Theory of Democracy (New York: Wiley and Sons). Forrat, N. (2018), “Shock-​Resistant Authoritarianism: Schoolteachers and Infrastructural State Capacity in Putin’s Russia”, Comparative Politics 50, 3: 417–​49. Frye, T. (2019) “Economic Sanctions and Public Opinion: Survey Experiments from Russia”, Comparative Political Studies 52, 7: 967–​94. Gel’man, V. (2006) “From ‘Feckless Pluralism’ to ‘Dominant Power Politics’? The Transformation of Russia’s Party System”, Democratization 13, 4: 545–​61.

135

136

Regina Smyth Golosov, G.V. (2015), “The Idiosyncratic Dynamics of Party System Nationalization in Russia”, Post-​ Soviet Affairs 31, 5: 397–​419. Hale, H.E. (2006), Why Not Parties in Russia? Democracy, Federalism and the State (New York: Cambridge University Press). Hiskey, J.T. and M.W. Moseley (2020), Life in the Political Machine: Dominant-​Party Enclaves and the Citizens They Produce (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Informal Institutions, and the Formation of a Hegemonic Regime in the Russian Federation”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 23, 1: 118–​37. Ishiyama, J. (2022), “Rumbling from Below? Opposition Party Rebranding, Regional Elections, and Transforming the Regime in Russia”, unpublished manuscript. Kitschelt, H. (2000), “Linkages between Citizens and Politicians in Democratic Polities”, Comparative political studies 33, 6-​7: 845–​79. Lijphart, A. (2012), Patterns of Democracy (New Haven: Yale University Press). Lipset, S.M. and S. Rokkan (1967), “Cleavage Structures, Party Systems and Voter Alignments: An Introduction”, in S.M. Lipset and S. Rokkan (eds.), Party Systems and Voter Alignments. Cross-​National Perspectives (New York: The Free Press): 1–​64. Luna, J.P. (2010), “Segmented Party–​Voter Linkages in Latin America: The Case of the UDI”, Journal of Latin American Studies 42, 2: 325–​56. Magaloni, B. and R. Kricheli (2010), “Political Order and One-​Party Rule”, Annual Review of Political Science 13, 123–​43. McAllister, I. and S. White (2011), “Public Perceptions of Electoral Fairness in Russia”, Europe-​Asia Studies 63, 4: 663–​83. McAllister, I. and S. White (2017), “Demobilizing Voters: Election Turnout in the 2016 Russian Election”, Russian Politics 2, 4: 411–​33. Oates, S. (2000), “The 1999 Russian Duma Elections”, Problems of Post-​Communism 47, 3: 3–​14. Oates, S. (2006), Television, Democracy, and Elections in Russia (London: Routledge). Panov, P. and C. Ross (2013), “Sub-​National Elections in Russia: Variations in United Russia’s Domination of Regional Assemblies”, Europe-​Asia Studies 65, 4: 737–​52. Panov, P. and C. Ross (2019), “Volatility in Electoral Support for United Russia: Cross-​Regional Variations in Putin’s Electoral Authoritarian Regime”, Europe-​Asia Studies 71, 2: 268–​89. Reuter, O.J. (2017), The Origins of Dominant Parties: Building Authoritarian Institutions in Post-​Soviet Russia (New York: Cambridge University Press). Rose, R. and N. Munro (2002), Elections without Order: Russia’s Challenge to Vladimir Putin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Sartori, G. (1976), Parties and Party Systems: A Framework for Analysis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Semenov, A. (2020), “Electoral Performance and Mobilization of Opposition Parties in Russia”, Russian Politics 5, 2: 236–​54. Slider, D. (2010), “How United is United Russia? Regional Sources of Intra-​party Conflict”, Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics 26, 2: 257–​75. Smyth, R. (2002), “Building State Capacity from the Inside Out: Parties of Power and the Success of the President’s Reform Agenda in Russia”, Politics & Society 30, 4: 555–​78. Smyth, R. (2006), Candidate Strategies and Electoral Competition in the Russian Federation: Democracy without Foundation (New York: Cambridge University Press). Smyth, R. (2020), Elections, Protest, and Authoritarian Regime Stability: Russia 2008–​2020 (New York: Cambridge University Press). Smyth, R., W. Bianco, C. Kam and I. Sened (2011), “Explaining Transitional Representation: The Rise and Fall of Women of Russia”, Journal of East European and Asian Studies 2, 1: 137–​62. Smyth R., A. Lowry and B. Wilkening (2007), “Engineering Victory: Institutional Reform, Smyth, R. and I.V. Soboleva (2016), “Navalny’s Gamesters: Protest, Opposition Innovation, and Authoritarian Stability in Russia”, Russian Politics 1, 4: 347–​71. Smyth, R. and S.W. Sokhey (2021), “Constitutional Reform and the Value of Social Citizenship”, Russian Politics 6, 1: 91–​111. Smyth, R. and R. Turovsky (2018), “Legitimising Victories: Electoral Authoritarian Control in Russia’s Gubernatorial Elections”, Europe-​Asia Studies 70, 2: 182–​201. Tkacheva, T. and G.V. Golosov (2019), “United Russia’s Primaries and the Strength of Political Machines in the Regions of Russia: Evidence from the 2016 Duma Elections”, Europe-​Asia Studies 71, 5: 824–​39.

136

137

State intervention and Russia’s frozen dominant party system Turchenko, M. (2020), “Electoral Engineering in the Russian Regions (2003–​2017)”, Europe-​Asia Studies 72, 1: 80–​98. Turchenko, M. and G. Golosov (2020), “Smart Enough to Make a Difference? An Empirical Test of the Efficacy of Strategic Voting in Russia’s Authoritarian Elections”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 37, 1: 65–​79. Way, L. (2015), Pluralism by Default: Weak Autocrats and the Rise of Competitive Politics (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press). Wilson, K. (2006), “Party-​System Development under Putin”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 22, 4: 314–​48.

137

138

12 LOCAL GOVERNMENT Nikolay Petrov

If it is difficult to understand how the Russian political system works in the present without analysing the regional level of government, and without analysing what is happening at the local level, it is difficult to understand what awaits the system in the future. On the one hand, Russia is a country of large cities with a population of half a million and above, often post-​ industrial, in which a third of the country’s population now lives. On the other hand, another third of the country’s population lives in villages and small towns that differ little from one another, with stove heating and a toilet in the yard.

Historical background In Soviet times, the municipal level was just a component of a single vertical of government. The situation changed with the democratic transformations of the late 1980s and early 1990s, when the changes initiated from below were supported at the upper level, and the middle, regional level most often acted as a brake. In the confrontation between the upper and middle levels, the scheme of supporting the upper by the local level over the head of the regionals has crystallised. It was implemented in the new Yeltsin Constitution of 1993 by the provisions that local self-​government is not a part of the state power, represented by the national and regional levels, but an independent power. When President Yeltsin’s relations with excessively, in his opinion, independent regional leaders became even more complicated in the mid-​1990s, in 1995 the Council for Local Self-​ Government under the President of the Russian Federation was first established. It was headed by the prime minister, speakers of both houses of parliament and the head of the Presidential Administration. In 1997, it was replaced by the Council for Local Self-​Government of the Russian Federation, chaired by President Yeltsin himself. In both cases, the Council, which consisted of several dozen people, played a mostly ceremonial role. But when, in addition to the conflict between the federal centre and the regions, the relations of the president and his administration with both chambers of the Federal Assembly seriously deteriorated, a plan was discussed to turn the Local Government Council into an analogue of the third chamber. However, due to the high turbulence of the late 1990s, it was never implemented. With the coming of Vladimir Putin to the post of president in 2000, the pressure on the governors and the regional authorities as a whole intensified. 138

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-14

139

Local government

Municipal reform of the 2000s In the mid-​2000s a reform of local self-​government (LSG) was carried out, the development of which was entrusted to Putin’s associate from the time both worked for the Mayor of St Petersburg (Anatoly Sobchak), Dmitry Kozak. The declared goals of the reform –​to transfer part of the powers down, closer to the population, in order to promote self-​organisation at the place of residence –​were quite consistent with the practice of developed countries, but they remained declarations. In the course of the reform, a two-​tier system of LSG was created and powers were delimited between levels. The first, upper level consisted of urban districts and municipal districts; the second, lower level –​urban and rural settlements within municipal districts. As a result of the reform, there was an almost twofold increase in the number of municipalities –​from 12,600 to 24,500 (Sosnin 2018). The number of municipal deputies has increased –​there are about 250,000 of them now in Russia, and 395,000 municipal employees.1 The basic defects of the reform, which caused its failure and subsequent revision, are analysed in detail by Natalia Zubarevich, who at one time participated in the work of Kozak’s group. The defects were: 1) the establishment of criteria for the allocation of settlements without taking into account huge regional differences in settlements; 2) an extremely low tax base of rural settlements, which led to them being assigned minimum powers (landscaping and garbage collection, maintenance of cultural institutions and intra-​settlement roads); 3) a reduction in the powers and financial resources of many cities, even relatively large ones, that received the status of urban settlements; 4) a division of the single “fabric” of the city –​the district centre and its rural periphery –​into urban and rural settlements; 5) an increase in the number of people employed in the LSG by more than 160,000, with additional costs attributed to the budgets of the regions; and 6) hindering the authorities from self-​organising local communities, thereby increasing their participation in decision-​making. In fact, the reform was carried out to delineate powers more clearly rather than to transfer them down, closer to the population (Zubarevich 2017).

Counter-​reform of the 2010s The protests of 2011–​12, especially in the major cities of Moscow and St Petersburg but also in Russia’s other cities and regional centres, on the one hand, and the complete subordination of governors to the federal centre, on the other, prompted the Kremlin to pay special attention to the cities. So too did the elections in autumn 2013, which saw victories for opposition challenger candidates in the city elections in Petrozavodsk and Ekaterinburg and second place for Aleksei Navalny in the Moscow mayoral elections; these were the last in which candidates from the government either lost or performed badly. To these, we can add the early election of the mayor of Novosibirsk in April 2014, which was won by the candidate of the Communist Party. In May 2014, amendments to the law “On the general principles of the organisation of legislative (representative) and executive bodies of state power of the subjects of the Russian Federation” and the law “On the general principles of the organisation of local self-​government in the Russian Federation” dramatically expanded the ability of regional authorities to establish the structure and procedure for electing municipal authorities without their consent. The regional authorities did not fail to take advantage of this. It became possible to form a representative body in large cities not through direct elections but by electing deputies from representative bodies of inner-​city districts. The influence of the regional authorities on the appointment of heads of administrations hired by contract (the so-​called “city managers”) was strengthened. If earlier the regional government appointed a 139

140

Nikolay Petrov

third of the members of the evaluation committee, now its share had increased to half. At the same time, this third was previously appointed by the legislative body on the proposal of the governor; now for top-​level municipalities, it was directly by the governor. In February 2015, the counter-​reform was continued with the adoption of a new law. Previously, there were three models: the head of both the municipality and the administration directly elected by citizens; the head of the municipality elected by deputies with a hired “city manager” at the head of the administration; and the head of the municipality elected by citizens and at the same time the speaker of the representative body deprived of administrative functions performed by a hired city manager. Such a “hybrid”, with an elected mayor who performs mainly political and representative functions, was introduced, for example, in Ekaterinburg, where a bright opposition politician Yevgeny Roizman was elected mayor back in 2013. Two further models were introduced in February 2015. In the fourth model, deputies get the right to independently elect the head of the municipality, who at the same time heads the administration. In the fifth model, deputies elect the head of the municipality, who simultaneously heads the administration on the proposal of the competition commission responsible for choosing candidates. At the same time, the functions of the sole head of the municipality are transferred to the formally hired under contract but actually appointed official. The former city manager receives additional political and legal status, and the influence of deputies and the chairman of the council drops sharply. Although the head of the municipality, who was previously elected by deputies, is also the speaker and does not personally head the administration, formally it was he who concluded labour agreements with the city manager and solved many political issues. The real influence of one or another leader depended on the peculiarities of the local charter and the peculiarities of the personal authority of each of the officials. The heads of the regions increasingly began to use the right to cancel the direct elections of mayors, eliminating from the political scene the mayors of regional capitals who were widely supported by the population and regional elites who they considered to be competitors. At the same time, many mayors were offered compensation in the form of a status seat of a Federation Council member from the region or a mandate of a State Duma deputy. A new wave of changes in the charters of municipalities and the transformation of city managers selected by the governor’s competition commissions into sole heads of municipalities had begun. By the end of 2014, 23 more regions had been added to the 43 subjects that had refused direct elections for the mayors of regional capitals before the last reform of municipal self-​government. Direct mayoral elections have only been preserved in 14 cities. In the European part of Russia, the heads of Voronezh, Lipetsk, Kaliningrad and Petrozavodsk remained elected. In Siberia –​the mayors of Omsk, Tomsk, Novosibirsk, Kemerovo and Irkutsk. In the Far East –​Yakutsk, Khabarovsk, Blagoveshchensk, Yuzhno-​Sakhalinsk and Anadyr (Ulyanova 2014). (The cities in bold show where direct mayoral elections persisted as of January 2022.)

The constitutional reform of 2020–​22 and the dismantling of the LSG The law “On the general principles of the organisation of local self-​government in a unified system of public authority”, adopted in early 2022, completed the story of the development of the LSG first under Yeltsin and then in Putin’s Russia. The law, the main meaning of which can be seen in the embedding of the municipal level into the vertical of state power, launched a large-​scale change in the administrative-​territorial structure of the country, actually abolishing its entire lower level –​urban and rural settlements –​and leaving only the upper one. If it is fully implemented, then instead of the current twenty-​odd thousand municipalities (MO), 140

141

Local government

by 2028 there will be about three thousand. Thus, under the flag of concretising the new provisions of the Constitution, a major reform or, more precisely, a counter-​reform of the entire system of local self-​government has been completed. At the same time, unlike the previous reform of the LSG carried out under the leadership of Kozak in the mid-​noughties, no public expert discussions or elaboration on the provisions of the reform were carried out before the bill was submitted.

The centralising essence of the reform. Kozak’s municipal reform was unsuccessful, in particular because it offered a unified approach that did not take into account the specifics of particular regions and their populations. But instead of learning lessons from aspects of it that were insufficiently thought out fifteen years ago, it was decided to even aggravate some of its weaknesses. If that reform was “centralising” in its essence, then the new law went even further in this regard. Its developers declared that it aims to create “a new system of local government organisation that will be based not on the territorial principle but on the principle of serving a certain amount of the population” (Explanatory Note 2022). In fact, this means that a) the local government ceases to be its own, it ceases to be local, and in rural areas could be tens of kilometres from the citizen; and b) local communities cease to manage their own lives, while also not being able to control the superiors appointed from above who will manage them. The head of the municipality in the new model receives the status of a state civil servant with all the consequences that follow from this. He or she, one way or another, is elected: either directly by citizens or by municipal deputies who can either elect him from among their members or choose from two candidates proposed by the head of the region. It is important that the decision regarding which of these three models to choose is made at the regional level and not by the municipality itself. It could also be called self-​government, albeit crooked. But then the head of the region gets the legal right to dismiss the head of the municipality from office simply at his or her discretion –​about the same way that the president can dismiss them from office. This turns self-​government into arbitrariness, and the public power referred to in the name of the law into a rigidly subordinated state power. As a justification for the changes launched at the beginning of 2022, improving the management efficiency of the LSG and strengthening the financial basis of its activities were cited. Both are controversial, to say the least. Yes, indeed, settlements today transfer part of their powers to the local self-​government bodies of municipal districts on the basis of agreements without having the necessary financial base to exercise these powers. However, would it have been more effective to simply strengthen the financial base of the LSG at the grassroots level rather than to embark on a large-​scale restructuring? It should be noted that the study of the enlargement of municipalities in six regions of Russia, conducted several years ago by experts of the Committee of Civic Initiatives, did not show a direct relationship between the enlargement of the municipality and its managerial efficiency (Marquart and Sosnin 2018). There is no obvious economic expediency in the proposed reform, which means that, in starting it, the Kremlin proceeds from political expediency. The latter may consist both in switching attention from the processes important to the Kremlin related to the ongoing political transformation and in a large-​scale purge of the corps of municipal deputies, of which there are about a quarter of a million in the country today, a sharp reduction in both their number and the number of elections, cutting off current deputies from voters, and the final dismantling of any manifestations of grassroots democracy. 141

142

Nikolay Petrov

One can say that the launched reform does not so much change the relationship between the regional and municipal levels as bring the legislation in line with real practices. Yes, this is largely true: the governor today is a slave, or kholop, of the “tsar”, who is free to execute and pardon him, and the mayor, respectively, is a slave, or kholop, of the governor. And the power over the lower level from the upper one rests not so much on the mechanisms of coercion as on full financial control. In a normal federation, the principle of subsidiarity applies when those powers that cannot be executed at the lower level –​for example, related to defence or foreign policy –​are transferred from the bottom to the top, supported by finances. In Russia, the opposite is true: money and powers are distributed from top to bottom –​that is, a normal pyramid for a federal state stands on its head. And this is due not so much to a single-​channel super-​centralised tax system as to the peculiarities of the rent-​redistributive economy and the corresponding political design. The law did not encroach on the existing system of overwhelming arbitrariness in relation to regional budgets on the part of the centre and municipal budgets on the part of the regional administration. The main thing is not obvious from its text –​how the problem of the economic development and budgetary security of municipal and urban districts will be solved. Table 12.1 gives an idea of the rapid reduction in the municipalities’ own sources of income and the increase in the share of subventions allocated to fulfil the powers transferred to them from the regional level. Currently, the municipality’s own income consists of 15 percent personal income tax (30 percent until 2012), small business tax on total income, agricultural tax and property tax of individuals. All this together gives a meagre amount that is not enough to implement even the current powers of municipalities, which are extremely reduced in favour of the regional level. The degree of dependence of a municipality’s budgets on transfers from above is extremely high: the average level of subsidisation of large cities and regional capitals is 60 percent, and of municipal districts, both urban and rural, is 75 percent. This determines the absolutely subordinate position of a municipality in relation to the regional authorities. The process of consolidation of municipalities and the transformation of a two-​level system of local self-​government (municipal districts with urban and rural settlements) into a single-​ level one (through the formation of urban districts) was actively going on in a number of regions between 2015 and 2017. Pilot enlargements in some regions began even earlier, although the legalisation of such transformations occurred only in 2017, when the law “On the general principles of the organisation of local self-​government in the Russian Federation” was changed.

Table 12.1  The structure of budget revenues of urban districts (%)

Income tax Personal income tax Tax on total income Property tax Transfers Including donations Subsidies Subventions

2010

2016

2018

2020

1 25 4 7 47 6 17 20

0.3 20 5 6 58 5 15 35

0.3 21 5 6 59 5 16 34

0.5 20 4 6 63 8 18 32

Source: Presentation by N. Zubarevich at the Higher School of Economics, 19.10.2021.

142

143

Local government

In the Moscow region, consolidation began in 2014, mainly with the aim of strengthening the power of the governor by replacing the old heads of the LSG with “his own people” to control the distribution of the main resource –​expensive land near Moscow. In place of the former 378 municipalities, 64 urban districts with a single administration and a deputy corps were established. Similar processes are underway in the Nizhny Novgorod, Saratov and Kaliningrad regions, Perm and Stavropol territories and in several other regions.

LSG in public policy The municipal level has played an important role in public policy, including the separation of powers horizontally and vertically, the struggle of candidates in competitive elections, and political and media pluralism. In the Russian politics of the 1990s and early 2000s, there were bright, well-​known mayors in the country, and this was where the path to higher level politics began for a number of figures. These are Sergei Sobyanin, who was mayor of Kogalym from 1991 to 1993 before becoming speaker of the Parliament of the Khanty-​Mansi AO (1994–​ 2000), governor of the Tyumen Region (2001–​5), head of the Presidential Administration (2005–​8), chief of staff of the RF Government (2008–​10), and mayor of Moscow (2010–​ ­present); Yuri Trutnev, who was mayor of Perm from 1996 to 2000, governor of the Perm region (2000–​4), minister of Natural Resources of the RF Government (2004–​12), assistant to the President (2012–​13), deputy chairman of the RF Government and presidential envoy to the Far Eastern Federal District (2013–​present); Oleg Sysuev, who was mayor of Samara from 1991–​7, then deputy prime minister of the Russian Federation (1997–​8) and first deputy head of the Presidential Administration (1998); Viktor Tolokonsky, who was mayor of Novosibirsk from 1996 to 2000, then governor of the Novosibirsk region (2000–​10), presidential envoy to the Siberian Federal District (2010–​4) and governor of the Krasnoyarsk Territory (2014–​17). Bright, well-​known mayors throughout the country, such as Ekaterinburg mayor Arkady Chernetsky (1992–​2010), Irkutsk mayor Vladimir Yakubovsky (1997–​2009) and Krasnoyarsk mayor Pyotr Pimashkov (1996–​2011), are no longer present on the political stage, and there were confrontations between the mayors of regional centres and governors, which were often the main nerve in the politics of the region in the 2000s. The final point in the process of the mayors’ withdrawal from public policy and the degradation of public policy as a whole was set in 2014, when there was a serious transformation of the political regime into a consolidated personalist autocracy with minimal elements of electoral decor. Mayoral elections in most regional centres have become a thing of the past, and today there are only seven regional capital cities where directly elected mayors remain: Abakan, Anadyr, Novosibirsk, Tomsk, Khabarovsk, Ulan-​Ude and Yakutsk2 –​all located in Siberia and the Far East. In 2019, experts of the Committee of Civic Initiatives compared two models of work in the municipalities: those where “mayors/​professional managers” are appointed, and those where “mayors/​people’s representatives” are elected. There has been a decrease in the stability of municipal governance where mayors are not elected by the population. Such heads of cities hold their positions for only one to three years, almost never become representatives of the region in the Federal Assembly and do not hold the post of governor. On the contrary, among the elected mayors, 20 became deputies of the State Duma and 10 became governors (Sergeeva 2019). Together with the direct elections of the heads of municipalities, notable and influential figures at the municipal level left, but the elections of municipal deputies remained. For a long time they were below the Kremlin’s radar due to the financial, economic and political weakness of the municipal representative government. Due to the large possibilities of administrative 143

144

Nikolay Petrov

control over both elections and municipal assemblies, the latter are almost entirely controlled by the United Russia (UR) party of power. Since 2012, when, after the mass protests of 2011–​12, there was a return to the direct election of governors, the authorities have used UR to fully control the composition of candidates in the gubernatorial elections. The essence of the so-​called municipal filter is that, in order to be registered to participate in the elections, a candidate for the post of governor must collect, depending on the region, the signatures of between 5 and 10 percent of the municipal deputies representing at least 75 percent of the municipalities of the region. This acts as a prohibitive barrier, since none of the existing political parties in Russia, apart from the party of power, has such representation in all municipalities, including rural ones, to hold their candidate independently, without the support of the party of power. And the latter only allows its representatives to give their signatures to “other” candidates when it is absolutely sure that these candidates are not able to compete with the candidate from the party of power. While municipal elections, as a rule, are of little interest to the systemic –​that is, the Kremlin-​loyal –​opposition, the non-​systemic opposition, squeezed out by the authorities from the federal and even regional level elections, saw them as an opportunity to participate in real politics. Moreover, in large cities, where the opposition can count on the greatest support, the possibilities of fraud on the part of the authorities are more limited. Opposition candidates achieved the greatest success in the 2017 municipal elections in Moscow, where the United Democrats group nominated around a thousand candidates, most of whom went to the polls from the Yabloko party. In total, the United Democrats won 266 seats (out of 1502) in 62 district councils (out of 109). At the same time, they won a majority in 16 districts (Bekbulatova 2017). It was not possible to use these elections as a springboard for the elections to the Moscow City Duma in 2019, however, because none of the brightest winners of 2017 were allowed to register. In subsequent years, candidates from the democratic opposition managed to get elected to municipal councils in a number of regions of the country, mainly in large cities. And in May 2021 they were even able to organise an All–​Russian Congress of municipal deputies in Veliky Novgorod –​the first since 1904. The congress was closed by the police under the pretext of quarantine measures, but its participants managed to issue a number of political statements and publicise the concept of the development of local self-​government in the Russian Federation (Zemskii s”ezd n.d.). Unfortunately, as a result of the political dynamics of recent years, with the consistent dismantling of the local self-​government system culminating in the adoption of a new law on LSG in early 2022, not only was the channel for recruiting new people into Russian politics blocked, but so too was the mechanism for developing a political culture of participation, without which the democratic development of Russia becomes impossible not only now but in the near future.

Repression of mayors and the refusal of direct elections The systemic mass repression of elected mayors dates back to the time of the 2004 “Beslan Package”. It was the mayors who were given the first main “firing squad” position in the political elite, the group from which the current spiral of repression began to unwind. With the abolition of direct gubernatorial elections in 2004 and the transition to a de facto system of appointing heads of regions, the Kremlin, in fact, gave them carte blanche to crack down on mayors who continued to be directly elected. And the political logic here is clear: if the system of unity of command is built on the top two floors of the system –​national and regional –​then why should the third, municipal floor be separate? 144

145

Local government

If we look at the statistics on mayors in 321 Russian cities, it turns out that, between 2005 and 2020, 219 mayors and city managers were prosecuted, including the heads of 45 regional capitals and 93 cities with a population of over 100,000 people. While 68 criminal cases were initiated against mayors between 2005 and 2012, this number more than doubled to 151 in the eight years following (Ankudinova 2020). According to Mikhail Tulsky, more than 50 mayors were repressed during “the thaw” of Dmitry Medvedev (2008–12) for daring to defeat the official candidates of United Russia. Of those who were elected mayor against the will of UR, 90 percent were imprisoned and suspended, while only 10 percent of those who were elected with the support of UR suffered this fate (Tulsky 2011). After the mayors, the systemic repression of the regional elites covered all other groups up to the governors, who started being arrested in 2015. However, even now, the average proportion of the highest representatives of the regional elite who are detained and arrested and receive long sentences on various charges is, as our calculations have shown, between 2 and 2.5 percent per year (Petrov 2019), but with regard to the mayors of regional centres, the proportion of those repressed annually fluctuates between 2.5 and 5 percent. In other words, every year between 2 and 4 mayors out of 803 end up behind bars.

Chronology of detentions of governors and mayors of regional capitals 2021: governor of the Penza region; mayors of Vladivostok, Orel and Krasnodar; 2020: governor of the Khabarovsk Territory; mayors of Kirov and Tomsk; 2019: mayors of Elista, Chelyabinsk and Petropavlovsk-​Kamchatsky; 2018: respite in the presidential election year; 2017: heads of Mari El and Udmurtia; mayor of Cheboksary; 2016: governor of the Kirov region; mayors of Ivanovo, Vladivostok, Gorno-​Altaysk and Tambov; 2015: heads of Sakhalin and Komi; mayors of Barnaul and Syktyvkar. How can we determine whether we are dealing with repression and not the punishment of corrupt officials? This is not so difficult –​the meaning of repression is to intimidate and send a clear signal to a group in the elite. Hence demonstrative cruelty and arbitrariness in the use of law, when the imputed “crime” is far-​fetched and serves as a simple pretext, often has an easily visible political background. In this sense, the recent case of the mayor of Tomsk, Ivan Klein, is indicative; it is an example where one can see both the repressiveness of the regime against relatively independent mayors and general changes in the political landscape at the municipal level.

The case of Mayor Klein Ivan Klein, one of the last seven directly elected mayors who won elections twice, in 2013 and 2018, was detained by FSB officers on 13 November 2020 in front of a television camera and during a conference call. He was accused of exceeding his official powers: allegedly, in 2016, in the interests of the Tomsk Beer company, of which he is the main shareholder, he ordered subordinates to enter false information on the presence of a 300-​metre sanitary protection zone at the enterprise, on the basis of which an entrepreneur was denied the use of the plot for a high-​r ise residential development. In his pre-​mayoral life, Klein was a major entrepreneur who turned an old Soviet brewery into a very successful enterprise. According to Klein, he did not really want to be mayor, but 145

146

Nikolay Petrov

the governor had insisted after the involuntary departure of his predecessor and it was difficult to refuse. It should be noted that Klein is the third elected mayor of Tomsk in recent Russian history who has, like both previous mayors, fallen under the flywheel of repression. His predecessor, Nikolai Nikolaichuk, who headed the city from 2006 to 2013, was accused of abuse of authority in organising the construction of highways and sentenced to four years’ probation. The former strongman mayor Alexander Makarov, who led the city from 1996 to 2006, was given 12 years in a strict regime colony on charges of corruption. Klein is not only a high-​status regional politician who was elected to the regional parliament four times over the 1997–​2013 period, where he headed the committee on Economic Policy, and served as president of the Association of Siberian and Far Eastern Cities. He is also a wealthy man with extensive experience in running a successful business in difficult Russian conditions. The very fact that, having wiretapped the mayor’s conversations for two and a half years and having carefully rummaged through all the documents in the mayor’s office, the prosecution was unable to present anything serious except absurd and poorly substantiated accusations of an abuse of authority speaks to the mayor’s absolute impeccability in business. This is evidenced by the verdict of two years handed down by the court in December 2021, which, taking into account the year already spent by Klein under arrest, is almost an acquittal by Russian standards. Klein enjoys both fame and respect among the townspeople, which is rare for current mayors. After learning about the mayor’s detention, the townspeople came to his defence. Thirteen thousand citizens signed a letter to President Putin in defence of Klein; for Tomsk, where about 60,000 people come to the polls, the figure is unprecedented. And the Tomsk City Duma refused to consider the demands of the prosecutor’s office for Klein’s resignation from the post of mayor before the court’s verdict. Thus, one of the largest Siberian cities remained without a full-​fledged mayor for more than a year, and Klein, who was in a pre-​trial detention centre and under house arrest all that time, retained the position of mayor of Tomsk. Klein himself, who in his misadventures saw a business conflict related to the interests of unscrupulous entrepreneurs who turned to the security forces to resolve the conflict, said in his last word to the court: Your Honour, mayors of cities, heads of districts of at least the whole of Siberia and the Far East are watching the course of our court session today, since before my detention I was the president of the Association of Siberian and Far Eastern Cities, which included 67 cities. And they are waiting for an answer: ‘But what should the mayor, the head of the administration do when adopting such resolutions? Whose side, whose interests should he defend? What should he be guided by?’ Should he be on the side of the population or support the interests of the entrepreneur? … And the future of local self-​government will depend on which side the cup of justice leans today. And the heads of cities will clearly understand what needs to be done and how to act. Adhere to the principle of self-​preservation and support entrepreneurs, or still ‘listen and hear the population’, be guided by its interests. Klein 2021 Various considerations are expressed regarding the real reasons for the arrest and, in fact, the fabrication of the case against Klein. It is also an attempt to raid Tomsk Beer, a considerable business (its net profit in 2019 amounted to more than 1.7 billion rubles) and the largest taxpayer in the region. It is the desire to finally bury the idea of elective mayors in Russia. It is,

146

147

Local government

finally, an indicative punishment for the failure of United Russia in the 2020 elections to the City Duma. It was with these elections that Aleksei Navalny’s trip to Tomsk was connected, where he was poisoned in August 2020. Then two representatives of Navalny’s headquarters were elected to the Tomsk Duma –​this was one of the success stories. At the end of 2021, however, one of these representatives was forced to leave the country, fearing arrest, and the other was detained at the very end of the year on charges of organising an extremist community using his official position.

Conclusion In its formation, local self-​government in Russia has undergone all the same difficulties as Russian democracy as a whole. In part, these difficulties were due to the fact that the state sought to manage everything to do with its development, leaving no place for self-​government; in part, they were due to the fact that neither civic culture nor the necessary experience and skills were available to the overwhelming majority of Russians after the collapse of the USSR. In the conditions of a weak state, which Russia was throughout the whole of the 1990s and especially at the beginning, the sprouts of local self-​government appeared and began to develop. The problem, however, was that the former Soviet state, and in many ways the Russian Empire, were rigid administrative structures organised from top to bottom. They not only discouraged but also suppressed any initiative coming from below. The relative scope for initiative and a certain political pluralism in the 1990s were the result of a weak state rather than a strong society and they were unrelated to the local community. With the strengthening of the state, first at the regional and then the federal level, there was a narrowing of the space for freedom for both society and local self-​government. This happened both in political and financial and economic dimensions. And while for some time in the second half of the 1990s large cities received the Kremlin’s support as a political counterweight to the “regional barons”, this ended once the regional level had been fully subordinated to the centre, local self-​government was dismantled, and a single vertical of state power was built. The established practices of full state control at the grassroots level were brought into full compliance with the law in the period 2020–​2 with the adoption, first, of the updated Constitution with its unified system of public power, then the law on local self-​government in the system of public power. The reason for the weakness and complete disenfranchisement of the municipal level in Russia is not so much the specific features of the numerous laws adopted over the past two decades and the conceptual schemes established by them, but, first and foremost, the principle of reverse subsidiarity, where the powers and resources necessary for their implementation are transferred not from the bottom up but from the top down. For the same reason, Russians cultivate a feeling not so much of citizen-​taxpayers who pay taxes to the government and, accordingly, strictly control it, but rather of subjects who expect assistance from the government.

Notes 1 Of the total number of state civil servants as of 1 July 2019, 855,000, the number of federal employees was 603,000, employees of the regions –​252,000, and municipal employees –​395,000 (https://​kam​ gov.ru/​kmr/​oss​ora/​news/​min​fin-​rf-​nazv​ano-​kol​ices​tvo-​gosu​dars​tven​nyh-​i-​munic​ipal​nyh-​sluza​sih-​v-​ str​ane-​25572). 2 The cities of Moscow, St Petersburg and Sevastopol, where the heads are also directly elected, are subjects of the federation and therefore not included in the list.

147

148

Nikolay Petrov 3 In total, there are 85 regions in Russia now, counting Crimea and Sevastopol. At the same time, three of them –​the cities of Moscow, St Petersburg and Sevastopol –​are headed by elected governors, and two –​the Moscow and Leningrad regions –​do not have regional centres, since they are located around the capitals.

References Ankudinova, V. (2020), “Istreblenie merov”, 27 November, https://​tv2.today/​Isto​r ii/​Istr​eble​nie-​merov. Bekbulatova, T. (2017), “Uspekh ‘Ob’edinennykh demokratrov’ i ‘Yabloko’ v Moskve”, 11 September, https://​med​uza.io/​feat​ure/​2017/​09/​11/​uspeh-​ob-​edinen​nyh-​dem​okra​tov-​i-​yabl​oka-​v-​mos​kve-​kak-​ im-​eto-​uda​los. Explanatory Note (2022), To the draft federal law “On the general principles of the organisation of local self-​government in the unified system of public authority”, https://​sozd.duma.gov.ru/​bill/​40361-​8. Klein, I. (2021), “The last word at the trial, December 2021”, https://​tv2.today/​Isto​r ii/​Posled​nee-​slovo-​ ivana-​kla​jna-​eto-​sud-​nad-​goro​dom-​gor​ozan​ami-​i-​mer​ami-​vseh-​dru​gih-​goro​dov. Marquart, E. and D. Sosnin (2018), “Territorial’nye reform mestnogo samoupravleniya: otsenka predposylok i effektov”, Mestnoe pravo 4: 19–​34, http://​mestn​oepr​avo.com/​docs/​2018-​4-​003.pdf. Petrov, N. (2019), “Spiral’ repressivnosti: vnutrennyaya dinamika, problem vkhoda i vykhoda”, Bulletin of Public Opinion Data. Analysis. Discussions 1-​2, 128: 15–​29, www.lev​ada.ru/​cp/​wp-​cont​ent/​uplo​ads/​ 2019/​07/​Book-​1.pdf. Sergeeva, L. (2019), “Goroda pryamogo deistvia”, 10 November, www.kom​mers​ant.ru/​doc/​4120​109. Sosnin, D. (2018), “Ukrupnenie munitsipalitetov: ot stikhiinoi praktiki k analizu”, 3 July, https://​bujet. ru/​arti​cle/​348​103.php. Tulsky, M. (2011), “V period ottepeli Medvedeva repressirovany 50 oppozitsionnykh merov”, 2 November, www.echo.msk.ru/​blog/​tul​sky/​826​429-​echo/​. Ulyanova, Zh. (2014), “Mayor under Contract: 66 Regions Refused to Elect the Head of their Capital”, 19 December, www.rbc.ru/​polit​ics/​19/​12/​2014/​54930​4429​a794​7709​969c​232. Zemskii s”ezd (n.d.), Vserossiiskii s”ezd munitsipal’nykh deputatov, https://​zems​tvo-​rus​sia.ru/​. Zubarevich, N. (2017), “Chto delat’ s mestnym samoupravleniem”, Vedomosti, 27 June, www.vedomo​sti. ru/​opin​ion/​artic​les/​2017/​06/​28/​699​631-​chto.

148

149

13 FEDERALISM AND DE-​F EDERALISATION IN RUSSIA Cameron Ross

Introduction In December 1993 Russia ratified its first post-​Communist Constitution, which in Article 1 proclaimed that it was “a democratic federative rule of law state with a republican form of government.” However, as I discuss below, during the Yeltsin era (1991–​9) a “federation” was formed but the guiding principles of “federalism” were never fully implemented. Instead, a highly asymmetrical and “negotiated” form of federalism was developed, central-​local relations became highly politicised and personalised, and the rule of law and constitutionalism were seriously undermined. Moreover, after the inauguration of Vladimir Putin as president in 2000, we witnessed an outright attack by the president on the principles and practices of federalism, and a recentralisation of power in the Kremlin. In addition, Putin’s new amendments to the Constitution adopted in 2020 have further seriously eroded the principles of federalism. As is demonstrated below, the major challenge to the Russian state today is not confederalism or the threat of ethnic disintegration, as was the case during the Yeltsin era, but rather defederalisation and the creation of a centralised and quasi-​unitary state.

Defining federalism According to R.L. Watts’ classic definition, in federations “1) neither the federal nor the constituent units of government are constitutionally subordinate to the other, i.e., each has sovereign powers derived from the constitution rather than another level of government; 2) each is empowered to deal directly with its citizens in the exercise of legislative, executive and taxing powers; and 3) each is directly elected by its citizens” (1999: 7). More specifically, as F. Requejo notes, federations display the following key characteristics: 1) The existence of a two-​tier government, both of which have legislative, executive and judicial powers with respect to their own competences, and … fiscal autonomy; 2) mechanisms that channel the participation of the federated units in decision-​making processes at the federal level … usually a second chamber whose representatives are elected according to territorial criteria; 3) an institutional arbiter, usually a supreme DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-15

149

150

Cameron Ross

court or a constitutional court; 4) the agreement on which the federation is based cannot be reformed unilaterally; 5) the existence of mechanisms that facilitate and promote communication and co-​operation. Requejo 2001: 306–​7 In Russia, as I have argued elsewhere, the key institutional structures of federalism as outlined by Requejo and Watts above have largely been put in place, but the relations between the federal centre and the federal subjects have not been governed by federal principles (Ross 2002, 2005).

Federalism and democracy As Daniel Elazar stresses, “The essence of federalism is not to be found in a particular set of institutions but in the institutionalisation of particular relationships among the participants in political life” (1987: 12). Here we need to take into consideration the fact that federalism involves both structure and process. In other words, federalism can only be fully implemented in democratic polities with strong civil societies and legal cultures. Watts argues that the following processes are necessary for federalism to function: [N]‌on-​centralization as a principle expressed through the operation of multiple centres of decision-​making, open political bargaining as a major feature of the way that political decisions are arrived at; the operation of political checks and balances to avoid the concentration of political power; and a respect for constitutionalism to reinforce the role of the constitution as the ultimate authority for each order of government. Watts 2015: 13 Likewise, as D.R. Kempton rightly observes, “federalism cannot survive long without a supportive political culture, which includes: a) the acceptance of multiple loyalties, b) a tolerance for diversity, c) a mutual forbearance and self-​restraint in the pursuit of goals, d) a commitment to negotiations as a method for resolving disputes, and e) a willingness to change” (2002: 198). Thus, without democracy, it is argued, federalism cannot function. However, it should be stressed that providing more autonomy to federal subjects does not necessarily lead to more democracy. As Edward Gibson notes, “Just as sub-​national politics can harbour sources of economic dynamism and democratic change, so can the sub-​national act as a bulwark for authoritarian enclaves in nationally democratizing polities” (2004: 17). Regional elites in Russia have more often used their powers of autonomy to instigate authoritarian regimes than to promote the development of democracy. Moreover, in Russia, it was those federal subjects that were granted the greatest levels of constitutional autonomy, namely the 21 ethnic republics, that were able to instigate the most authoritarian regimes (Ross 2002; Panov and Ross 2019). Another important factor shaping federal relations is the structure of the party system. Where parties are weak and fragmented, this will tend to intensify centrifugal forces and make it difficult to bind the units of the federation together. This was the case in Russia during the Yeltsin era. In contrast, as Watts notes, “Where there is a single party dominating politics within both orders of government, that party is able to prevail over the constitutional dispersion of power and in effect convert the federation into something more like a decentralised unitary system” (2015: 22). Such a situation has now emerged in Russia where regional parties are prohibited, and almost all of the regional assemblies are dominated by the Kremlin’s “party of power” –​United Russia. 150

151

Federalism and de-federalisation in Russia

The foundations of Russia’s federal system 1991–​3 The origins of federal states and the specific ways in which they were formed are of crucial importance in determining the character of the distribution of powers in federations. The foundations of Russia’s federal system go back to the period of the early 1990s, when there was a fierce struggle for power between the Russian presidency and parliament. Taking advantage of this period of political turmoil, a number of republics ratified radical “confederalist” constitutions. In order to bring a halt to regional demands for ever greater levels of political and economic autonomy, the Yeltsin regime reluctantly signed a Federation Treaty in March 1992 that ceded major powers to Russia’s regions. However, after Yeltsin’s forcible dissolution of the parliament in October 1993, a new “presidential constitution” was adopted in December that took back many of the powers that had been granted to the regions in 1992. According to the December 1993 Constitution, the Russian Federation comprised 89 federal subjects: 32 ethnically defined subjects (21 republics, 10 autonomous okrugs and 1 autonomous oblast) and 57 territorially based subjects (49 oblasts, 6 krais and two federal cities, Moscow and St Petersburg). However, over the period 2003–​8, there was a process of regional mergers (see discussion below) that reduced their number to 83. More recently, with Russia’s 2014 annexation of Crimea, two additional subjects were added to the federation –​the Republic of Crimea and the federal City of Sevastopol –​bringing the current total of federal subjects to 85.

An asymmetrical federation The Russian Federation, which in 2021 had a population of 145.9 million, is one of the largest and most ethnically diverse multinational federations in the world. The federation is also highly asymmetrical. The current 85 federal subjects vary widely in the size of their territories and populations and in their socio-​economic status and ethnic composition. For example, the Republic of Sakha-​Yakutia is 300 times the size of the Republic of North Ossetia–Alania. There are also major variations in population size. Thus, for example, Moscow has a population of over 12 million citizens, whilst the Nenets Autonomous Okrug has just 43,997 inhabitants (Kremyanskaya 2019: 410, 416). The Russian Federation is also constitutionally asymmetrical. Whilst Article 5.4 of the Constitution declares that all subjects of the federation are equal, some are clearly more equal than others. In fact, there are three distinct classifications of “federal subject” in the Constitution. First, the ethnically based republics, which are classified as national-​state formations; second, krais and oblasts, which are classified as administrative-​territorial formations; and third, autonomous oblasts and autonomous okrugs defined as national-​territorial formations (Karapetyan 1999). Only the republics are defined as “states” (Article 5.2) with the right to their own constitutions, languages, flags, hymns and other trappings of statehood.

The distribution of powers The Russian Constitution of December 1993 emerged out of conflict and coercion rather than consensus and compromise (Russia (Federation) 1993). It was a constitution that was largely imposed upon the regions by the centre after the violent overthrow of the parliament in October 1993. Not surprisingly, therefore, it gives far greater powers to the federal centre than to the federal subjects. Thus, for example, Article 71 of the 1993 Constitution grants the federal government 18 exclusive powers over the national economy, federal budget, federal taxes and duties, foreign affairs and defence and other key areas, and Article 72 lists fourteen concurrent 151

152

Cameron Ross

powers that are to be shared between the federal authorities and the federal subject; this became 15 in the new, amended 2020 Constitution (Russia (Federation) 2020). According to Article 73, the federal subjects have no designated powers and only possess “residual powers” –​the right to legislate in those few areas not covered by articles 71 and 72. The Constitution stresses the supremacy of Federal laws. Thus, for example, according to Article 15.1, “the Constitution of the Russian Federation has supreme legal force and is direct-​ acting and applies throughout the territory of the Russian Federation. Laws and other legal enactments adopted in the Russian Federation must not contradict the constitution of the Russian Federation.” Article 76.4 (76.5 in the new, amended 2020 Constitution) states: “The laws and other normative legal enactments of the components of the Russian Federation cannot conflict with federal laws. In the event of conflicts between the federal law and another enactment promulgated in the Russian Federation, the federal law is to obtain.” Federal executive powers are bolstered in Article 77.2, which states that “the federal bodies of executive power and the bodies of executive power of the components of the Russian Federation form a unified system of executive power in the Russian Federation.”

From constitutional to contract federalism, December 1993–​9 Although the Russian Constitution was officially ratified in December 1993, its authority was fundamentally weakened by questions over its legitimacy. Forty-​two of the federal subjects failed to ratify the Constitution, either because their citizens rejected it or turnout in the republics was below the mandatory 50 percent. Moreover, many of the ethnic republics had adopted their own constitutions in the period before the ratification of the Russian Constitution, and they now argued that their constitutions were to take precedence (Ross 2002, 2005). Nineteen of the 21 republics (with the exception of Ingushetia and Kalmykia) declared their state sovereignty, and by implication the right of secession. Thus, for example, Article 61 of Tatarstan’s Constitution declared: “The Republic of Tatarstan shall be a Sovereign State, a subject of international law, associated with the Russian federation on the basis of a treaty and the mutual delegation of powers” (Postovoi 1995: 6) The Constitution of Chechnya went even further, failing to even note that it was actually a subject of the Russian Federation; instead it proclaimed that Chechnya was an independent sovereign state and a full and equal member of the world community of states (Postovoi 1995: 7). In addition, a number of republics unilaterally proclaimed jurisdiction over policy areas that, according to Article 71, come under the exclusive jurisdiction of the federal government. Thus, for example, we have cases where some republics declared their right to make decisions over war and peace (Tyva); to approve republican laws on military service (Bashkortostan, Sakha, Tyva); to establish the procedures for the introduction of a state of emergency (Buryatia, Komi, Tyva, Bashkortostan, Kalmykia, Karelia, North Ossetia, Ingushetia); to conclude international treaties (Dagestan, Tatarstan, Bashkortostan, Tyva, Ingushetia, Komi); and to declare the natural resources of the territory the property of the federal subject rather than the federal government (Ingushetia, Sakha, Tyva) (Stolyarov 2008: 111).

Bilateral treaties Article 78.2 of the Russian Constitution states that federal executive bodies have the right to transfer the implementation of some of their powers “to the federal subjects and vice versa.” This article was used by the Yeltsin regime to justify its promotion of forty-​six bilateral treaties that were signed between the federal government and subjects of the federation over the period 152

153

Federalism and de-federalisation in Russia

1994–​8. These treaties granted the signatories a host of political and economic privileges. Thus, for example, Tatarstan’s bilateral treaty, which was signed in February 1994, legitimised Tatarstan’s radical confederalist constitution and reaffirmed the republic’s sovereignty over its economic and political affairs, including foreign trade and foreign policy. Moreover, 42 of the 46 bilateral treaties contained provisions that violated the Constitution. In particular, many of the treaties violated the constitutional division of powers, as set out in Articles 71–​73. There was a flurry of treaty signing on the eve of the December 1995 parliamentary elections and the 1996 presidential election. During this period signatories to the treaties were granted special economic and political privileges in return for their promise to “bring in the votes” for the Yeltsin regime. Chechnya is the only federal subject that pushed for full independence: it did not sign the Federal Treaty in 1992 and it refused to hold a referendum on the Constitution in 1993. To prevent its outright secession, Russian troops were sent into the Republic in 1994 and 1999, and after two bloody wars the Kremlin eventually succeeded in instigating a “puppet government” in the Republic. Chechnya’s new Constitution, which was ratified in a referendum on 23 March 2003, declares that “the territory of the Chechen Republic is an inextricable part of the territory of the Russian Federation. The only source of power in the republic is its multinational people. If the laws of the constitution of the republic contradict those of the federation, the laws of the federation override those of the Republic (Makinen 2008: 173).

Defederalisation under Putin In June 1999 Yeltsin adopted a Presidential Decree that sought to bring the bilateral treaties into line with the provisions of the Russian Constitution. However, the decree had little impact, and by the end of the 1990s, as I. Umnova notes, there were four competing types of federal relations in operation: 1) [I]‌nternational relations (between Chechnya and Russia, 2) confederative relations (between Russia and the republics of Tatarstan and Bashkortostan, 3) federative relations with elements of confederative and unitary systems (almost all of the ethnic republics and the richer donor territorially based subjects of the Russian Federation), 4) federative relations with elements of a unitary system (the poor territorially based regions). Umnova 2000: 7 In order to bring an end to the legal anarchy of the Yeltsin era, Putin adopted a number of radical reforms that have seriously undermined the development of federalism in Russia: (1) the creation of federal super-​districts, (2) reforms of the Federation Council and the State Council and creation of the Council of Legislators, (3) enhanced presidential control over the Constitutional Court, (4) promotion of a programme to bring regional constitutions and laws into line with the Federal Constitution, (5) changes to the method of selecting/​electing governors, 6) centralisation of the powers and competencies of the federal subjects, and (7) the merger of federal subjects.

1.  The creation of federal super-​districts In 2000 Putin divided the country into seven federal districts, each of which contained a dozen or more federal subjects, and he appointed a presidential envoy to each district. A key 153

154

Cameron Ross

aim of this reform was to tame the regional governors and bring the regions under the control of the Kremlin. On 19 December 2009 the Southern Federal District was divided into two parts and a new eighth Federal District was formed. The primary functions of the presidential envoys included “coordinating the activities of the federal executive bodies within their respective federal districts; analysing the efficiency of law enforcement bodies in the federal district, as well as staff security; organising control over the execution of federal laws … as well as over the realisation of federal programmes in the federal district” (Kremyanskaya 2019: 408). The envoys also had the power to recommend to the president that he suspend specific local laws or decrees when they contradicted federal laws and to call for the dismissal of governors and the dissolution of regional assemblies if they adopted decrees or laws that violated federal laws.

2.  Reform of the Federation and State Councils and creation of the Council of Legislators According to Article 95 of the Russian Constitution, the Federation Council consists of “two representatives from each component of the Russian Federation; one each from the representative and executive bodies of state power.” However, the Constitution does not stipulate the precise method by which members are to be chosen. In 1993 the first Council was elected via national elections and from 1996 until 2000 the heads of the legislative and executive branches of government in each region were granted ex-​officio membership of the Council. In 2000 President Putin radically changed the method by which members of the Federation Council were “elected”, which has fundamentally weakened its authority. No longer do heads of regional administrations and chairs of regional assemblies have ex-​officio membership; instead, each sends a delegate to represent them in the Council. According to the new rules, candidates from the regional assemblies are proposed by the chairs of the assemblies and confirmed by a secret ballot vote of the deputies. In theory, groups of not less than one third of a chamber’s deputies can propose alternative candidates. Delegates from the regional executives are nominated by the candidates for the position of the governor. Each gubernatorial candidate is entitled to nominate three individuals, and the person who becomes governor selects one of the three candidates as their senator (Kremyanskaya 2019: 416). MEMBERS OF THE FEDERATION COUNCIL. Putin’s reforms have also led to a “de-​regionalisation” of the upper chamber. According to the most recent law on the formation of the Federation Council, which was adopted in December 2020 (Federal Law 2020), candidates for the post of senator must have resided in their region for no less than five years immediately preceding their nomination or have resided in the nominating region for a total of 20 years. However, there is a long list of exemptions that allow top federal officials and high-​ ranking members of the military and security forces to gain membership of the Council regardless of where they reside. These exemptions to the residency requirements –​coupled with amendments enacted in 2014, which granted the president the right to directly appoint 10 percent of the members of the Council, and the latest constitutional changes in 2020, which grant the president the right to appoint 30 members (including seven for life) –​make a mockery of one of Preston King’s key prerequisites for a federation, namely: “the legislative entrenchment” of federal subjects in central decision-​making (1993: 94). Finally, we should note that, although party factions are not permitted in the Federation Council, the vast majority of senators are members of United Russia, which by October 2011 made up 82 percent of the Council, making it virtually a one-​party chamber. Such developments have turned the Council into a passive, “rubber stamping” body that is rapidly 154

155

Federalism and de-federalisation in Russia

becoming a representative of the federal centre in the regions, rather than a champion of the regions in the centre. In order to compensate regional governors and the chairs of regional assemblies for the loss of their ex-​officio membership in the Federation Council, two new advisory bodies were set up by Putin: the Council of Legislators and the State Council. THE COUNCIL OF LEGISLATORS. The Council of Legislators, which was created in 2001, is meant to provide a forum where the chairs of regional assemblies can participate in federal policy making. However, a study of the work of the Council of Legislators shows that it is primarily a tool of the federal centre, a body that assists the centre in monitoring federal legislation in the regions rather than a body that represents and promotes the adoption of regional legislation in the centre. A great deal of the Council’s work is devoted to coordinating the activities of the regions in implementing the president’s policies rather than initiating legislation. THE STATE COUNCIL. The State Council, created in September 2000, was originally scheduled to meet every three months and was chaired by the president. All of the regional governors were members of the Council as were the presidential envoys. There was also an inner presidium made up of representatives from the federal districts, the membership of which rotated every six months. However, the Council had no formal law-​making powers and was purely an advisory body to the president. To a large degree it was similar to the Council of Legislators, as it was primarily a forum whereby the president outlined his policies to the regions rather than vice versa. The 2020 amendments to the Constitution have significantly strengthened the role and powers of the State Council and transformed it, as William Pomeranz (2021: 17) notes, “from a largely dormant organization into a ‘constitutional state organ’ (an undefined and previously unknown category).” There is speculation that, when he retires, Putin may use his position as chair of the Council to continue to rule the country through this revamped body alongside a figurehead president. According to the new law on the state council (Federal Law of 8 December 2020 No. 394-​ FZ, “On the state council of the Russian Federation”), which was ratified in December 2020, its membership includes: the prime minister, the chair of the Federation Council, the chair of the State Duma, the head of the Presidential Administration and regional governors, and, by invitation of the president, the heads of political parties with factions in the Duma and other representatives of local government. This suggests that it has the potential to become a more important decision-​making body than the previous advisory council.

3.  Enhancing presidential control over the Constitutional Court As Ivan Grigoriev (2021: 29) notes, 24 of the 206 amendments to the revised Constitution “deal directly with the Constitutional Court, its organization, functioning, and the role it plays in the political system.” According to Article 128, the members of the Constitutional Court shall be appointed by the Federation Council on the proposal of the president. Likewise, Articles 82 and 102 give the Federation Council, on the advice of the president, the power to dismiss the chair and judges of the Constitutional Court if they are found to have “damaged the honour and dignity of the court.” As Elizabeth Teague notes, this is in sharp contrast to the provisions of the 1993 Constitution, which also gave the Federal Council these rights of dismissal but only at the request of the Court itself (2020: 323). These amendments mean, in effect, that, by controlling the membership of the Federation Council, the president will also gain significant leverage over the membership of the Constitutional Court, fundamentally weakening its independence and autonomy. 155

156

Cameron Ross

4.  The campaign to bring regional charters and republican constitutions into line with the Russian Constitution and federal laws In the summer of 2000 Putin also launched a major campaign to bring the republics’ constitutions and regional legislation into line with the federal constitution, and he created a special commission headed by Dmitry Kozak, the deputy head of his Presidential Administration, to oversee this work. From July 2000, when the campaign started, to 2003, local procurators disputed about 10,000 illegal acts, of which over 8,000 were harmonised with federal legislation (Leksin 2008: 57–​8). Putin’s decrees were backed up by two key decisions of the Constitutional Court (adopted on 7 June and 27 June, 2000), which ruled that the republics’ declarations of sovereignty were incompatible with the sovereignty of the Russian Federation. The president also called for the bilateral treaties to be rescinded, and a new law adopted in 2003 brought the process to an end. By the summer of 2005 all of the treaties had been revoked. Only one new bilateral treaty was signed. In July 2007 Tatarstan was able to ratify a new ten-​year treaty with Moscow that granted it considerable autonomous powers, many of which also contradicted the Russian Constitution. The agreement gave the republican authorities greater powers over economic, cultural and environmental issues, and it called for joint management of the region’s oil fields by federal and local authorities. In addition, citizens in Tatarstan were allowed to have special passports with attachments in the Tatar language (Arnold 2007: 1). However, Tatarstan’s unique status came to an end when the Kremlin refused to renew its treaty in 2017.

5.  The appointment/​election of regional chief executives Another major reform initiated in 2000 was a law giving Putin powers to dismiss popularly elected governors and to dissolve regional assemblies. This was followed up in the aftermath of the Beslan hostage crisis of September 2004 with even more radical legislation that gave the president the power to directly nominate regional governors. Following the mass protests that rose up against the regime in December 2011, new legislation enacted in May 2012 allows citizens to directly elect their governors. However, the Kremlin has been able to gain control over who is elected by controlling the nomination of candidates. In order to register for gubernatorial elections, candidates must first pass a “municipal filter” by gaining the support of 5–​10 percent of the municipal deputies in their regions, the vast majority of whom are members of United Russia. The municipal filter has enabled the Kremlin to squeeze out popular opposition candidates from the ballot and guarantee victory for the candidates from United Russia. By controlling the election of the governors, the Kremlin is also able to exert a significant influence over who the governors will select as their delegates to the Upper Chamber.

6.  Clarifying the powers of federal, regional and local bodies of power The Kozak Commission was also charged with “clarifying” the distribution of powers between federal, regional and local bodies of power. Over the period 2003–​6, legislation was adopted that transferred key powers from the regions to the centre (see Ross 2010). In total, whilst the regions retained 70 of their competencies, 700 were transferred to the jurisdiction of the Federal Government (Gligich-​Zolatoreva 2008: 259). In addition, Federal Law No. 258, which was adopted on 29 December 2006 (entitled “On the modification of individual legislative acts of the Russian Federation in connection with improving the delimitation of powers”), 156

157

Federalism and de-federalisation in Russia

strengthened the powers of the territorial branches of federal executive bodies in the regions. In particular, the law stated that the heads of territorial executives were to be granted the right to determine the specific structures of regional executives and to nominate the heads of the departments of regional administrations. The 2020 amendments also shift considerable competences from the constituent entities to the Federal Government, which now include: [E]‌stablishing the foundations of federal policy and federal programmes in the field of scientific and technological development; the establishment of a unified legal framework for the healthcare system, the system of upbringing and education, including continuing education; ensuring the safety of individuals, society and the state in the application of information technology, the circulation of digital data; and the metrological service. Salikov 2020: 1149 According to the new legislation adopted in 2020, the State Council participates in the development of domestic and foreign policy and “promotes the coordinated functioning and interaction of bodies included in a unified system of public power.” This would appear to strengthen the scope of Putin’s “power vertical”, which now encompasses not only the regions but also local government. Thus, for example, Article 132 (3) of the newly amended Constitution states: “Local self-​government bodies and state power bodies shall be integrated in the unified system of public authority in the Russian Federation, and shall cooperate to most efficiently resolve tasks in the interests of the population inhabiting the relevant territory.” Moreover, according to Article 131 (1.1): “Public authorities may participate in the formation of local self-​­government bodies, and the appointment and dismissal of local government officials in the manner and in cases established by federal law.” As Teague (2020: 314) notes: “(T)his appears directly to contradict Article 12 of the constitution (1993 and 2020 versions), which reads, ‘Local self-​government shall be independent within the limits of its authority. The bodies of local self-​­government shall not be part of the system of state authority.’ ” According to the September 2021 draft law “On the general principles of the organization of public power in the constituent entities of the Russian Federation” (submitted to the Duma on 27 September 2021; Zakonoproekt 2021), federal executive bodies in the fields of education, health, finance, as well as housing and construction may participate in the appointment and dismissal of officials in the subjects of the Russian Federation in accord with federal law. As Vladimir Ryzhkov notes: The ministers who manage the formation and execution of budgets, as well as the lion’s share of expenditures, will be subordinate not only to the head of the region, but also to the federal government. The independence of the regions in planning and spending budget funds, in carrying out their socio-​economic policy is abolished … Regional ministries of finance will become subdivisions of the federal ministry of finance. Ryzhkov 2021: 1 Moreover, the highest officials in the regions will now be called “heads”, their term of office will be standardised at five years and there will no longer be term limits. But their role as local policy makers will be seriously diminished as their primary function changes to managerial work and the execution of central decrees. 157

158

Cameron Ross

7.  The merger of federal subjects One of the anomalies of the Russian Constitution was the granting of full federal subject status to Russia’s nine federal okrugs and one autonomous oblast. These ten ethnically based autonomies, which were originally situated inside the borders of other federal subjects, are, according to the Russian Constitution, both equal to and subordinate to their “mother regions.” In 2005 the Putin administration began a process of merging the okrugs with their mother regions. By March 2008 five mergers had been completed (involving six federal subjects), reducing the number of federal subjects from 89 to 83: (1) the unification of Perm Oblast with the Komi-​Permyak Autonomous Okrug to create Perm Krai on 1 December 2005, (2) the unification of Krasnoyarsk Krai with the Taimyr and Evenk autonomous okrugs to create Krasnoyarsk Krai on 1 January 2007, (3) the unification of Kamchatka Oblast with the Koryak Autonomous Okrug to create Kamchatka Krai on 1 July 2007, (4) the unification of Irkutsk Oblast with the Ust-​Ordyn Buryat Autonomous Okrug to create Irkutsk Oblast on 1 January 2008, and (5) unification of the Chita Oblast with the Aginskii-​Buryatskii Autonomous Okrug to create the Zabaikalskii Krai on 1 March 2008 (Kusznir 2008: 10–​11). In addition, the following future possible mergers have been reported to be under consideration by the Kremlin: 1) Arkhangelsk Oblast with Nenets Autonomous Okrug, 2) Stavropol Krai with the Karachaevo-​Cherkess Republic, 3) the Republic of Khakassia with Krasnoyarsk Krai, 4) the Republic of Adygea with Krasnodar Krai, 5) the Republic of Altai with Altai Krai, 6) Moscow City with Moscow Oblast, 7) the city of St Petersburg with Leningrad Oblast, and 8) Tyumen Oblast with Khanty-​Mansiskii and Yamalo-​Nenetskii autonomous okrugs. But none of these mergers have come to fruition. The most recent plan to merge Arkhangelsk Oblast with Nenets Autonomous Okrug, which was put forward in May 2020, had to be dropped after it came under strong resistance from citizens in Nenets.

Conclusion The federalisation of Russia has been thwarted by the weakness of Russia’s civic culture and the lack of a federal and democratic tradition. Throughout its short history, federal relations in Russia have been dominated by informal political and economic relations rather than constitutionalism and the rule of law. By the time of Yeltsin’s resignation in 1999, the Russian state had been transformed from a “constitutional” to a “contractual” federation where informal politics and clientelistic relations dominated legal and constitutional relations (Ross 2002). Since Putin came to power in 2000, the principles of federalism have been seriously undermined. Relations between the federal government and the regions are not based on the classic federal principles of “self-​rule and shared rule.” Federal principles of non-​centralisation and regional autonomy are rapidly being replaced by centralised commands from above and subordination and subservience from below. In reality, Russia is a quasi-​unitary state in federal clothing.

References Arnold, C. (2007), “Russian Federation Council Backs Tatarstan Power Sharing Treaty”, RFE/​RL Russia Report, 11 July. Elazar, D.J. (1987), Exploring Federalism (Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press). Federal Law (2020), “About Procedure for Forming of the Federation Council of Federal Assembly of the Russian Federation”, No. 439-​FZ, 22 December, https://​cis-​legi​slat​ion.com/​docum​ent.fwx?rgn=​ 129​261.

158

159

Federalism and de-federalisation in Russia Gibson, E. (2004), “Federalism and Democracy: Theoretical Connections and Cautionary Insights”, in E. Gibson (ed.), Federalism and Democracy in Latin America (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press): 1–​27. Gligich-​ Zolatoreva, M.V. (2008), “Pravovye osnovy rossiiskogo federalizma”, in S.D. Valentei (ed.), Rossiiskii federalizm: ekonomiko-​pravovye problemy (St Petersburg: Aleteiya): 235–​82. Grigoriev, I.S. (2021), “What Changes for the Constitutional Court with the New Russian Constitution?”, Russian Politics 6, 1: 27–​49. Karapetyan, L.M. (1999), Federalizm i prava narodov (Moscow: PRIOR). Kempton, D.R. (2002), “Three Challenges to Assessing Russian Federalism”, in D.R. Kempton and T.D. Clark (eds.), Unity or Separation: Center-​Periphery Relations in the Former Soviet Union (Westport: Praeger): 13–​45. King, P. (1993), “Federation and Representation”, in M. Burgess and A-​G. Gagnon (eds.), Comparative Federalism and Federation (New York: Harvester-​Wheatsheaf): 94–​102. Kremyanskaya, E.A. (2019), “Constitutional Asymmetry in Russia: Issues and Developments. A Country Study of Constitutional Asymmetry in the Russian Federation”, in P. Popelier and M. Sahadžić (eds.), Constitutional Asymmetry in Multinational Federalism, Federalism and Internal Conflicts (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan): 399–​427. Kusznir, J. (2008), “Russian Territorial Reform: A Centralist Project that Could End Up Fostering Decentralisation?”, Russian Analytical Digest, No. 43, 17 June. Leksin, V. (2008), Federativnaya Rossiya i ee regional’naya politika (Moscow: INFRA). Makinen, S. (2008), Russian Geopolitical Visions and Argumentation: Parties of Power, Democratic and Communist Opposition on Chechnya and NATO, 1994–​2003 (Tampere: Tampera University Press). Panov, P. and C. Ross (2019), “The Range and Limitation of Sub-​National Regime Variations under Electoral Authoritarianism: The Case of Russia”, Regional and Federal Studies 29, 3: 355–​80. Pomeranz, W.E. (2021), “Putin’s 2020 Constitutional Amendments: What Changed? What Remained the Same?”, Russian Politics 6, 1: 6–​26. Postovoi, N.V. (1995), Federativnoe ustroistvo: realizatsiya Konstitutsii Rossiiskoi Federatsii (Moscow: Institut zakonodatel’stva i sravnitel’nogo pravovedeniya pri pravitel’stve Rossiiskoi Federatsii). Requejo, F. (2001), “National Pluralism and Federalism: Four Potential Scenarios for Spanish Plurinational Democracy”, Perspectives on European Politics and Society 2, 2: 305–​27. Ross, C. (2002), Federalism and Democratisation in Russia (Manchester: Manchester University Press). Ross, C. (2005), “Federalism and Electoral Authoritarianism in Russia”, Demokratizatsiya: The Journal of Post-​Soviet Democratization 13, 3: 347–​72. Ross, C. (2010), “Federalism and Intergovernmental Relations in Russia”, Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics 26, 2: 165–​87. Russia (Federation) (1993), The Constitution of the Russian Federation (adopted by referendum, December 1993 www.const​itut​ion.ru/​en/​10003​000-​01.htm. Russia (Federation) (2020), The Constitution of the Russian Federation (adopted by referendum, December 1993, with amendments approved by referendum, July 2020), www.ksrf.ru/​en/​Info/​Leg​alBa​ses/​Con​ stit​utio​nRF/​Docume​nts/​CONST​ITUT​ION-​Eng.pdf. Ryzhkov, V. (2021), “Verkhushkoi poekhali: vertikal ‘publichnoi vlasti’ i epitafiya rossiiskomu federalizmy: rak v Rossii perestali vybirat’ dazhe verov”, Novaya gazeta 127, 10 November, https://​ novay​agaz​eta.ru/​artic​les/​2021/​11/​06/​verk​hush​koi-​poekh​ali (accessed 12 November 2021). Salikov, M. (2020), “Federalism in Russia: Current State and Emerging Trends”, Brics Law Journal VII, 4: 127–​52. Stolyarov, M.V. (2008), Teoriya i praktika federalizma (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo RAGS). Teague, E. (2020), “Russia’s Constitutional Reforms of 2020”, Russian Politics 5, 3: 301–​28. Umnova, I. (2000), “The Contemporary Model of Russian Federalism: In Search of the Way to Peace, Democracy and Stabilization”, http://​www.fed​eral​ism.ch/​FTPMir​ror/​ircc/​InH​ouse​Semi​nar (accessed 9 September 2004). Watts, R.L. (1999), Comparing Federal Systems, 2nd ed., (Montreal: McGill-​Queen’s University Press). Watts, R.L. (2015), “Comparing Federal Political Systems”, in A-​G. Gagnon, S. Keil and S. Mueller (eds.), Understanding Federalism and Federation (Aldershot: Ashgate): 16–​39. Zakonoproekt (2021), “Ob obshchikh printsipakh organizatsii publichnoi vlasti v sub”ektakh Rossiiskoi Federatsii”, Zakonoproekt No. 1256381-​ 7, Sistema obespecheniya zakonodatel’noi deyatel’nosti, https://​sozd.duma.gov.ru/​bill/​1256​381-​7.

159

160

14 CENTRE-​R EGIONAL RELATIONS IN RUSSIA Irina Busygina and Mikhail Filippov

For centuries, the major force that connected Russia’s enormous spaces was political, economic and cultural centralisation. The unique aspect of the Russian tradition of state centralisation is strong vertical dominance of the centre and underdevelopment of horizontal ties between the regions. The Russian model of centre-​regional relations works as long as Moscow preserves the dominant position in the country’s territorial structure. Such a dominance limits opportunities for regional economic development and reduces incentives for inter-​regional cooperation and coordination. Not much has changed since the famous Russian philosopher Nikolai Berdyaev observed: “[T]‌he historical system of Russian statehood has centralized the state and public life, poisoned the bureaucracy, and crushed the provincial social and cultural life” (Berdyaev 1990: 73). In modern Russia, the relative success of several major urban centres (mainly Moscow and St Petersburg) co-​exists with the spatial degradation of many parts of the country. The inclusion of Russia in the global economy has led to a further increase in inter-​regional disparities. Russia suffers from a low quality of national governance and a high level of political risks, both of which limit the scope of domestic and foreign investment. As overall incentives to invest in the Russian economy are low, only selected regions with outstanding comparative advantages can count on attracting investments and better economic opportunities. However, most regions lack the geographical advantages to compensate for the risk of investing in a country with a corrupt bureaucracy and unpredictable foreign politics. As long as most regions are not attractive for domestic and foreign investment and, overall, are not economically competitive, their economies are not sustainable without subsidies from Moscow. The national government must redistribute from a few relatively successful regions to the majority of the “poor” ones. Thus, most of the Russian regions cannot perform without large-​scale regional redistribution and, therefore, benefit from economic and political centralisation. These regions are unlikely to demand changes to the centre-​regional model. Instead, they prefer to seek opportunities to get a greater share of the redistribution from Moscow. There are also political incentives for incumbent regional elites to support the stability of the status-​quo, centre-​regional model. Centre-​regional relations are also highly asymmetric. The period of democratisation in the 1990s was a period of asymmetric federalism. In the last two decades, federalism became in many respects a pure constitutional formality, while asymmetries in centre-​regional relations 160

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-16

161

Centre-regional relations in Russia

have been further exacerbated. In an attempt to reverse this tendency, the Russian government experimented with various policy instruments such as the creation of “special economic zones,” “mergers of the regions” and the development of large agglomerations. In short, these experiments are attempts to isolate some regions and areas from the low quality of the national government or to combine together relatively successful and unsuccessful areas. So far, however, all the initiatives of Moscow have not shown a significant result at the national level (although individual cases have been portrayed as success stories). The dominance of Moscow in centre-​regional relations co-​exists with the formal constitutional rules of federalism. The country continues to have a standard set of federal institutions: the Constitution defines the basic principles that structure the relations between the federal centre and the regions; it delineates the distribution of power between Moscow and the regions; the Federation Council, as the upper house of parliament, formally represents the interests of the regions; and significant fiscal resources are (formally) decentralised at a level comparable to other federations. The regional governors are formally elected. However, in a sense, the federal constitutional rules and some forms of decentralisation in Russia are more than just constitutional and legal formalities. As part of a consolidated non-​ democratic institutional system, the formal federal constitutional structure helps the autocratic regime in Russia distribute power (both vertically and horizontally), control information, avoid accountability and complicate coordination among political opponents. While the Russian system of centre-​regional relations is neither effective nor strong, it nevertheless remains relatively stable. The coronavirus crisis did not create incentives to change the status quo in centre-​regional relations. Rather, the crisis has confirmed that the mechanisms of regional cadre selection and the incentives they create work in such a way that the incumbent regional politicians are as much interested in maintaining the stability of the non-​democratic political system as the Kremlin itself. However, the crisis has confirmed that the regional governors are an integral part of maintaining the stability of the non-​democratic regime.

The exceptional role of Moscow In many countries the capital city (especially if it is also the largest city) develops faster and its population lives better thanks to the agglomeration effects (Fujita and Thisse 2002). These are the effects of economies of scale (lower unit costs of any economic activity due to its concentration in the largest cities) and diversity (the more firms, the wider the choice for consumers, and the more consumers, the greater and more diverse is the demand for goods and services). In Russia, however, the situation is much more radical: Moscow as the capital city plays an exceptional economic, social, cultural and political role (Bater 2004). Moscow has no competing cities, though at least seven cities claim to be the “second capital of Russia”: these are St Petersburg, Yekaterinburg, Kazan, Nizhny Novgorod, Novosibirsk, Perm and Samara. As John O’Loughlin and Vladimir Kolossov stressed, it is almost paradoxical that the democratisation, federalisation and market reforms of the 1990s did not lead to any reduction in the role of Moscow within Russian space (O’Loughlin and Kolossov 2002). One of the explanations for the special status of Moscow is that, in Russia, geographic proximity to “central” politicians and officials contributes to the success of domestic and foreign direct investments. According to Natalia Zubarevich, in the modern Russian political regime the status of capital city is one of the most important institutional factors of economic success. Moscow acquires a special “Capital City Rent” –​a territorial version of bureaucratic rent due to the high level of rent-​seeking and corruption opportunities in Russia. This rent emerges 161

162

Irina Busygina and Mikhail Filippov

due to the over-​concentration in Moscow of the headquarters of the largest companies that play a leading role in Russia’s economy (Zubarevich 2013). For example, the growing state involvement in the credit sector has stimulated the concentration of banks in Moscow, and now practically in all regions the largest commercial banks are branches of Moscow banks (Ageeva and Mishura 2016). All in all, if the system of power and business in the country remains super-​ centralised, Moscow will continue to receive fantastic bonuses, and the talk will be not about Moscow’s competitive advantages vis-​à-​vis other Russian regions but about its gigantic and insurmountable break from a country that is becoming poorer. Moscow has effectively “monopolised” the functions of a mediator between the country and the world economy and thus has become by far the most important national node of financial flows (Busygina and Filippov 2018). As Brade and Rudolph have argued, “the development of Moscow is characterized by an increasing separation from the national urban system and a growing international orientation. … [M]‌easured against the relevant economic indicators, the Russian capital is a long way ahead of the remaining Russian cities, which are primarily integrated into national and regional economic flows and participate in the global economy only to a limited degree. Moscow, in contrast, is increasingly striving to integrate itself into transnational and international economic structures” (Brade and Rudolph 2004: 69). The post-​Soviet decades have also witnessed the unprecedented growth of the city of Moscow due to mass migration inflows, and apparently official statistics do not always reflect the situation (Rossman 2013). Moscow mayor Sergei Sobyanin claimed that the official records underestimate the number of residents in Moscow: “first, the real boundaries of the Capital City have long been beyond the Moscow Ring Road, second, many residents of the surrounding territories work in the city. So, in fact there are not 12, but 25 million people who live in the Moscow agglomeration” (RBK 2021). In fact, one of the most important sources of wealth of the metropolitan agglomeration is income from labour migrants. In 2019 labour migrants paid 18.3 billion rubles in income taxes to the Moscow budget, and the price of patents for work in Moscow for foreign citizens continues to grow (TASS 2021). Moscow accounts for about 60 percent of all expenses for urban transport and landscaping in Russia (vc.ru 2020).

The centre-​periphery model based on dominance Nefedova and Treivysh argue that in Russia, “the most ubiquitous and socially significant (affecting most people) problem of its spatial development remains the centre-​periphery one. It is acute everywhere, including in the core of the country, where the difference in development at a short distance can be dizzying. Everyone who travels from Moscow, especially to the north and west, by train or car, or by airplane, can see it: the patches of built-​up and cultivated land are thinning rapidly; forests, swamps, and wastelands replacing the former fields become denser. There are centers and peripheries in every region, municipal district, and even in an urban district or rural settlement” (2020: 4). The centuries-​long tradition of state centrism and the dominant role of the major cities Moscow and St Petersburg have cemented the dichotomy of the centre-​periphery pattern in Russia. Stein Rokkan and Derek Urwin defined the “centre” as a privileged locality on the territory of the state, the nature of these privileges being determined by the combined effect of such factors as the location of the headquarters of owners of military, administrative, economic and cultural resources; communication facilities; and the concentration of the economically active population, which is engaged in the processing and exchange of information and the preparation of a legislative and regulatory framework for the majority of the country’s population. 162

163

Centre-regional relations in Russia

In addition, the centre exercises political control throughout the country and defines the parameters of cultural standardisation (Rokkan and Urwin 1982). On the other hand, according to John Friedmann, the periphery is a set of remote and underdeveloped territories with delayed modernisation, serving as a source of resources and a consumer of innovation (Friedmann 1966). For centuries, Russia demonstrated such a pattern of economic and social development: 1) the centre extracted resources from the provinces and initiated state modernisation; 2) the centre sought to impose modernisation requirements on the peripheral provinces despite their latent resistance; and 3) the centre preserved the dominant position and continued to extract resources from the provinces. The dominance of the centre limits opportunities for regional economic development and reduces incentives for inter-​regional cooperation and coordination. Perhaps the most unique feature of the Russian model of centre-​regional relations has been the extreme weakness of inter-​regional horizontal ties. By the end of the twentieth century, a prominent Russian geographer, Leonid Smirnyagin, observed that contacts between neighbouring regions are limited at best; the citizens, as a rule, are mostly interested in what’s going on in Moscow and are quite poorly informed about the events taking place nearby. Administrative borders between the regions were often “overgrown with woods; highways terminated at them, making them easy to distinguish even from satellite photographs. Nothing similar exists in any other developed country. It is because of this that the territorial fabric of Russia, woven only from vertical communications, is thin and precarious” (Smirnyagin 1998: 3–​4). Since 2000, the situation has hardly improved. Under President Putin, the Russian regions lost meaningful representation in the Federation Council and State Duma. Now, there are no institutions in the Russian Federation that could serve as a platform promoting inter-​regional cooperation and coordination without Moscow’s control. Low population density, underdeveloped transportation networks and climatic conditions also contribute to the underdevelopment of many regions and to their dependence on Moscow. Russia accounts for 11 percent of the world’s land mass but its population is less than 1.9 percent of the world’s population. Extreme winter weather in huge parts of the country greatly impairs transportation services (built on continuous permafrost, Yakutsk is the coldest major city in the world, recording temperatures as low as minus 64.4°C). The legacy of the Soviet planned economy is also a costly burden for many regions. For example, there is a total of around 1,100 urban settlements in Russia and more than 300 of them are legally identified as “monotowns” –​urban settlements built around a single large factory that used to produce military or industrial output for the Soviet economy but are now hopelessly non-​competitive. One third of the monotowns are officially classified as settlements suffering from high levels of socio-​economic deprivation. These settlements heavily depend on the flow of subsidies from Moscow.

Most regions rely on subsidies from Moscow Above, we emphasised the extremely large gap between Moscow and the rest of Russia (vertical disproportions). Horizontal disproportions –​that is, differences between regions –​are also significant. For example, Sakhalin Oblast has a gross regional product (GRP) per capita comparable to that of a rich country like Singapore, whereas the Ingush Republic has a GRP per capita typical of a very poor country like Honduras (World Bank 2018: 10). In 2018, GRP per capita in Sakhalin Oblast was 1,179,668,7 million rubles (sic), while in the Ingush Republic it was only 55,457,1 million rubles.1 After 2000, the boom in the oil and natural gas industries stimulated rapid growth in a few resource-​r ich regions. But most regions have been stymied by 163

164

Irina Busygina and Mikhail Filippov

bad governance and structural constraints: an outdated industrial legacy, an ageing population and overall population decline. The inter-​regional disparities and inequalities have increasingly become a problem for sustaining popular support for the non-​democratic regime in Moscow. Since the 2000s, the centre has promoted a number of costly programmes to limit regional inequality and to stimulate regional development (Klimanov et al 2019). However, all those programmes have further promoted the dominance of Moscow in centre-​regional relations. Redistribution is carried out through a system of inter-​budget transfers, where substantial funds are transferred from the national budget of the Russian Federation to the regional budgets. Fiscal transfers to the regions allow the regional authorities to provide various social services and payments. In recent years there has been a steady growth in the volume of such transfers. Such large-​scale financial assistance to underdeveloped regions forms dependent, subsidised economies (Zubarevich 2017: 50). In other words, the insufficient revenue base of most regions creates a dependent culture in economically weak regions whereby they prefer to rely on transfers from Moscow rather than seek to modernise their economies. Inter-​budget transfers are distributed mostly through non-​transparent and informal practices (Klimanov et al 2019). Moscow regularly launches programmes aimed at improving the economic and social situations of specific regions. In 2021 there were around 40 “special economic zones” (SEZ) and 90 “territories of advanced development” (TAD) offering preferential tax conditions and simplified administrative procedures. Most SEZs were created in remote regions, such as the Far East and the Arctic. There are also the so-​called “federal target programmes” that allocate federal budget money to be spent in select regions. In 2021 the lion’s share of the “federal target programmes” (63,769 million rubles) was allocated to the Republic of Crimea and the city of Sevastopol (the areas annexed from Ukraine in 2014). The second largest recipient, the Republic of Kareliya, got 2,573 million rubles, while the third, the Kuril Islands in Sakhalin Oblast, only got 492 million rubles. In 2020 the COVID-​19 pandemic struck the regions of Russia before they had fully recovered from the financial crisis of 2014–​15, when the price of Russia’s major export, crude oil, decreased by almost 50 percent between June and December 2014. This was accompanied by a sharp devaluation of the Russian ruble in the second half of 2014. Western sanctions introduced in 2014 after the annexation of Crimea further exacerbated the situation. During the pandemic, the role of Moscow’s fiscal redistribution increased and practically all regions became even more economically dependent on the centre.

The limits of possible reform The main problem of centre-​regional relations in Russia is that Moscow has to preserve its dominant position in the country’s territorial structure, which means it could only allow limited forms of economic, political and social development in the regions. The regions have to remain obediently dependent on Moscow. Most importantly, Moscow could not allow the development of horizontal co-​operation and co-​ordination among the regions, as it would reduce regional dependence on Moscow. In fact, the centre could not afford any development or reforms that would make the regions economically independent. At the same time, it is not interested in impoverishing the periphery either, since this is fraught with the marginalisation of regions and subsequent political instability. In other words, Moscow is only interested in limited forms of regional development, preserving its economic and political dominance in centre-​regional relations. 164

165

Centre-regional relations in Russia

Possible reforms of centre-​ regional relations are frequently discussed by experts and politicians. Among the most popular are proposals to merge together regions and to develop large agglomerations on the basis of several urban settlements. In 2010, the Russian Government and the Presidential Administration announced the concept of the territorial reorganisation of Russia, suggesting the division of the country into twenty highly urbanised territories (agglomerations). In 2017, the “Strategy for Russia’s Development until 2035,” prepared by the Centre for Strategic Research led by Aleksei Kudrin, proposed to stimulate the development of 15 agglomerations. In 2019, Kudrin identified six metropolitan areas with the greatest potential: the already existing agglomerations of Moscow and St Petersburg, as well as four new ones yet to be created –​the agglomeration of Ekaterinburg, Tyumen and Chelyabinsk; the agglomeration of Tomsk, Novosibirsk, Barnaul and Novokuznetsk; the agglomeration of Kazan, Samara, Tolyatti and Ulyanovsk; and the agglomeration of Rostov-​on-​Don, Krasnodar and Stavropol. The promotion of such agglomerations might have some theoretical appeal; for example, such a strategy could contribute to increasing Russia’s competitiveness in the global economy. However, successful agglomerations could also challenge the dominance of Moscow in the centre-​regional relationship. Thus, plans for such reforms are not likely to be implemented.

The limits of centralisation Post-​Soviet Russia is a constitutional federation, but most observers of Russian politics emphasise that the actual practices of centre-​regional relations are not federal. John Kincaid (2019: 1) has argued that Russia is only “constitutionally federal but not operationally federal.” In fact, Russian President Putin has publicly blamed federalism both for the Soviet collapse and for the risks to territorial stability in Russia. However, when Putin initiated the Constitutional reform in 2020, there was no attempt to shift the country away from the federal constitutional model. Thus, it may appear puzzling why federalism seems to be a fixed choice for the Russian leadership as the constitutional principle. There are several explanations for the preservation of the formal federal constitution in Russia. First of all, the size of the Russian territory, the scope of its diversity and the historical path dependence of Soviet ethno-​federalism (ethnically based autonomies) all make the abolition of formal constitutional principles impractical and risky. Russia’s federalism and decentralisation are skilfully constrained but preserved and (mis)used by the authoritarian regime to sustain its stability and legitimacy. Second, the non-​democratic regime in Russia suffers from a low quality of governance and weak rule of law while still remaining open to global markets. While globalisation increases the importance of being economically competitive, the low quality of governance reduces national competitiveness and makes Russia less attractive for international and domestic investors. In Russia, over-​centralisation combined with the low quality of national governance leads to a highly unequal distribution of regional economic competitiveness. Most of the country’s regions are unable to compete in the global economy; they cannot expect to receive any significant domestic and foreign investments so necessary for their economic revival. Only the major cities of Moscow and St Petersburg, as well as those regions with abundant valuable natural resources and also some border regions, have been successful in attracting investment. The problem of the negative influence of the low quality of national governance on economic competitiveness could be mitigated at regional and local levels through federalism and decentralisation, even in their limited forms. In Russia, the existing elements of federalism and decentralisation could enable the control and dominance by the centre to be combined 165

166

Irina Busygina and Mikhail Filippov

with at least some degree of economic competition among the regions in a large and diverse country. The “market preserving federalism” literature argues that such economic competition in non-​democracies could create incentives for regional politicians to provide better local investment environments, restrict rent-​seeking behaviour and ultimately increase economic efficiency (Weingast 1995). Finally, and perhaps most importantly, major political and economic groups benefit from, and thus support, the federal institutional status quo. The current institutions (rules) of federalism and decentralisation have become important parts of the institutional system supporting the authoritarian regime and its political and economic stability (Busygina and Filippov 2021). The Russian authoritarian regime has managed to exploit federalism and some forms of decentralisation as useful instruments to preserve the centre’s dominance, avoid political instability and shift blame to the regional authorities in times of crises and policy failures. Russian regional leaders demonstrate their complete loyalty to the Kremlin. The incumbent governors are not only fulfilling Moscow’s orders and requirements but are also personally interested in maintaining the stability of the non-​democratic system. Importantly, they are no longer interested in expanding the autonomy of their regions or in the restoration of competitive regional elections. The regional ruling groups lack their own legitimacy and political independence. Moscow completely determines the fate of regional politicians –​their term in office, moves to another position, resignation or even arrest and conviction for crimes (corruption, financial fraud or hiring a hitman). At any moment President Putin could force any incumbent governor to resign and thus replace any incumbent by “a president-​appointed acting governor.” In turn, the newly appointed acting governor always wins the election after being in office for several months. While, in democracies, competition between political parties plays a key role in promoting federal stability and decentralisation (Riker 1964; Chandler 1987; Kramer 1994; Filippov et al 2004), in modern non-​democratic Russia, various restrictions on electoral competition are necessary conditions for institutional stability (Ross 2005; Busygina et al 2010). Such restrictions are based on the functioning of the whole system of formal and informal rules. Thus, an analysis of practices of federalism, decentralisation and, more generally, the centre-​regional relationship requires viewing them as a part of the whole institutional system of a non-​democracy. Such non-​democratic institutional systems are hostile to reforms: most importantly, they are not robust to crises and changes leading to open political and economic competition. An attempt at democratisation is likely to destroy the conditions of federal stability in Russia. In turn, federal instability could greatly complicate a transition to democracy, especially if it threatens the nation’s territorial integrity.

COVID-​19 and the centre-​regional relationship Most recently, the Russian authoritarian regime has exploited federal arrangements and policy decentralisation to avoid public disapproval and accountability during the coronavirus crisis. In spring 2020 the high degree of medical uncertainty demanded unpopular quarantine measures, but the Kremlin had to maintain the highest possible support for President Putin in the preparation for the scheduled constitutional plebiscite aimed to reset the clock on presidential term limits. Putin solved the problem by dissociating himself publicly from the central position in crisis management and publicly blaming governors and mayors both for the economic costs of the excessive epidemic restrictions and for their failure to provide public safety. In spring 2020 the regional governors demonstrated both loyalty and willingness to shield Putin from political responsibility for unpopular measures associated with the epidemic. Most 166

167

Centre-regional relations in Russia

importantly, practically all governors engaged in manipulation of the statistics on morbidity and mortality from COVID-​19. Suspiciously low regional death rates from COVID-​19 have attracted the attention of experts inside and outside Russia. For example, there was too little variation in the reported numbers over time and across the regions. During the first wave of the pandemic, the mortality rate from COVID-​19 in Russia was officially reported to be 7.4 times lower than in the rest of the world. There were strong political incentives to falsify the coronavirus statistics. Independent media reported that, for Putin, the target results of the voting on the constitutional amendments were set to be at least as high as in the 1993 Constitutional referendum –​65 percent of approving votes and 55 percent turnout. However, the public fear of the pandemic threatened to lower the turnout (Busygina and Filippov 2021). The crisis hit regional budgets very hard, with not only the laggards suffering but also the rich and traditionally successful regions of Russia. For instance, in the Urals Federal Okrug, the prosperous Khanty-​Mansiskii Autonomous Okrug has become the champion in terms of its drop in industrial production. Moreover, absolutely all the regions are now even less autonomous and even more dependent on the decisions of the federal authorities than they were before the crisis. Moscow’s anti-​ crisis assistance to the regions has been very substantial and the inter-​ budgetary transfers have greatly increased, but the allocation of these transfers has remained non-​transparent, and much depended on the lobbying resources of the individual regional authorities. In other words, the volume of transfers did not depend on the extent of the reduction in the region’s revenues. For example, in the Murmansk Oblast both the region’s own revenues and transfers from Moscow have fallen, though at the same time transfers to the Republic of Dagestan, Stavropol Krai, Moscow, Nizhny Novgorod, Rostov-​on-​Don, Saratov, Novosibirsk oblasts, and the Chechen Republic exceeded the losses in own revenues by several times (Znak.com 2020).

Conclusion Historically, attempts to modernise Russia have encountered serious difficulties due to its vast territory. In Russia, “reformers tried to be ahead of time, but got bogged down in space” (Treivysh 2001: 56). Russian spaces are not only vast, but they are also over-​centralised, and Moscow seeks to reign over the regions. The tradition of over-​centralisation leads to the prevalence of vertical connections (between Moscow and the regions) to the detriment of horizontal links among regions. The federal and regional authorities are aware of the serious deficiencies of regional development and regularly launch various projects aimed to promote economic and social development in the regions, such as the SEZs and TADs. However, all these projects are palliative solutions that could not solve the fundamental problems of the centre-​regional relationship in Russia: the dominance of Moscow, over-​centralisation in economics, politics and social life, over-​concentration of economic opportunities and fiscal resources in a few regions, and crucial dependence of most regions from the redistribution of resources. In order to reform the centre-​regional relationship (or rather, to initiate such a reform), the Kremlin would need to promote a genuine and comprehensive decentralisation. However, this would be too risky for the stability of the non-​democratic incumbent regime. Moreover, we must remember that the centre-​regional relations and regional development are very inertial, with many strong path dependencies. So, even if Moscow were to begin decentralisation tomorrow, we could not expect substantial positive results soon. In fact, even if the mode of 167

168

Irina Busygina and Mikhail Filippov

Moscow’s dominance in the centre-​regional relationship was to change, the country would still need to continue to redistribute fiscal resources from a few regions to the rest of the country. This is due to the size of Russia and the fact that it is simply impossible to sustain the economies of many structurally weak and remote regions without substantial fiscal subsidies. In other words, under any decentralisation reform, Moscow would still need to provide significant fiscal redistribution, at least in the short or even medium term. The current model of the centre-​regional relationship is stable, supported by incumbent regional elites, and thus it can function for a long time, despite the inefficiencies. However, we would like to stress that there are significant risks inbuilt in the current model. First, federalism in Russia is based and supported by a combination of non-​democratic institutions and practices –​in particular, by the strict control of elections and political competition. Thus, any future attempt at democratisation that presupposes the re-​emergence of political competition would likely destroy the current basis of federal stability. In turn, federal instability being dangerous for the nation’s territorial integrity would greatly complicate the transition to democracy. Second, the personal popularity of the incumbent president is a necessary and indispensable pillar of the stability of the system. In fact, this popularity creates the base for the socio-​political stability of the Russian political regime (Yakovlev 2021). Therefore, a significant decrease in Putin’s popular support, especially if it is of a sustainable and irreversible character, would likely undermine the stability of centre-​regional relations in Russia.

Note 1 https://​ruxp​ert.ru/​Ста​тист​ика:Список​_р​ ег​ионо​в_​Ро​ссии​_п​ о_​ВРП

References Ageeva, S. and A. Mishura (2016), “Regional Disparities in the Development of Banking Institutions,” Regional Research of Russia 6, 4: 304–​13. Bater, J. (2004), “Moscow’s Changing Fortunes under Three Regimes”, in J. Gugler (ed.), World Cities Beyond the West: Globalization, Development and Inequality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press): 191–​211. Berdyaev, N. (1990), Sud’ba Rossii (Moscow: Sovetskiy pisatel’). Brade, I. and R. Rudolph (2004), “Moscow, the Global City? The Position of the Russian Capital within the European System of Metropolitan Areas”, Area 36, 1: 69–​80. Busygina, I. and M. Filippov (2018), “The Low Quality of National Governance and Unevenness in the Economic Competitiveness of Regions: The Case of Russia”, Russian Politics 3, 2: 196–​215. Busygina, I. and M. Filippov (2021), “COVID-​19 and Federal Relations in Russia”, Russian Politics, 6, 3: 279–​300. Busygina, I., M. Filippov and O. Shvetsova (2010), “Risks and Constraints of Political Modernization in Russia: The Federal Problem”, Perspectives on European Politics and Society 12, 1: 1–​12. Chandler, W. (1987), “Federalism and Political Parties”, in W. Chandler (ed.), Federalism and the Role of the State (Toronto: University of Toronto Press): 149–​70. Filippov, M., P.C. Ordeshook and O. Shvetsova (2004), Designing Federalism: A Theory of Self-​Sustainable Federal Institutions (New York: Cambridge University Press). Friedmann, J. (1966), Regional Development Policy: A Case Study of Venezuela (Cambridge [Mass]: MIT Press). Fujita, M. and J-​F. Thisse (2002), Economics of Agglomeration (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Kincaid, J. (2019), A Research Agenda for Federalism Studies (London: Edward Elgar). Klimanov, V., A. Deryugin, A. Mikhailova and V. Yagovkina (2019), Byudzhetnyi federalizm: finansovoe uchastie regionov v dostizhenii natsional’nykh tselei razvitiya (Moscow: “Delo”). Kramer, L. (1994), “Understanding Federalism”, Vanderbilt Law Review 47, 5: 1485–​561.

168

169

Centre-regional relations in Russia Nefedova, T. and A. Treivysh (2020), “Polyarizatsiya i szhatie osvoennykh prostranstv v tsentre Rossii: trendy, problemy, vozmozhnye resheniya”, Demograficheskoe obozrenie 7, 2: 31–​53. O’Loughlin, J. and V. Kolossov (2002), “Moscow: Post-​Soviet Developments and Challenges”, Eurasian Geography and Economics 43, 3: 161–​9. RBK (2021), “Sobyanin otsenil rost naseleniya Moskvy s 1990 goda”, 16 May, www.rbc.ru/​rbcf​reen​ews/​ 60a0c​9749​a794​77d8​0ff9​729. Riker, W. (1964), Federalism: Origin, Operation, Significance (Boston: Little & Brown). Rokkan, S. and D. Urwin (1982), “Introduction: Centres and Peripheries in Western Europe”, in S. Rokkan and D.W. Urwin (eds.), The Politics of Territorial Identity. Studies in European Regionalism (London: SAGE): 1–​17. Ross, C. (2005), “Federalism and Electoral Authoritarianism under Putin”, Demokratizatsiya: The Journal of Post-​Soviet Democratization 13, 3: 347–​71. Rossman, V. (2013), “In Search of the Fourth Rome: Visions of a New Russian Capital City”, Slavic Review 72, 3: 505–​27. Smirnyagin, L. (1998), Rossiiskii federalizm: paradoksy, protivorechiya, predrassudki (Moscow: MONF). TASS (2021), “Dokhod Moskvy ot patentov trudovykh migrantov v2019 godu vyros na 5,2%”, 10 February, https://​tass.ru/​ekonom​ika/​7725​753?. Treivysh, A. (2001), “Regionalizatsiya v razvitii Rossii: geograficheskie protsessy i problemy”, in S. Artobolevskii and A. Treivysh (eds.), Regionalizatsiya v razvitii Rossii: geograficheskie protsessy i problemy (Moscow: Editorial URSS): 39–​66. vc.ru (2020), “Otkuda u Moskvy den’gi i na chem ona ikh zarabatyvaet? Sravnenie Moskvy s Rossiei po dokhodam i ekonomike”, 27 October, https://​vc.ru/​offl​ine/​170​825-​otk​uda-​u-​mos​kvy-​dengi-​i-​na-​ chem-​ona-​ih-​zarab​atyv​aet-​sravne​nie-​mos​kvy-​s-​ross​iey-​po-​doho​dam-​i-​ekonom​ike. Weingast, B. (1995), “The Economic Role of Political Institutions: Market-​Preserving Federalism and Economic Development”, Journal of Law, Economics and Organization 11, 1: 1–​31. World Bank (2018), “Rolling Back Russia’s Spatial Disparities: Re-​assembling the Soviet Jigsaw under a Market Economy”, https://​openkn​owle​dge.worldb​ank.org/​han​dle/​10986/​29866. Yakovlev, A. (2021), “Composition of the Ruling Elite, Incentives for Productive Usage of Rents, and Prospects for Russia’s Limited Access Order”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 37, 5: 417–​34. Znak.com (2020), “Kak izmenilis’ otnosheniya federal’nykh vlastei s regionami iz-​za koronavirusa”, 25 November, www.znak.com/​20201​125/​kak_​izmenilis_​otnosheniya_​federalnyh_​vlastey_​s_​r​egio​nami​_​ iz_​za_​k​oron​avir​usa. Zubarevich, N. (2013), “Four Russias: Human Potential and Social Differentiation of Russian Regions and Cities”, in M. Lipman and N. Petrov (eds.), Russia 2025 (London: Palgrave Macmillan): 67–​85. Zubarevich, N. (2017), “Razvitie rossiiskogo prostranstva: bar’ery i vozmozhnosti regional’noi politiki”, Mir novoi ekonomiki 2: 46–​57.

169

170

15 POLITICS IN RUSSIAN REGIONS Alexander Libman

Introduction There are “89 Russias” –​this metaphor of Gavril Bilev (2012), formulated when the Russian Federation consisted of 89 regions,1 is still a correct description of how Russian political life is organised. Individual regions exhibit vastly different political and social dynamics, and even centralisation under Vladimir Putin was unable to ensure complete uniformity of regional politics (although it affected the forms and shapes in which these cross-​regional differences manifest themselves). Recent shocks (such as the COVID-​19 pandemic and the war in Ukraine) seem to have heterogenous effects on different regions of Russia. Sub-​national dynamics are relevant not only for the development of individual regions; they have the potential to spill-​ over into other territories and eventually affect the development of the Russian Federation as a whole. This chapter reviews the key characteristics of politics in the Russian regions as well as discusses the main strands of literature investigating sub-​national politics in Russia.2 The chapter is organised as follows. I start by reviewing the general trends in the evolution of regional politics, as one would trace them while looking at a “typical” region in Russia. In this section, I address the changing power balance in the regions over the last thirty years, as well as how the transformation of centre-​periphery relations in Russia (see Chapter 13 by Ross in this volume) influenced the organisation of regional politics. The next section looks at the variation in politics across the regions. The literature offers several approaches to conceptualising this variation, and I discuss their main advantages and disadvantages. The penultimate section briefly addresses the role of ethnicity as a factor in sub-​national politics, something that has been at the centre of attention of researchers since the late 1980s. The last section concludes.

Politics in the regions in Putin’s Russia Over the last thirty years, politics in Russia’s regions has been characterised by regular shifts in the balance of power, with some actors becoming more influential and others losing their influence. In the early 1990s, two factors were particularly important in the evolution of Russian sub-​national politics: the struggle of ethnic regions to construct their own statehood (in a sense, a continuation of the Soviet-​era “parade of sovereignties”; see Hale 2000) and the conflict between the regional executive (the newly created office of governor) and the legislative 170

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-17

171

Politics in Russian regions

(regional soviets inherited from the USSR era), mirroring the conflict between the president and the Supreme Soviet at the federal level. After 1993, regional soviets ceased to play any significant role (and in many regions were disbanded). By the end of the 1990s, politics in the regions became self-​contained: on the one hand, a weak federal centre was hardly able to intervene in regional political affairs, but, on the other, regional politicians hardly had any opportunity to continue their career at the federal level; the governor’s position was the terminal point in political careers. In some regions, governors took over full control of regional politics (including local branches of the federal administration); in others, they had to struggle with alternative power centres, including mayors of regional capitals and oligarchic business groups (Orttung 2004).3 Putin’s accession to power in 2000 had a double impact on regional political development. On the one hand, the self-​contained nature of regional politics was gradually broken. Already in the early 2000s, the centre reasserted control over local branches of the federal agencies (especially the siloviki) and created multiple mechanisms of control over regional elites (with the ultimate one being the appointment of regional governors by the president, which, by the end of the first Putin decade, turned them from representatives of regional elites into watchdogs of federal interests). The institutional mechanisms of control were strengthened by personnel policies, with increasingly frequent appointments of outsiders –​or “Varangians”, as they are typically referred to in Russia4 –​to the office of regional governor. At the same time, new career opportunities opened up for regional politicians: in contemporary Russia, unlike Boris Yeltsin’s era, there are governors who move from region to region to serve the interests of the Putin regime5 or receive attractive positions at the federal level. The growing mobility of governors also led to the growing mobility of other members of regional administrations, who occasionally follow their patrons (Kynev 2020a). On the other hand, the central government helped governors to eliminate most opposing power centres in the regions:6 in particular, the governor’s influence over municipal administrations increased immensely.7 The federal government relies on regional political machines as instruments of implementation of federal policies (Petrov 2012). These two processes to a certain extent contradict each other (Petrov 2010): one leads to the fragmentation of regional politics (which becomes an arena of competition among various federal agencies and groups with their own interests and where key players are now less invested in regional politics and consider the regions as merely interim steps in their careers) and one centralises it (eliminating alternative regional power centres and actors and replicating the “power vertical” at the regional level). Some regions of Russia have been less affected by these processes than others. In Tatarstan, for example, regional elites remained consolidated and prevented the fragmentation of regional politics; in fact, Tatarstani elites are occasionally able to challenge some of the decisions of the centre (Lenton 2021). The extent of autonomy of Chechnya under Ramzan Kadyrov is even higher, with the region most visibly violating conventions that other regional governors in Russia have to follow (Russell 2011; Halbach 2018). But even in Chechnya, as Egor Lazarev (2019) shows, there is a tension between the operation of the Russian state courts and the policies of Kadyrov aimed at strengthening his regime. The agency factor should not be discarded in explaining regional political development. Some governors are effective bureaucratic powerbrokers able to repel the attempts of other agencies to gain power in the region, while other governors fail to consolidate their control over regions and become victims of competing groups and even targets of criminal prosecution.8 The effectiveness of individual governors depends on the conditions in the region they run: leaders creating successful political machines in a particular environment may turn out to be unable to control elites in another region. 171

172

Alexander Libman

Ultimately, regional political dynamics depend on the informal power deals between individual actors, which have the capacity to transform federal policies into their opposite, thereby reducing rather than increasing central control over particular regions (Libman 2016). To complicate matters, the dynamics of regional politics should not be reduced to the changes of power of the regional governor and to the evolution of regional parliaments. (A detailed review of how these two institutions transformed themselves during two decades of Putin’s rule is provided in Kynev 2020b, 2021.) The governance model in the Russian regions includes a multiplicity of non-​governmental actors connected to the regional administrations (Kropp et al 2017), which are important for the design of regional politics but occasionally pursue their own interests. On top of that, different Russian regions exhibit different dynamics of protest activity and societal activism. One can see that, while the regions share a number of common features in the organisation of their politics, they also differ a lot from each other according to a number of dimensions. These cross-​regional differences belong to the key research topics of scholars studying Russian politics and have been analysed from a number of perspectives. I will present four possible approaches to conceptualising differences between the politics of individual regions: sub-​national political regimes, personalist politics, electoral geography and contentious politics.

Conceptualising regional variation Sub-​national political regimes Since the early 1990s, variation in sub-​national politics, which emerged under Yeltsin, has been conceptualised as one between “sub-​national regimes” (Stoner-​Weiss 1997; Hale 2003; Sharafutdinova 2006; Gel’man and Ross 2010). The sub-​national regimes literature, which has been applied to other large federal states as well (Behrend and Whitehead 2016; Giraudy et al 2019; McMann et al 2021), rejects the idea that political regime should be considered a characteristic only of a (sovereign) country; the concept of regimes should rather be applied to each sub-​national polity separately, meaning that there may be “democracies” and “autocracies” within a single state, with the latter relying on powerful political machines to maintain their control and the former characterised by a competitive and pluralist political process. Sub-​national regimes are frequently highly robust and outlive political changes at the national level. In addition to being an important research subject per se, the existence of sub-​national regimes allows for the testing of many standard conjectures of the comparative politics and political economy literatures using within-​country rather than cross-​country comparisons. This approach makes it possible to reduce the unobserved heterogeneity and thus to improve causal inference (Snyder 2001; Pepinsky 2019). The literature on Russian sub-​national political regimes is enormous. These studies look at the genealogy and emergence of sub-​national regimes as a consequence of the long-​term historical trajectory of regional development, both of the Communist (Gel’man et al 2005; Libman and Obydenkova 2021; Lankina et al 2016a) and of the pre-​Communist (Lankina 2012) eras, as an outcome of regional political decisions and actors’ constellation of the transition period (Gel’man 1999), of the ability of regional elites to exercise control over their economies (McMann 2006) and of external influences, both from other parts of Russia and from abroad (Lankina and Getachew 2006; Obydenkova 2008, 2012; Lankina et al 2016b; Obydenkova and Libman 2015). Regional regime variation was shown to have an impact on sub-​national economic and political development, including quality of public policies, economic growth and a region’s ability to manage natural resources (Obydenkova and Libman 2015; Remington 2011; 172

173

Politics in Russian regions

Rosenberg et al 2018). Some regions of Russia, such as Tatarstan and Bashkortostan with their consolidated autocracies (Sharafutdinova 2015), Nizhniy Novgorod with its more competitive regime (Rivera 2016) or the “warlordist” Primorskii Krai (Kirkow 1995), attracted special attention from researchers. An important stimulus for the quantitative research on Russian sub-​ national regimes was the dataset published by Nikolai Petrov and Alexei Titkov (2013), who computed democracy scores for each Russian region based on expert assessments; these scores, usually called the “Carnegie Democratisation Score”, can be readily used in regression analysis and have become immensely popular in the literature. Putin’s centralisation put an end to the obvious and visible differences among regional political systems. Some of the sub-​national regimes did not survive the pressure of the centre; some, however, continued to exist and were integrated into the national “vertical of power” (Mikhailov 2010). Over time, scholarly literature ceased to talk about the variations in political regimes in Russia, more often seeing them as examples of different varieties of authoritarian regimes, particularly competitive and hegemonic ones (Panov and Ross 2013a; Saikkonen 2016; Ross and Panov 2019). There is more than just a change of labels behind this shift. Conceptually, the difference between competitive and hegemonic authoritarian regimes is not the same as that between democracies and autocracies: several studies, for example, show that competitive authoritarian regimes are characterised by particularly poor economic performance and quality of public policy, as opposed to both democracies and consolidated autocracies (Buckley and Reuter 2019; Vasilyeva and Libman 2020). Another interesting research question that emerged in the 2000s is the source of resilience of sub-​national regimes: under what conditions do sub-​national political regimes manage to survive the intervention of the central government and maintain their continuity, and under what conditions do regimes turn out to be more fragile? In the sub-​national regime literature, Edward Gibson (2005) advanced the concept of a “boundary control” as a crucial precondition for a sub-​national regime’s survival; but when do Russian regional elites manage to maintain boundary control? One explanation could be the degree of elite cohesion (Garifullina et al 2020). Another is the risk of political conflict at the regional level, which would make central government more cautious in intervening in sub-​national politics; this could explain the survival of the authoritarian regime of Kadyrov in Chechnya, but the argument is also applicable to other regions.

Personalist politics There are, however, doubts about whether the notion of “regimes” is really helpful for studying Russian sub-​national politics. As already mentioned, between 2005 and 2012, the key actor of regional politics, the governor, was appointed by the central government. After 2012, direct elections of the governors by the regional population were reintroduced but in a way that ensured almost complete control of the central government over the elections’ outcomes (Blakkisrud 2015). In most cases the candidate endorsed by the Kremlin is appointed as an interim governor and holds this position for up to one year prior to the election, ensuring smooth consolidation of power. In some cases, regional political elites have an influence over who is appointed; in other cases, however, the interests of regional elites are ignored. From this point of view it is questionable whether one can talk about more (or less) competitive regimes in a system where the internal logic of a regional regime has no implications for who holds the most important political office in the region. At the very least, it is necessary to precisely define the boundaries of the concept: “regime” could refer to the informal set of arrangements in the regional elite that any appointee from the centre has to deal with (and to some extent adjust 173

174

Alexander Libman

to). In Perm, for example, new governors had to deal with multiple competing elite factions, often with their own independent source of support in Moscow; in Mordovia, on the contrary, new appointees can rely on a stable political machine that had already emerged in the 1990s. At least until the mid-​2010s, the level of competitiveness of Russian politics in individual regions remained strongly correlated with that in the 1990s when greater sub-​national political autonomy existed (Obydenkova and Libman 2013). Nevertheless, a promising avenue of thinking about Russian sub-​national politics could potentially be to refrain from conceptualising it in terms of “political regimes” and instead focus on the personal characteristics of the “people in charge” –​governors and other members of the regional elites. In this case, one sacrifices the ability to generalise from the study of Russian regions to the general properties of certain classes of political regimes (which was for many researchers an important reason for studying Russian sub-​national regimes in the first place). However, one potentially is able to describe Russian politics in a way more fitting to how it actually functions, especially given the high level of personalisation of Russia’s authoritarianism in general (Baturo and Elkink 2014). However, there are two problems with this. First, there are no ex-​ante categories that can be used to described regional politics from this perspective: one can look at the biographical characteristics of regional governors (Buckley et al 2014), the links between individual groups of regional officials (Schultz et al 2014; Yakovlev and Aisin 2019), as well as the properties of networks of regional elites (Hughes et al 2002), but these conceptualisations are more vague than in the case of sub-​national political regimes (with the readily available Petrov-​ Titkov measure for quantitative analysis). Second, except for governors and in some cases vice-​ governors, almost no systematic data is available covering information on decision-​makers in a cross-​section of Russian regions. This reduces the potential for comparative quantitative analysis (although it leaves a lot of space for case studies). Thus, collecting biographical data on the members of regional elites and tracing their personal connections could be an important way of advancing the scholarly understanding of how Russian politics at the regional level really works.

Electoral geography Another way of thinking about Russian sub-​national politics, which is in line with research on sub-​national politics in other large federal states, is to look at sub-​national electoral variation, both at regional elections and at federal elections in the region. In an electoral authoritarian regime like Russia, this dimension of regional politics plays a crucial role. Unlike the sub-​ national regimes’ perspective, the electoral perspective pays greater attention to the variation in the preferences of the regional population, which manifest themselves in different voting behaviour. Heterogeneity of the Russian regions inevitably produces very large differences in how people vote. At the same time, in Russia, electoral outcomes are not only driven by people’s preferences but also by the systematic manipulation of elections by the regional governors. These manipulations are also not uniformly distributed across the territory of Russia and depend upon the incentives that governors face, as well as their capacity; from this point of view, observed electoral outcomes are typically found to be correlated with the competitiveness of regional politics. There is a very large literature looking at regional and federal elections (for example, Ross 2011; Panov and Ross 2013b; Golosov 2014; White 2016), including discussions on how socioeconomic development, urbanisation, education levels, ethnic composition and the geography of the regions, along with policies of and campaigning by regional governors, influence electoral behaviour. Similarly, extensive research on “electoral forensics” in the Russian regions 174

175

Politics in Russian regions

documents widespread electoral malpractices, ranging from outright vote fabrication to more sophisticated techniques; on top of that, regional administrations also use other tools, including changing regional electoral laws or constraining the participation of opposition candidates in elections. The extent to which these tools were used varied over time and across regions (Bader and van Ham 2015; Moser and White 2017; Skovoroda and Lankina 2017). Governors are the key actors engaged in regional electoral fraud, and its extent strongly depends upon the incentives they face (for example, proximity to the end of their term or political relations with the central government) (Sidorkin and Vorobyev 2020). In spite of these commonplace electoral manipulation practices, the extent of incumbents’ control over regional elections is imperfect. Occasionally, “electoral earthquakes” occur with the unexpected victories of candidates opposing those endorsed by the Kremlin. In 2015, the opposition candidate won elections in Irkutsk oblast, and in 2018 in four regions (Primorskii Krai, Khabarovsk, Vladimir and Khakassia), candidates supported by the regime failed to achieve victory in the first round of elections. In three cases, opposition candidates ultimately won. In Primorskii Krai, the pro-​Kremlin candidate was officially declared to have won the second round but only due to blatant electoral fraud, which caused Moscow to nullify the election; a new interim governor was appointed to the region and ultimately won the election. In all cases, the winning candidates came from “systemic opposition” parties such as the Liberal Democrats or Communists, and their victory was apparently perceived by the federal government as a challenge; Irkutsk governor Sergei Levchenko was forced to resign in 2019 and Khabarovsk governor Sergei Furgal was arrested in 2020. These episodes have received relatively little attention in the literature, but studying such electoral earthquakes would constitute a very promising research agenda. Do they happen because of conflicts in the regional elites, because of protest voting by the population (unsatisfied with central or regional policies or symbolic gestures), or simply because of mistakes made by incumbents? And how likely are these episodes to repeat themselves in the future, especially given the enormous shocks that the Russian economy and society have experienced?

Contentious politics While in the previous discussion I focused on the variation of governance modes existing in individual regions, much recent research pays particular attention to the extent to which protest activity and civil society activism differs from region to region. In a large country like Russia, a certain degree of variation in the sub-​national approval rates of Putin (and of protest activity) is inevitable. Concentration of power at the federal level only increases this variation due to an increase of preference mismatch between the regional population and government policies. Since the mid-​2000s, protest activity in Russia has in many cases been highly localised and driven by a combination of local and federal political factors. Some of the regional protests (such as those triggered by the arrest of the Khabarovsk governor Sergei Furgal) lasted for over a year and received public attention in other parts of Russia. While the attention of the existing scholarship on Russian protests is focused on the major protest events, especially in Moscow, some studies investigate both cross-​regional protest variation and the dynamics of protest at the regional level. There are two sets of studies of regional contentious politics that one should highlight. The first focuses on comparing the scope and the determinants of protest activity in Russia’s regions and typically uses quantitative methods. H. Hagemann and V. Kufenko (2016) study regional variation in the 2011–​12 protest wave and link it to the socioeconomic development of the regions. Graeme Robertson (2013), Tomila Lankina (2015) and Lankina and Alisa Voznaya 175

176

Alexander Libman

(2015) generate original detailed datasets on protest activity in the regions. Lankina’s work in particular highlights the importance of the spatial variation of protest; although Moscow and St Petersburg account for the lion’s share of protest in the dataset, there are more protests happening in the regions than in the capital cities, and there is no one-​to-​one mapping from economic potential and social development to the extent of protest activity. T. Palmtag et al (2020) investigate the role of international trade as a predictor for contentious politics in the Russian regions. Another set of studies (mostly qualitative) look at protest activity in individual Russian regions and investigate its logic, actors and causal mechanisms. For example, Semenov et al (2016) study differences in the extent to which political parties (otherwise co-​opted by Putin’s regime) join protests and how these differences are affected by the regional political environment (in particular, the degree of competitiveness of regional politics). Jan Matti Dollbaum (2020) investigates how national protests diffuse in Russian regions and lead to the development of self-​sustaining protest movements. There have been studies of the role of labour unions in the development of protests in the regions Kulaev (2020), including an ethnographic approach to studying the origin and dynamics of protest in Astrakhan and St Petersburg (Clément 2015). Several studies investigate protest events in Moscow, focusing on local level triggers such as housing (Evans 2018) and environmental policies (Evans 2012). Yana Gorokhovskaya (2018) uses the case of Moscow to study how authoritarian regime pressure forces civic activism to move to the local level, while Irina Busygin and Mikhail Filippov (2015) ask why the population engages in local non-​political protests but refrains from political demands. Protest activity in Russia evolves in a highly dynamic fashion associated with both sub-​ national and nation-​level dynamics, and this inevitably needs new studies of political protest in Russian regions. At the same time, this is also a research area where, in the years to come, scholars are particularly likely to face political constraints in doing research. The war in Ukraine, changes in the Russian domestic political environment and Western sanctions have made fieldwork and the implementation of public opinion surveys in Russia very difficult (potentially, even impossible). This particularly applies to politically sensitive topics such as protests. It remains to be seen whether (and how) researchers will overcome this challenge.

The special case of ethnic regions Finally, a further important aspect of Russian regional politics should be addressed. Almost all studies of Russian politics acknowledge the special role of Russian ethnic regions. Ethnicity matters for the design of sub-​national political regimes, for the electoral geography and for protest activity. From the point of view of the sub-​national political regimes, ethnic identity serves as a powerful tool for establishing boundary control, which makes it much more difficult for the central government to penetrate regional politics. Ethnic regions appear to be particularly susceptible to clientelist politics; their regional political culture could be conducive to the formation of an authoritarian power hierarchy or to the political fragmentation of regional elites (Shkel 2019), such as in Dagestan where a relatively pluralist and open media survived well into the Putin era. Ethnicity also affects the content of policy-​making: struggles over identity and symbols remain as important in Putin’s Russia as they were under Yeltsin. From the point of view of the electoral geography and contentious politics approaches, ethnic regions can again differ from the rest of the country in terms of the population’s preferences and their willingness to engage in preference falsification or to openly demonstrate their attitude to the politicians.

176

177

Politics in Russian regions

There are, however, several important challenges associated with studying ethnicity as a predictor of regional politics. First, how exactly does one define an “ethnic region”? In many Russian ethnic republics, the share of the “titular ethnicity” is relatively small. Ultimately, the “ethnic” identity of a region is heavily affected by elite “social construction” (Treisman 1997). Similarly, the degree to which regional politics is isolated from national politics (due to the presence of specific problems a region has to deal with, the spread of communication in a language different from Russian and the transportation connections to Russia) differs a lot. Unsurprisingly, Natalia Zubarevich (2013) singles out the regions of the Northern Caucasus (which since the early 1990s have existed in the shadow of the Chechen conflict and other separatist and Islamist movements), as well as Tyva and Altai in Siberia as a separate sub-​g roup of territories due to their political environment but also their demographics (a large share of the young rural population). Similarly, ethnic politics is important in a number of regions with established traditions of ethnic nationalism (Tatarstan, Bashkortostan, Sakha and Buryatia). Second, is it reasonable to assume that the “ethnic” nature of a region always affects its politics in the same way –​or rather has one to assume that different ethnic regions have different political dynamics? The latter perspective appears to be straightforward, but there is not much literature explicitly studying the political differences between types of ethnic regions as opposed to non-​ethnic ones. One factor that has received particular attention in this context is the political role of Islam, which plays an important role in some Russian ethnic republics. All major religious groups in Russia share the concept of “ethnodoxy” –​an assumption about the existence of a link between ethnicity and religion (for example, the existence of “Orthodox” or “Muslim” ethnic groups, see Karpov et al 2012). Correspondingly, political Islam is particularly relevant in the ethnic republics of Russia’s Northern Caucasus and Volga regions. Other specific factors explaining political differences across ethnic regions have received much less scholarly attention. Thus, while ethnicity is an important factor for studying sub-​national politics in Russia and has received substantial scholarly attention, there are still enormous gaps in investigating it that call for future research. The interest towards the ethnic regions is likely to increase in the years to come: since the start of the war in Ukraine, a new wave of speculation about the possible fragmentation of the Russian Federation as a consequence of the economic and political crisis has begun. While such speculation is unsubstantiated, understanding how the politics of the ethnic regions (especially those near the front line that bear higher costs of the war) will change in the future remains an important question.

Conclusion Throughout the two decades of his rule, Putin has invested enormous effort in both ensuring central control over the regions and reducing the political heterogeneity of the regions. The latter has, however, persisted. The question is whether regional politics has the potential to trigger national-​level political change; for example, with protests starting in one region affecting the entire federation or with stunning elections in one region being copied across the Russian Federation. As of now, the centre remains relatively successful in containing regional unrest; whether this will be the case in the future remains to be seen. The war in Ukraine and the international sanctions are likely to strongly affect regional politics, but the direction of the change is difficult to predict. The war could trigger a new wave of governors’ and regional interest groups’ activism, with regional officials searching for a way for their territories to survive in the new environment (which would lead to a revival of regional politics). But it is also

177

178

Alexander Libman

possible that the centre will increase the intensity of monitoring and control over the regions, reducing the space for independent policy decisions.

Notes 1 Including the recently incorporated Crimea and Sevastopol, there are currently 85 regions in Russia. They are officially referred to as “subjects of the federation” and include (ethnic) republics, oblasts, krais, autonomous oblasts, autonomous okrugs and federal cities. 2 Throughout the chapter I use the terms “sub-​national politics”, “regional politics” and “politics in the regions” interchangeably. 3 This is not to say that there were no cases of federal intervention in politics in the regions, but they were rather limited. In contrast, especially in the late 1990s, regional governors used their political machines to influence federal politics and played an important role in the struggle for Yeltsin’s succession. 4 This refers to the legendary founder of Kievan Rus who was “invited” to rule the country from abroad. 5 For example, Oleg Kozhemyako was successively governor of Koryak autonomous okrug (2005–​ 2007), Amur oblast (2008–​ 2015), Sakhalin oblast (2015–​ 2018) and Primorskii krai (since 2018). Sergei Sobyanin’s experience includes governor’s positions in Tyumen (2001–​2005) and in Moscow (since 2010). 6 This could have been one of the reasons why governors accepted the decline of the regional autonomy (Sharafutdinova 2010). 7 Some variation in the models of interaction between governors and municipalities persists, though (Ledyaev and Chirikova 2019). 8 There is also the extreme case of Evgeny Zinichev, a former member of Putin’s security detail who became governor of Kaliningrad oblast in 2016 but resigned two months later due to his unwillingness to hold an office with so much publicity.

References Bader, M. and C. van Ham (2015), “What Explains Regional Variation in Election Fraud? Evidence from Russia”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 31, 6: 514–​28. Baturo, A. and J.A. Elkink (2014), “Office or Officeholder? Regime Deinstitutionalization and Sources of Individual Political Influence”, Journal of Politics 76, 3: 859–​72. Behrend, J. and L. Whitehead (eds.) (2016), Illiberal Practices: Territorial Variance within Large Federal Democracies (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press). Bilev, G. (2012), Checking the Boss: Legislative Autonomy and Executive Contestation in the Russian Regions, 1992–​2005, PhD Thesis, Brown University. Blakkisrud, H. (2015), “Governing the Governors: Legitimacy vs. Control in the Reform of the Russian Regional Executive”, East European Politics 31, 1: 104–​21. Buckley, N., T. Frye, G. Garifullina and O.J. Reuter (2014), “The Political Economy of Russian Gubernatorial Election and Appointment”, Europe-​Asia Studies 66, 8: 1213–​33. Buckley, N. and O.J. Reuter (2019), “Performance Incentives under Autocracy: Evidence from Russia’s Regions”, Comparative Politics 51, 2: 239–​66. Busygina, I. and M. Filippov (2015), “The Calculus of Non-​Protest in Russia: Redistributive Expectations from Political Reforms”, Europe-​Asia Studies 67, 2: 209–​23. Clément, K. (2015), “Unlikely Mobilisations: How Ordinary Russian People Become Involved in Collective Action”, European Journal of Cultural and Political Sociology 2, 3-​4: 211–​40. Dollbaum, J.M. (2020), “When Does Diffusing Protest Lead to Local Organization Building? Evidence from a Comparative Subnational Study of Russia’s ‘For Fair Elections’ Movement”, Perspectives on Politics: 1–​16. Evans, A. (2012), “Protests and Civil Society in Russia: The Struggle for the Khimki Forest”, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies 45, 3-​4: 233–​42. Evans, A. (2018), “Property and Protests: The Struggle over the Renovation of Housing in Moscow”, Russian Politics 3, 4: 548–​76. Garifullina, G., K. Kazantsev and A. Yakovlev (2020), “United we Stand: The Effects of Subnational Elite Structure on Succession in Two Russian Regions”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 36, 5-​6: 475–​94.

178

179

Politics in Russian regions Gel’man, V. (1999), “Regime Transition, Uncertainty and Prospects for Democratisation: The Politics of Russia’s Regions in a Comparative Perspective”, Europe-​Asia Studies 51, 6: 939–​56. Gel’man, V. and C. Ross (eds.) (2010), The Politics of Sub-​ National Authoritarianism in Russia (Aldershot: Ashgate). Gel’man, V., S. Ryzhenkov and M. Brie (2005), Making and Breaking Democratic Transitions: The Comparative Politics of Russia’s Regions (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield). Gibson, E.L. (2005), “Boundary Control: Subnational Authoritarianism in Democratic Countries”, World Politics 58, 1: 101–​32. Giraudy, A., E. Moncada and R. Snyder (eds.) (2019), Inside Countries: Subnational Research in Comparative Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Golosov, G.V. (2014), “The Territorial Genealogies of Russia’s Political Parties and the Transferability of Political Machines”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 30, 6: 464–​80. Gorokhovskaya, Y. (2018), “From Local Activism to Local Politics: The Case of Moscow”, Russian Politics 3, 4: 577–​604. Hagemann, H. and V. Kufenko (2016), “Economic, Structural and Socio-Psychological Determinants of Protests in Russia During 2011–​2012: Empirical Analysis on a Regional Level”, Economics of Transition 24, 1: 3–​30. Halbach, U. (2018), “Chechnya’s Status within the Russian Federation: Ramzan Kadyrov’s Private State and Vladimir Putin’s Federal ‘Power Vertical’”, SWP Research Paper 2. Hale, H.E. (2000), “The Parade of Sovereignties: Testing Theories of Secession in the Soviet Setting”, British Journal of Political Science 30, 1: 31–​56. Hale, H.E. (2003), “Explaining Machine Politics in Russia’s Regions: Economy, Ethnicity, and Legacy”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 19, 3: 228–​63. Hughes, J., P. John and G. Sasse (2002), “From Plan to Network: Urban Elites and the Post-Communist Organisational State in Russia”, European Journal of Political Research 41, 3: 395–​420. Karpov, V., E. Lisovskaya and D. Barry (2012) “Ethnodoxy: How Popular Ideologies Fuse Religious and Ethnic Identities”, Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 51, 4: 638–​55. Kirkow, P. (1995), “Regional Warlordism in Russia: The Case of Primorskii Krai”, Europe-​Asia Studies 47, 6: 923–​47. Kropp, S., A. Aasland, M. Berg-​Nordlie, J. Holm-​Hansen and J. Schuhmann (eds.) (2017), Governance in Russian Regions: A Policy Comparison (Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan). Kulaev, M. (2020), “Russian Trade Unions and the De-​Escalation of Protests in Russian Regions”, International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s10​767-​020-​09369-​1. Kynev, A. (2020a), “The Membership of Governors’ Teams in Russia’s Regions, and the Key Features of the Formation of Regional Administrations 1991–​2018”, Russian Politics 5, 2: 154–​89. Kynev, A. (2020b), Gubernatory v Rossii: mezhdu vyborami i naznacheniyami (Moscow: Liberal’naya missiya). Kynev, A. (2021), Vybory regional’nykh parlamentov v Rossii 2014–​2020. Novaya departizatsiya i upravlyaemaya partiinost 2.0 (Moscow: Liberal’naya missiya). Lankina, T. (2012), “Unbroken Links? From Imperial Human Capital to Post-​Communist Modernization”, Europe-​Asia Studies 64, 4: 623–​43. Lankina, T. (2015), “The Dynamics of Regional and National Contentious Politics in Russia: Evidence from a New Dataset”, Problems of Post-​Communism 62, 1: 26–​44. Lankina, T. and L. Getachew (2006), “A Geographic Incremental Theory of Democratization: Territory, Aid, and Democracy in Postcommunist Regions”, World Politics 58, 4: 536–​82. Lankina, T., A. Libman and A. Obydenkova (2016a), “Appropriation and Subversion: Precommunist Literacy, Communist Party Saturation, and Postcommunist Democratic Outcomes”, World Politics 68, 2: 229–​74. Lankina, T., A. Libman and A. Obydenkova (2016b), “Authoritarian and Democratic Diffusion in Post-​ Communist Regions”, Comparative Political Studies 49, 12: 1599–​629. Lankina, T. and A. Voznaya (2015), “New Data on Protest Trends in Russia’s Regions”, Europe-​Asia Studies 67, 2: 327–​42. Lazarev, E. (2019), “Laws in Conflict: Legacies of War, Gender, and Legal Pluralism in Chechnya”, World Politics 71, 4: 667–​709. Ledyaev, V. and A. Chirikova (2019), “Governors and Local Elites in Russia: Patterns of Interaction”, European Politics and Society 20, 3: 315–​32. Lenton, A.C. (2021), “Office Politics: Tatarstan’s Presidency and the Symbolic Politics of Regionalism”, Russian Politics 6, 3: 301–​29.

179

180

Alexander Libman Libman, A. (2016), Consequences of Informal Autonomy (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang). Libman, A. and A. Obydenkova (2021), Historical Legacies of Communism: Modern Politics, Society, and Economic Development (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). McMann, K.M. (2006), Economic Autonomy and Democracy: Hybrid Regimes in Russia and Kyrgyzstan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). McMann, K.M., M. Maguire, J. Gerring, M. Coppedge and S.I. Lindberg (2021), “Explaining Subnational Regime Variation: Country-​Level Factors”, Comparative Politics 53, 4: 637–​85. Mikhailov, V.V. (2010), “Authoritarian Regimes of Russia and Tatarstan: Coexistence and Subjection”, Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics 26, 4: 471–​93. Moser, R.G. and A.C. White (2017), “Does Electoral Fraud Spread? The Expansion of Electoral Manipulation in Russia”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 33, 2: 85–​99. Obydenkova, A. (2008), “Regime Transition in the Regions of Russia: The Freedom of Mass Media: Transnational Impact on Sub-National Democratization?”, European Journal of Political Research 47, 2: 221–​46. Obydenkova, A. (2012), “Democratization at the Grassroots: The European Union’s External Impact”, Democratization 19, 2: 230–​57. Obydenkova, A. and A. Libman (2013), “National Autocratization and the Survival of Sub-​National Democracy: Evidence from Russia’s Parliamentary Elections of 2011”, Acta Politica 48, 4: 459–​89. Obydenkova, A. and A. Libman (2015), Causes and Consequences of Democratization: The Regions of Russia (London: Routledge). Orttung, R.W. (2004), “Business and Politics in the Russian Regions”, Problems of Post-​Communism 51, 2: 48–​60. Palmtag, T., T. Rommel and S. Walter (2020), “International Trade and Public Protest: Evidence from Russian Regions”, International Studies Quarterly 64, 4: 939–​55. Panov, P. and C. Ross (2013a), “Patterns of Electoral Contestation in Russian Regional Assemblies: Between Soviet “Competitive” and “Hegemonic” Authoritarianism”, Demokratizatsiya: The Journal of Post-​ Democratization 21, 3: 369–​99. Panov, P. and C. Ross (2013b), “Sub-​ National Elections in Russia: Variations in United Russia’s Domination of Regional Assemblies”, Europe-​Asia Studies 65, 4: 737–​52. Pepinsky, T.B. (2019), “The Return of the Single-​Country Study”, Annual Review of Political Science 22: 187–​203. Petrov, N. (2010), “Regional Governors under the Dual Power of Medvedev and Putin”, Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics 26, 2: 276–​305. Petrov, N. (2012), “Ot federatsii korporatsii k federatsii regionov”, Pro et Contra 4-​5: 101–​8. Petrov, N. and A. Titkov (2013), Reiting demokratichnosti regionov Moskovskogo Tsentra Karnegie: Desyat’ let v stroyu (Moscow: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace). Remington, T.F. (2011), The Politics of Inequality in Russia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Rivera, S.W. (2016), “Nemtsov and Democracy in Nizhny Novgorod”, Demokratizatsiya: The Journal of Post-​Soviet Democratization 24, 1: 36–​8. Robertson, G. (2013), “Protesting Putinism: The Election Protests of 2011–​2012 in Broader Perspective”, Problems of Post-​Communism 60, 2: 11–​23. Rosenberg, D., V. Kozlov and A. Libman (2018), “Political Regimes, Income and Health: Evidence from Sub-​National Comparative Method”, Social Science Research 72: 20–​37. Ross, C. (2011), “Regional Elections and Electoral Authoritarianism in Russia”, Europe-​Asia Studies 63, 4: 641–​61. Ross, C. and P. Panov (2019), “The Range and Limitation of Sub-​National Regime Variations under Electoral Authoritarianism: The Case of Russia”, Regional & Federal Studies 29, 3: 355–​80. Russell, J. (2011), “Kadyrov’s Chechnya –​Template, Test or Trouble for Russia’s Regional Policy?”, Europe-​Asia Studies 63, 3: 509–​28. Saikkonen, I.A.L. (2016), “Variation in Subnational Electoral Authoritarianism: Evidence from the Russian Federation”, Democratization 23, 3: 437–​58. Schultz, A., V. Kozlov and A. Libman (2014), “Judicial Alignment and Criminal Justice: Evidence from Russian Courts”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 30, 2-​3: 137–​70. Semenov, A., O. Lobanova and M. Zavadskaya (2016), “When Do Political Parties Join Protests? A Comparative Analysis of Party Involvement in ‘For Fair Elections’ Movement”, East European Politics 32, 1: 81–​104.

180

181

Politics in Russian regions Sharafutdinova, G. (2006), “When Do Elites Compete? The Determinants of Political Competition in Russian Regions”, Comparative Politics 38, 3: 273–​93. Sharafutdinova, G. (2010), “Subnational Governance in Russia: How Putin Changed the Contract with his Agents and the Problems it Created for Medvedev”, Publius: The Journal of Federalism 40, 4: 672–​96. Sharafutdinova, G. (2015), “Elite Management in Electoral Authoritarian Regimes: A View from Bashkortostan and Tatarstan”, Central Asian Affairs 2, 2: 117–​39. Shkel, S. (2019), “Bastions of Tradition: The Ethnic Factor and Political Machines in Russian Regions”, Russian Politics 4, 1: 76–​111. Sidorkin, O. and D. Vorobyev (2020), “Extra Votes to Signal Loyalty: Regional Political Cycles and National Elections in Russia”, Public Choice 185, 1: 183–​213. Skovoroda, R. and T. Lankina (2017), “Fabricating Votes for Putin: New Tests of Fraud and Electoral Manipulations from Russia”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 33, 2: 100–​23. Snyder, R. (2001), “Scaling Down: The Subnational Comparative Method”, Studies in Comparative International Development 36, 1: 93–​110. Stoner-​Weiss, K. (1997), Local Heroes: The Political Economy of Russian Regional Governance (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Treisman, D.S. (1997), “Russia’s ‘Ethnic Revival’: The Separatist Activism of Regional Leaders in a Postcommunist Order”, World Politics 49, 2: 212–​49. Vasilyeva, O. and A. Libman (2020), “Varieties of Authoritarianism Matter: Elite Fragmentation, Natural Resources and Economic Growth”, European Journal of Political Economy 63, https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​ j.ejpol​eco.2020.101​869. White, A.C. (2016), “Electoral Fraud and Electoral Geography: United Russia Strongholds in the 2007 and 2011 Russian Parliamentary Elections”, Europe-​Asia Studies 68, 7: 1127–​78. Yakovlev, A. and A. Aisin (2019), “Friends or Foes? The Effect of Governor-​Siloviki Interaction on Economic Growth in Russian Regions”, Russian Politics 4, 4: 520–​45. Zubarevich, N. (2013), “Four Russias: Human Potential and Social Differentiation of Russian Regions and Cities”, in M. Lipman and N. Petrov (eds.) Russia 2025 (London: Palgrave MacMillan): 67–​85.

181

182

16 DECISION-​M AKING Stephen Fortescue

An analysis of Russian decision-​making requires a few context-​setting issues to be addressed first, broad questions about the nature of the Russian system of governance. They are questions that lead us to ponder whether there is, in fact, any single Russian decision-​making system and the extent to which a true understanding of the system is available to an outside observer. The first context-​setting question is whether the decision-​making system is predominantly formal or informal –​that is, whether it operates according to set and transparent procedures or “behind the scenes” dealings. The word “predominantly” is used advisedly. Any decision-​ making system, particularly in a country as large and complex as Russia, will combine both the formal and the informal. But if “behind the scenes” decision-​making is predominant, outside observers such as ourselves will struggle to describe the system accurately. In assessing this, it is necessary to keep in mind that there can be two forms of informality: informality designed to subvert the formal process, and informality designed to aid it (see Chapter 36 by Ledeneva in this volume). Informal negotiations and understandings can help things run more smoothly to the good of the cause; they can also involve participants doing behind-​the-​scenes deals to gain special advantage to the cost of the common cause. There are those who believe that the Russian decision-​making system is characterised by the latter form of informality because of the second context-​setting issue to be considered: is Russia patrimonial or institutionalised? A patrimonial system is one that primarily serves the personal interests of the ruler and his or her entourage (for examples, see Skigin 2017). A patrimonial system does not have to operate informally; ruler and entourage can arrange things such that the formal processes of state serve their interests. But in complex societies it is more likely that the ruler and the entourage will leave a shell of the formal and institutionalised to address the needs of society, in order to guarantee its survival, while reserving the right to subvert those processes in an informal way for their own purposes. The neo-​patrimonial approach sees the outer shell of the formal and institutionalised as an essential component of the contemporary Russian state, but one that takes nothing away from the patrimonial core (Gel’man 2016). Within the social sciences, formality and institutionalisation are generally seen as a form of governance superior to the informal and patrimonial –​indeed, as a required aspect of social progress (North et al 2013). But institutionalisation can have its negative aspects, as narrow interests take advantage of complex, formal procedures of consultation and sign off to subvert common goals. These narrow interests can be of a material nature –​the appropriation of 182

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-18

183

Decision-making

“rent” –​but when it comes to bureaucratic agencies it can be simply “turf ” and bureaucratic clout that are being pursued or protected. Whatever the driver, the outcome is likely to be drawn out, highly negotiated and often lowest-​common-​denominator decision-​making. Such behaviour is at the core of the public choice literature. More specifically there are many studies of Soviet and post-​Soviet policy-​making that focus on the phenomena of vedomstvennost’ and soglasovanie, the first the pursuit of their narrow interests by individual bureaucratic agencies, the second the sign-​off process that is such a weapon in their hands (Fortescue 1997: 51–​6). No doubt the patrimonial and institutionalised exist simultaneously and quite likely in varying proportions over time and in different circumstances. Indeed, the third context-​setting issue is whether variation over time and circumstance is a feature of the Russian decision-​ making process. It is widely acknowledged that Vladimir Putin can be a diffident leader in many areas of what I will call “routine” policy-​making; that is, the basic running of the country (Fortescue 2006: 32; Khmelnitskaya 2017: 459; Martus 2017b: 277), and yet in non-​“routine” policy areas he can be highly decisive, even bold (Martus 2017b: 293). In those latter cases, how decisions are arrived at is likely to be entirely opaque. Opaqueness certainly describes the decision-​making around the annexation of Crimea, for example. The best guess is that the decision was made informally within a small circle of people close to Putin (Fortescue 2017; Treisman 2018b). At the time of writing, the decision-​making around the invasion of Ukraine in February 2022 is even more mysterious. While perhaps Crimea and Ukraine are extreme examples, nevertheless other big security and foreign policy-​related decisions are likely to be decided in roughly the same way. When it comes to serious domestic “political” issues –​how many votes should United Russia be targeting, which social groups should be electorally wooed, which if any opposition figures should be allowed to participate –​there could well be the same small circle of confidants, but the Presidential Administration, with input from a large network of “expert” organisations, plays a dominant role (Burkhardt 2021). When it comes to “routine” decision-​making, the “government” (pravitel’stvo) comes into its own. The Russian system is formally semi-​presidential, in the sense that there is a president and a prime minister, the latter presiding over ministries and other executive agencies,1 meaning that the word “government” has a particular narrow meaning in the Russian context. The “routine” covers a wide range of policy concerns, including some of the most important for the state and its citizens –​economic policy, including budget formation, resource and industrial policy, regional development, social policy, and much more. While such areas of policy concern are largely left to the government, even the “routine” often has security and political sensitivities, meaning that the security agencies and Presidential Administration are likely to show an interest. This chapter focuses on the “routine”, with the government at its core. That is partly a reflection of the author’s own policy interests, of his belief that, while by no means the whole story, the “routine” is a big enough part of it to deserve considerable attention in its own right, and of the relative transparency of the “routine” compared to the non-​“routine”; that is, it is easier to describe than more opaque security and political decision-​making. There is a growing literature that focuses on the “routine” areas of policy, and there is a fair degree of commonality in the actors and phenomena that feature in it. A small sample of that literature is cited in this chapter.

The president Although semi-​presidential in the sense of having a president and a prime minister, the powers of the president are such that the Russian system is often described as “super-​presidential” (Fish 183

184

Stephen Fortescue

2000; also Chapter 8 by Willerton in this volume). While the waters have been somewhat muddied by the constitutional amendments of 2020, the president is able to ensure the tenure of a government that will behave according to presidential wishes (Teague 2020). Because it is elected, to have a parliament that can be guaranteed to behave the same way requires non-​ ­constitutional manipulation, something that has usually been achieved by Putin (Gill 2016). Much discussion of the Russian system focuses on the extent to which it is defined by Putin as an individual –​his general mindset and personality, as well as his views and interests on specific issues. That is, how personalised around the president is it? Usually the answer is very much so, including that nothing is or can be done without Putin’s direct involvement (Sterkin 2019). The narrower policy literature does not see it as so black and white. When it comes down to it, the president is not and cannot be involved in everything. Indeed, as already mentioned, often he is found to be a diffident participant in decision-​making, reluctant to find in favour of one side or another, even when implored to do so by warring parties (for example, see Fortescue 2016: 445). Having said that, presidential ruchnoe upravlenie (hands-​on management) is not an empty phrase, and it will reappear below. The president is served by the Presidential Administration. It is tempting to compare it to the apparatus of the Communist Party Central Committee of the Soviet era. It does after all occupy the old Central Committee apparatus’s premises. But one important way in which it differs is that it does not have the elaborate structure of “branch” or “sectoral” departments that the former had. This suggests a less hands-​on approach to managing “routine” policy areas; its structure suggests an orientation towards the narrowly “political” already mentioned (Prezident Rossii n.d.). Even the administrative support for the president in his “routine” policy involvement is provided by the government or with government participation. The president’s yearly address (poslanie), which is used to set out his basic policy agenda, is prepared after preliminary discussions with the prime minister, deputy prime ministers, and, tellingly, the Minister of Finance. A more formal meeting with the senior members of the government and Presidential Administration is then held to confirm agreement on key points (Prezident Rossii 2021). Presidential decrees are drafted by the relevant ministry (Stepanova and Trifonova 2021), and while the Presidential Administration’s State Legal Unit (GPU) vets all government bills, it does so as an “editor” rather than policy initiator or even participant in policy argument (Zanina and Kryuchkova 2021). The president has, currently, nine advisers (sovetniki) across a range of policy areas, but only two –​for economics and transport –​are in our “routine” policy areas. When Putin returned to the presidency in 2012 and appointed a number of his ministers as advisers, there was speculation that the institution was going to be used as a “second government” (Fortescue 2016: 430). But it did not work out that way –​those for whom it was not a form of honourable retirement quickly moved on to other positions. More recently, when the influential Andrei Belousov moved from being Putin’s economics adviser to first deputy prime minister, there was no doubt that that was a promotion, from a position where he could make his views loudly known to one where he could put them into practice (Butrin, Solov’ev and Chernenko 2020). The Security Council is directly subordinate to the president. As a collective body it is sometimes described as the new Politburo (Jones and Brusstar 1993: 355). It is almost certainly not that, not least because its membership is far more “security” and less “routine” oriented than the Politburo. The prime minister is the only non-​security member of government who is a member. There is no strong evidence that it truly makes decisions even on security issues, as the extraordinary meeting of the Council on 21 February 2022 to approve the recognition 184

185

Decision-making

of the Donbas republics confirms (on its possible role in the decision to annex Crimea, see Fortescue 2017). As an apparatus, under its influential secretary Nikolai Patrushev, things are no clearer. A broad interpretation of what constitutes a “national security” issue has been adopted, which allows it and its extensive network of expert councils and working groups to discuss and arrive at conclusions on many “routine” matters. We have very limited information on how its views are fed into the governmental policy process, either formally or informally. In noting the surprising lack of such information, Schulmann and Galeotti (2021: 459–​61) offer some limited and narrow cases of influence. The limitations on its influence, however, are suggested by the on-​going failure to integrate the national security and socio-​economic agendas in the strategic planning process. The long-​awaited Principles (Osnovy) of State Policy in the Sphere of Strategic Planning in the Russian Federation was meant to resolve that issue, but, when it finally appeared in November 2021, it read like a carefully negotiated and ultimately bland document in which the government’s economic block protected its right to an autonomous policy role (Osnovy 2021). That includes participation from the very earliest stages in budget formation, during which the budgetary breakdowns between the security and civilian budgets are decided. With Putin’s support, the block is able to get its way on fiscal and monetary discipline, including when it has implications for security spending (“The Russian Budget” 2017).

The government The government is headed by the prime minister, who at present has one first deputy and nine deputies. There are 21 ministries, of which five, those responsible for matters of national security, are directly subordinate to the president. The remaining 16 ministers deal with the full range of “routine” matters.2 The government has a central apparatus, which in its structure is more reminiscent of the old Central Committee apparatus than the Presidential Administration, with its admittedly much smaller collection of “branch” departments (Pravitel’stvo Rossii n.d.-​a). The government produces a huge amount of policy, including the budget, in the form of bills that it sends to parliament, then the executive orders (postanovleniya) and directives (rasporiazheniya) that it uses to implement legislation and carry out its extensive regulatory functions. It makes its decisions according to its Standing Orders (Reglament), which set out rules of consultation and sign off (soglasovanie) (Postanovlenie Pravitel’stva RF 2004: para.57–​ 61). Soglasovanie guarantees all government agencies that can claim an interest in a particular issue the right to participate in the decision-​making process and, arguably, by refusing to sign off on something, close to a veto. When agreement cannot be reached, the matter is referred to a deputy prime minister, who brings the parties together in a formal setting for further negotiation (soglasitel’noe soveshchanie). More difficult cases are dealt with at prime ministerial or even presidential level. In May 2019, then prime minister Dmitry Medvedev aired in public some notorious cases of soglasovanie-​induced delays (Pravitel’stvo Rossii 2019) and responded to one tale of woe: “Agreement couldn’t be reached. That means that it should have been dragged up to the level of deputy premier, or brought to me in the end. I would have got the sides to agree, don’t you worry, even those whose views were non-​negotiable. I have a talent (navyki) for that.” Medvedev was perhaps overestimating his talents. How to deal with soglasovanie –​to get the right balance between consultation and timely decision-​making –​is a constant of Russian public administration, something to which we will return. The other constant is the relationship between the president and the government as a collective body and its individual members. 185

186

Stephen Fortescue

The prime minister for much of Putin’s presidencies was the weak Medvedev, and Putin had no compunction in dealing directly not just with the cabinet as a collective body but also with individual deputy prime ministers and ministers. Those practices continue under the supposedly stronger Mikhail Mishustin. The most direct form of presidential direction of the government is through instructions (porucheniya). Although having no constitutional status, they have become a key component of Russian decision-​making (Burkhardt 2021). As Medvedev put it in 2019 (Pravitel’stvo Rossii 2019): “To a significant degree work on resolving state tasks … is based on instructions. This has its pluses and minuses. All the same we can’t get away from instructions as a form of resolving administrative tasks, therefore they have to be implemented scrupulously.” The extent to which they are imposed upon the government from above should not be exaggerated –​often they are issued after meetings at which all interested parties are represented. Nevertheless they are a means of inserting urgency and discipline into the decision-​making process, albeit not always successfully. The cases publicised by Medvedev were all subject to a presidential instruction.

The State Duma3 If a policy requires legislation the Duma must be involved. Particularly since the Yukos Affair in 2003 –​one of the drivers of Khodorkovsky’s arrest was his and other oligarchs’ success in “buying” the parliament –​no one would claim that it plays a significantly autonomous role in policy-​making. Brian Taylor’s (2014: 232–​3) description of it as a “decidedly secondary” actor and part of the “politics of theater” is accurate. Nevertheless, a few aspects of its role are noteworthy. First, its members continue to be relentless advocates of regional interests. Second, as has been well documented by Ben Noble (2018), the Duma operates as a forum for the continuation of the government’s decision-​making process. At the second reading, deputies often introduce amendments that are clearly initiated by the government or one of its agencies. This occurs when agreement could not be reached within the government before a poruchenie deadline or simply the need for a circuit breaker was identified. What remains entirely obscure is why particular deputies are used to introduce the amendments –​more often than not they have no obvious connection to the policy matter involved; they are certainly not all from the “ruling” United Russia party. It is also not clear what soglasovanie processes are used within the government for the second reading approach. Can it be used to cut a recalcitrant policy participant out of the loop? We don’t know, but it is unlikely.

Regions Centre-​periphery relations are an eternal of Russian governance structures. If in the 1990s Yeltsin was prepared to allow the regions “to take as much sovereignty as they could swallow”, that was something Putin was determined to reverse as part of his “power vertical”. It did not, however, entail complete denial of regional input into decision-​making. As already mentioned, the Duma continues to be a major forum for the projection of regional views, even if in terms of legislative outcomes it is often an ineffective one. Regional representatives are invited to governmental and presidential meetings relevant to their interests. Some priority regions have been given their own central ministry, most lastingly the Russian Far East, to which the Arctic was added in 2019, and more briefly the Crimea and North Caucasus. Much attention was devoted to the State Council in 2020, when for a while it looked as if, through constitutional amendment, it might be turned into the vehicle for Putin to continue 186

187

Decision-making

in power after he was term-​limited out of the presidency. That aspect of the matter lapsed when Putin added a clause to the constitutional amendments that allowed him to run for the presidency again. Nevertheless, a few words on the restructured State Council are warranted. It was created in 2000 as a sop to the regions after Putin removed governors from the Federation Council. Although having no constitutional status or formal powers it was used as a forum for the projection of regional interests. It was given constitutional status in the 2020 amendments, and its structures meet jointly with government commissions to work on policy issues, with the outcomes going to the State Council’s presidium before the cabinet (Il’yushenkov et al 2021). It is too early to say how much this represents a genuine increase in regional policy influence (Schulmann and Galeotti 2021).

Popular participation, the expert community and other outsiders It is now generally accepted that the Russian political system is authoritarian, of one form or another. That leaves limited room for popular participation. However, with an overwhelming interest in stability, the state needs ways to read the popular mood and adjust to it if there is a perceived need to do so. Although coercion is not the default option, unofficial electorally oriented and spontaneous street politics are usually met eventually with a stern reaction. Some room has been left for a limited free-​ish press, as indeed for the activities of NGOs and localised popular groupings. The latter two categories are allowed some role in policy-​making, particularly if they are able to present themselves as experts, not just lobbyists for a narrow social interest (Martus 2017a; Khmelnitskaya 2021; Khmelnitskaya and Ihalainen 2021). However, in more recent times the worsening attitude of the state towards any independent social movement means that the situation in that regard is worsening (Martus 2021), as evidenced by repressive foreign agent and undesirable organisation rules (Orlova 2019). Business is allowed to lobby its narrow interests (Martus 2017b), but having been firmly put in its place when Putin came to power there is no longer any talk of oligarchy, of a state controlled by rich business people. Arguably, the less democratic a system, the more talk there is about the “expert” community as an alternative to popular involvement. Certainly it is much discussed in Russia. It includes individuals with personal prestige and contacts such as Aleksei Kudrin. Of course it is precisely his story that keeps the place of the experts in perspective. He was a powerful insider as Minister of Finance with a well-​documented personal friendship with Putin. But he treated Medvedev with just a little too much contempt and was dismissed in 2011, Putin failing to protect him. Nevertheless, Putin continues to make it clear that Kudrin is someone who has his ear, to a greater degree than his current formal position as head of the Accounting Chamber would suggest. On the whole, though, the expert community is more institutionalised than such rare individuals, taking the form of think tanks and academic institutions. They have a long tradition of developing and even writing policy documents going back to Soviet times. This tradition has not waned. Examples include Dmitry Badovsky’s Institute of Socio-​Economic and Political Research, with its narrowly political orientation and close links with the Presidential Administration, and, across the whole range of social and economic policy, the Higher School of Economics and the Russian Academy of National Economy and Civil Service, each of which undertakes research on request for the Presidential Administration and government. Putin used the purpose-​built Centre for Strategic Research to write his first comprehensive reform programme in 2000 and put its head, German Gref, in charge of its implementation as Minister for Economic Development. In more recent times, Putin’s favourite policy-​generating expert body has been the Agency for Strategic Initiatives, which has a heavily managerial approach to a vast 187

188

Stephen Fortescue

range of issues (see the report on the March 2018 meeting of its Supervisory Council chaired by Putin: Prezident Rossii 2018; also Freinkman and Yakovlev 2015). As elaborated by Khmelnitskaya (2015), expert structures give considerable intellectual input into the policy process but are not necessarily disinterested as they do so. They have their sponsors and are likely to be at least careful in what they put forward as a result; they are also not immune to lobbying by a range of interests as they go about their work. Survey responses reveal their own scepticism as to how real their influence is (Yakobson 2017).

Change over time This brief outline of actors and some of the issues that arise from their involvement in decision-​ making has been essentially static. It was suggested in the Introduction that there could well be change over time as efforts are made to shift the balance between the informal and formal, the personal and institutionalised, the decentralised and centralised. An account of such change sheds further light on the constants of Russian state administration. During the 1990s there were persistent efforts to enforce a formal and institutionalised approach, but they were usually overwhelmed by informal, personalist and decentralising pressures (Fortescue 1997). When Putin came to power he wanted more centralisation, the so-​called power vertical, according to which all the institutions of state and society worked within an integrated whole, with him –​as president –​at the top. Initially the focus was on reining in business, the parliament and the regions. The balance between the personal and the institutionalised was always an uneasy one. An important moment came in 2008, when, in accordance with the Constitution, Putin gave up the presidency; he then became prime minister. That coincided with the Global Financial Crisis. Putin gave every sign of enjoying his hands-​on role as a crisis-​handling prime minister, introducing a number of measures to weaken soglasovanie and speed up decision-​ making (Fortescue 2012). Nevertheless, once the Constitution allowed him to return to the presidency, he did so. There were initial signs that he was trying to keep his hands directly on the controls by setting up a “second government” in the Kremlin, but this came to nothing. His frustration at the renewed slowing down of decision-​making through the vedomstvennost’-​ driven behaviour of government agencies became ever clearer, as he no longer had them directly under his thumb and the weak prime minister Medvedev was unable to enforce the required discipline. In response, he further attacked soglasovanie procedures (Treisman 2018a: 20) and the phrase “hands-​on management” (ruchnoe upravlenie) came to prominence. There was, in fact, always a limit to Putin’s ruchnoe upravlenie –​he did not have the temperament or the will to take sides in bureaucratic fights and so continued to sit on the fence more often than not. When he did intervene it was likely to be in a disruptively arbitrary way (Baunov 2018). The consequence was what Tat’iana Stanovaya and the author have called independently of each other “policy irresponsibility” (Stanovaya 2014; Fortescue, 2016: 444; also Sterkin 2018). Previously, bureaucrats had fought their corners to the last viza (sign-​off) in a self-​ serving way, with negative consequences for the decision-​making process. Now, because they had no choice, they would sign up to anything and sit and watch implementation go awry. As Treisman (2018a: 22) put it: “[Russia] is a state governed by highly formal bureaucratic norms and procedures, some of which resemble those of Soviet times, and which are being eroded by both the clashing interests of ‘normal politics’ and the arbitrary intrusions of a leader who seems increasingly impatient and often misinformed.”

188

189

Decision-making

Another consequence was that the security elements, the siloviki, exerted greater influence. Bershidsky writes of the “thugs” being on top, with the economists and managers being “the support crew, … left to clean up the messes, work out how to live with ever higher sanctions and maintain macroeconomic stability for a regime with unstable impulses” (Bershidsky 2018). With Medvedev floundering and Putin facing the implications of being a lame duck president, something had to be done. The Constitution was amended to remove Putin’s lame duck status and Medvedev was replaced by Mishustin, with the reputation of the super-​technocrat who had transformed the Federal Tax Service into a smoothly running, digitalised service agency. Much was made of the fact that he was allowed to bring his own team into government and that this would be a collective government, not a collection of ministers pursuing their individual agencies’ interests (Butrin et al 2020; for the opposite characterisation, see Bazanova et al 2020). The collective nature of the government is enforced, it is claimed, by the relentless introduction of more centralised decision-​making management systems, including data collection within the central governmental apparatus and strengthened coordination functions of deputy prime ministers. The emphasis is on a team-​based project approach, teams made up of officials from different agencies and outside experts tackling specific projects (Otdel’nye aspekty 2018). A bewildering hierarchy of national goals, national projects, breakthrough initiatives, state programmes and so on contains relentlessly quantified targets. There is an enormous emphasis on digitalisation and the real-​time monitoring of the implementation of programmes at all levels. The government has set up a Coordination Centre, in what appears to be a conscious imitation of the Ministry of Defence’s National Defence Management Centre, into which information flows in real time and where “situation groups” work around the clock monitoring the implementation of programmes and dealing with “incidents” (Galeotti 2021). The regions and municipalities are to be tied closely into the system. Constitutionally their status as just the bottom rung of an integrated governance hierarchy was fixed in the 2020 constitutional amendments. Operationally they have been instructed to connect with the Coordination Centre (Pravitel’stvo Rossii 2021a). There is also much excited talk of drawing the expert community more closely into the new system (Pravitel’stvo Rossii 2021b). The model is what could be described as a new power vertical, but one with its head in the White House (the seat of the government) rather than the Kremlin, amid claims of Putin having totally lost interest in “routine” policy-​making (Stanovaya 2020). We should not get too carried away by the hype. Putin has not totally disconnected himself from “routine” policy-​making and indeed sometimes intervenes in dramatic fashion –​two recent examples include his dressing down of deputy prime minister Dmitry Chernyshenko for suggesting that too many “trampling” tourists would damage Kamchatka’s Valley of the Geysers and his mid-​2021 comments on climbing food prices. The first led to Chernyshenko being dispatched to Kamchatka post haste to arrange for a lot more non-​trampling tourists (Batmanova 2021); in the latter case, in the words of Stanovaya (2021), “the government had to wriggle out of it with the help of ineffective, voluntary-​compulsory regulation.” The more regularised mechanisms of the past are still there: the poslanie, the porucheniya, the meetings with the members of the government, including direct involvement in the budget process. As for the new “project” approach, a relatively small part of the budget is disposed of under project mechanisms, and bureaucratic agencies still work hard to defend their turf, something that is recognised in a strengthening of sectoral arrangements at the same time as the “team” approach is being pushed. There has been a return to deputy prime ministers supervising ministries, not policy areas, as had been the case for a number of years (Pravitel’stvo

189

190

Stephen Fortescue

Rossii 2020; see Mishustin’s opening remarks), and the number of “sectoral” departments in the central governmental apparatus has increased (Vedomosti 2021). As Dmitry Butrin (2021) notes sardonically after reporting on the new Coordination Centre: “the old schemes of inter-​branch interactivity, we note, have not been reversed, and the [government’s sectoral] commissions have not been disbanded.”

Conclusion The hyper-​technocratic approach, full of Western management-​speak jargon, is an odd bedfellow of the hyper-​nationalist and “sacral” ideology that has simultaneously become so prominent in today’s Russia (Pavkovic 2017). But the “sacral” is applied to the security and narrowly political parts of the system –​that is, those which remain opaque and within which decision-​ making almost certainly works differently from that described here. The “routine”, the nuts and bolts of the system without which the “sacral” component cannot exist, operates to a large degree independently of the “sacral” and is even able –​in the form of its ability to enforce its commitment to responsible budgetary policy –​to impose itself to some degree on it. It is true that its independence from “sacral” forces involves it turning in on itself. There is something very introspective about the government’s efforts to run itself, which to this outside observer gives it an air of disengagement from reality. There is no external political force able or willing to drive it forward along the modernising path for which it likes to think it is equipped. In that introspection it is dealing with long-​standing, perhaps universal, issues: how to get bureaucratic agencies to pursue a collective goal, how to allow consultation without slowing down and diluting decision-​making, how to lead without having to do everything yourself. Because they are universal issues, it would surprise if the hyper-​technocratic approach had any more success in addressing them than any other.

Notes 1 Semi-​presidentialism is usually defined as the parliament having a degree of independence of the president. I use it in a different sense here. 2 Ministries directly under the president are shown in red on the government website, the rest are in blue (Pravitel’stvo Rossii n.d.-​b). 3 The Federation Council is much less important than the Duma and will be ignored here.

References Batmanova, A. (2021), “Mishustin otpravil Chernyshenko v Dolinu geizerov posle zamechaniya Putina”, RBK, 20 May. Baunov, A. (2018), “Okop Vladimira Putina. Gde proidet liniya oborony chetvertogo sroka”, Moskovskii tsentr Karnegi, 5 February. Bazanova, E., O. Adamchuk and S. Yastrebova (2020), “Mishustin sozdaet sistemu sderzhek i protivovesov u svoikh zamestitelei”, Vedomosti, 29 January. Bershidsky, L. (2018), “Russia’s Thugs May Be Too Much for Its Technocrats”, Bloomberg, 14 September, www.bloomb​erg.com/​opin​ion/​artic​les/​2018-​09-​14/​r us​sia-​s-​thugs-​may-​be-​too-​much-​for-​its-​tech​ nocr​ats#xj4y7v​zkg. Burkhardt, F. (2021), “Institutionalising Authoritarian Presidencies: Polymorphous Power and Russia’s Presidential Administration”, Europe-​Asia Studies 73, 3: 472–​504. Butrin, D., O. Sapozhkov, E. Kryuchkova and Kh. Aminov (2020), “Vitse na rasput’e”, Kommersant, 24 January. Butrin, D., V. Solov’ev and E. Chernenko (2020), “Dva brata apparata”, Kommersant, 25 January. Butrin, D. (2021), “Uprazhneniya na koordinatsiyu prodvizheniya”, Kommersant, 24 February.

190

191

Decision-making Fish, S.M. (2000), The Executive Deception. Superpresidentialism and the Degradation of Russian Politics (London: Routledge). Fortescue, S. (1997), Policy-​Making for Russian Industry (Basingstoke: Macmillan). Fortescue, S. (2006), “Business-​State Negotiations and the Reform of Tax Procedures in Post-​Yukos Russia”, Law in Context 24, 2: 236–​59. Fortescue, S. (2012), “The Policymaking Process in Putin’s Prime Ministership”, in L. Jonson and S. White (eds.), Waiting for Reform under Putin and Medvedev (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan): 119–​39. Fortescue, S. (2016), “Russia’s ‘Turn to the East’: A Study in Policy Making”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 32, 5: 423–​54. Fortescue, S. (2017), “Russia’s Security-​Related Decision-​Making: The Case of Crimea”, in S.M. Fish, G. Gill and M. Petrovic (eds.), A Quarter Century of Post-​Communism Assessed (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan): 295–​318. Freinkman, L. and A. Yakovlev (2015), “Institutional Frameworks to Support Regulatory Reform in Middle-​Income Economies: Lessons from Russia’s Recent Experience”, Post-​Communist Economies 27, 3: 354–​69. Galeotti, M. (2021), “Kremlin Looks to Establish a ‘Techno-​Authoritarian Power Vertical 2.0’”, The Moscow Times, 29 September, https://​the​mosc​owti​mes.com/​2021/​09/​29/​krem​lin-​looks-​to-​establ​ish-​ a-​tec​hno-​author​itar​ian-​power-​verti​cal-​20-​a75​168. Gel’man, V. (2016), “The Vicious Circle of Post-​Soviet Neopatrimonialism in Russia”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 32, 5: 455–​73. Gill, G. (2016), “Russia and the Vulnerability of Electoral Authoritarianism?” Slavic Review 75, 2: 354–​73. Il’yushenkov, D., K. Potaeva and A. L’vova (2021), “Komissiya po transportu odobrila proekt otraslevoi strategii do 2035 goda”, Vedomosti, 5 October. Jones, E. and J.H. Brusstar (1993), “Moscow’s Emerging Security Decisionmaking System: The Role of the Security Council”, Journal of Slavic Military Studies 6, 3: 345–​74. Khmelnitskaya, M. (2015), The Policy-​Making Process and Social Learning in Russia. The Case of Housing Policy (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). Khmelnitskaya, M. (2017), “The Social Budget Policy Process in Russia at a Time of Crisis”, Post-​ Communist Economies 29, 4: 457–​75. Khmelnitskaya, M. (2021), “Socio-​ Economic Development and the Politics of Expertise in Putin’s Russia: The ‘Hollow Paradigm’ Perspective”, Europe-​Asia Studies 73, 4: 625–​46. Khmelnitskaya, M. and E. Ihalainen (2021), “Urban Governance in Russia: The Case of Moscow Territorial Development and Housing Renovation”, Europe-​Asia Studies 73, 6: 1149–​75. Martus, E. (2017a), “Lake Baikal and Russia’s Environmental Policy Process”, Demokratizatsiya 25, 2: 137–​53. Martus, E. (2017b), “Contested Policymaking in Russia: Industry, Environment, and the ‘Best Available Technology’ Debate”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 33, 4: 276–​97. Martus, E. (2021), “Policymaking and Policy Framing: Russian Environmental Politics under Putin”, Europe-​Asia Studies 73, 5: 869–​89. Noble, B. (2018), “Authoritarian Amendments: Legislative Institutions as Intraexecutive Constraints in Post-​Soviet Russia”, Comparative Political Studies 53, 9: 1417–​54. North, D.C., J.J. Wallis, S.B. Webb and B.R. Weingast (2013), In the Shadow of Violence: Politics, Economics, and the Problems of Development (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Orlova, A. (2019), “‘Foreign Agents’, Sovereignty, and Political Pluralism: How the Russian Foreign Agents Law is Shaping Civil Society”, Penn State Journal of Law and International Affairs 7, 2: 382–​417. Osnovy gosudarstvennoi politiki v sfere strategicheskogo planirovaniya v Rossiiskoi Federatsii (2021), approved by presidential decree No.633, 8 November. Otdel’nye aspekty transformatsii gosudarstvennogo upravleniya: protsessy i kachestvo. Analiticheskii obzor (2018), (Moscow: Tsentr strategicheskikh razrabotok). Pavkovic, A. (2017), “Territory in Nationalist Discourse: A Study of Milosevic’s and Putin’s Public Speeches”, Critical Discourse Studies, 14, 5: 497–​513. Postanovlenie Pravitel’stvo RF (2004), “O reglamente Pravitel’stva Rossiiskoi Federatsii i polozhenii ob apparate Pravitel’stva Rossiiskoi Federatsii”, 1 June, No. 260, https://​digi​tal.gov.ru/​ru/​docume​nts/​ 3133/​. Pravitel’stvo Rossii (n.d.-​ a), “Podrazdeleniya Apparata Pravitel’stva”, http://​gov​ernm​ent.ru/​off​i ce/​ struct​ure/​. Pravitel’stvo Rossii (n.d.-​b), “Ministerstva i vedomstva”, http://​gov​ernm​ent.ru/​min​istr​ies/​.

191

192

Stephen Fortescue Pravitel’stvo Rossii (2019), “Ob ispolnenii poruchenii Prezidenta i Pravitel’stva Rossii”, 14 May, http://​ gov​ernm​ent.ru/​news/​36636/​. Pravitel’stvo Rossii (2020), “Zasedanie Pravitel’stva”, 30 January, http://​gov​ernm​ent.ru/​news/​38878/​. Pravitel’stvo Rossii (2021a), “Dmitrii Chernyshenko poruchil rukovoditelyam tsifrovoi transformatsii obespechit’ operativnuyu svyaz’ s Koordinatsionnym tsentrom Pravitel’stva”, 26 February, http://​gov​ ernm​ent.ru/​news/​41617/​. Pravitel’stvo Rossii (2021b), “Vstrecha Mikhaila Mishustina s nauchnym rukovoditelem NIU ‘Vysshaya shkola ekonomiki’ Yaroslavom Kuz’minovym”, 3 November, http://​gov​ernm​ent.ru/​news/​43722/​. Prezident Rossii (n.d.), “Podrazdeleniya Administratsii Prezidenta”, http://​krem​lin.ru/​struct​ure/​adm​inis​ trat​ion/​depa​rtme​nts. Prezident Rossii (2018), “Zasedanie nablyudatel’nogo soveta Agentstva strategicheskikh initsiativ”, 7 March, http://​krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​57008. Prezident Rossii (2021), “Soveshchanie po podgotovke Poslaniya Federal’nomu Sobraniyu”, 19 April, http://​krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​65393. Schulmann, E. and M. Galeotti (2021), “A Tale of Two Councils: The Changing Roles of the Security and State Councils during the Transformation Period of Modern Russian Politics”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 37, 5: 453–​69. Skigin, P. (2017), “Putin’s Russia as a Neopatrimonial Regime”, Ideology and Politics 8, 2: 9–​33. Stanovaya, T. (2014), “Poslanie prezidenta: ozhidanie i real’nost’”, Politcom.ru, 8 December, http://​polit​ com.ru/​18387.html. Stanovaya, T. (2020), “Zhizn’ pri kollektivnom Putine. Kakim budet 2021 god dlya rossiiskogo rezhima i obshchestva”, Moskovskii tsentr Karnegi, 31 December. Stanovaya, T. (2021), “Vytesnenie i vospitanie. Kak rabotaet rossiiskii rezhim posle transformatsii 2020–​ 21”, Moskovskii tsentr Karnegi, 7 June. Stepanova, Yu. and P. Trifonova (2021), “Soft spotknulsia o GPU”, Kommersant, 17 November. Sterkin, F. (2018), “Kogda slabost’ –​eto sila”, Vedomosti, 13 April. Sterkin, F. (2019), “Pochemu Putinu stoit rabotat’ pomen’she”, Vedomosti, 1 December. Taylor, B.D. (2014), “Police Reform in Russia: The Policy Process in a Hybrid Regime”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 30, 2-​3: 226–​55. Teague, E. (2020), “Russia’s Constitutional Reforms of 2020”, Russian Politics 5, 3: 301–​28. The Russian Budget (2017), Special issue, Post-​Communist Economies, 29, 4: 449–​537. Treisman, D. (2018a), “Introduction: Rethinking Putin’s Political Order”, in D. Treisman (ed.), The New Autocracy. Information, Politics, and Policy in Putin’s Russia (Washington DC: Brookings Institution Press): 1–​28. Treisman, D. (2018b), “Crimea: Anatomy of a Decision”, in D. Treisman (ed.), The New Autocracy. Information, Politics, and Policy in Putin’s Russia (Washington DC: Brookings Institution Press): 277–​98. Vedomosti (2021), “V pravitel’stve poyavitsya sem’ novykh departamentov”, 12 January. Yakobson, L. (2017), “Russian Experts: Missing Actors in the Budget Process”, Post-​Communist Economies 29, 4: 491–​504. Zanina, A. and E. Kryuchkova (2021), “V reforme bankrotstva slova ne skhodyatsya”, Kommersant, 24 February.

192

193

17 STATE CAPACITY AND RUSSIA Andrei Melville

Introduction The concept of state capacity, which still lacks sufficient analytical clarity, appeared in the focus of contemporary political research, both theoretical and empirical, within the context of the so-​called “return of the state” in the 1980s (Evans et al 1985) as the main agenda of political science after decades of predominant interest in political systems, their structure, functions and components. This shift of analytical focus resulted from a variety of theoretical and political factors, including changes in the global political environment, growing challenges to the quality of management in political and socio-​economic development, the emergence of the phenomenon of “failed states”, dilemmas of democratisation and state building in transitional and developing countries, the collapse of the Communist system and emergence of new independent states with their problems. How can the concept of state capacity help us better understand Russian politics and society in the post-​Soviet era? In this chapter we present a general outline of current debates on state capacity, key unresolved issues under consideration and various approaches to its conceptualisation, operationalisation, measurement and comparative analysis. We then attempt to apply these findings to the Russian case and will concentrate on explaining the dynamics of state and state capacity in post-​Soviet Russia since the state collapse in 1991 through stages of state building during the presidencies of Boris Yeltsin, Vladimir Putin, Dmitry Medvedev and, again, Vladimir Putin.

State capacity: Conceptualisation Current discussions on state capacity have produced a variety of conceptual and methodological approaches but no universally accepted definitions and conceptualisations. “State capacity remains a concept in search of precise definition and measurement” (Hendrix 2010: 274). One possible conceptual departure point may be found in Samuel Huntington’s distinction between “forms” and “degrees” of government. In his seminal Political Order in Changing Societies, Huntington writes: “The most important political distinction among countries concerns not their form of government but their degree of government. The differences between democracy and dictatorship are less than the differences between those countries whose politics DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-19

193

194

Andrei Melville

embodies consensus, community, legitimacy, organization, effectiveness, stability, and those countries whose politics is deficient in those qualities” (Huntington 1968: 1). The problem of the relationship between state/​state capacity and political regimes today remains among the most debated in comparative politics. Other helpful suggestions in this regard are provided by Charles Tilly’s basic argument according to which key functions of the state are its capacities to extract resources and create administrative structures to manage those resources in order to wage wars (Tilly 1990). At least implicitly, this argument contains a particular understanding of state capacity resulting from the character and quality of implementation of the two abovementioned state functions. Debates on state capacity in the current literature are also heavily influenced by Michael Mann’s differentiation of “despotic” (or “coercive”) and “infrastructural” capacities of the state (Mann 1984). The first one at least partly refers to Weber’s concept of the monopoly on legitimate violence as a sine qua non for the existence of the state; the second reflects the capacity of the state to formulate and implement its economic, social and other policies. This understanding of infrastructural capacity implies possible criteria for the comparative evaluation of different states and largely remains at the core of current research on state capacity (Fortin-​ Rittberger 2014; Soifer 2008; Soifer and vom Hau 2008). Depending on the particular research design, state capacity can be approached as a dependent or independent variable. As a dependent variable it helps us to understand how various factors –​ economic, social, political, cultural, demographic and others –​affect different qualities of state capacity in different countries or at different periods of time. As an independent variable, state capacity is considered as a factor that may influence different effects and outcomes, including levels and types of economic and social development, the provision of public goods, human capital development, the status and influence of states in the international system, state building and state failure, and the political regime dynamic. There is extensive recent literature exploring both research options; however, causality still remains unclear. As was mentioned above, one of the important dimensions in current debates on state capacity is connected to its relationship with the quality of institutions and political regimes. Empirically this relationship does exist, however it is not direct and linear –​various types of political regimes may demonstrate various levels of state capacity (Roller 2020). Some authors (for example, Carbone and Memoli 2012) argue that high levels of state capacity and quality of institutions are not necessary preconditions for democracy and democratisation. On the contrary, there is a widespread point of view that high levels of state capacity and quality of institutions are necessary preconditions for democracy (Bäck and Hadenius 2008; Moller and Skaaning 2011). It is also argued that relatively high levels of state capacity are also possible under particular types of autocracies and they are much higher than in transitional and hybrid regimes. This is basically the gist of the well-​known J-​curve argument (Bäck and Hadenius 2008), which, however, is not self-​evident, as in today’s world there are very few autocracies with good governance like Singapore. In most cases one can empirically observe, almost in all parts of the world, varieties of autocratic regimes with poor performance. Accordingly, in the mainstream literature today there is a widespread finding that democracy and higher levels of state capacity go together and vice versa –​non-​democracies gravitate towards poor state quality (Rothstein 2012). We will return to this problem later when we discuss the Russian case. The extant literature presents various definitions and conceptualisations of state capacity, including its functions and components. Kjær et al provide one of the most general definitions of state capacity: “State capacity is generally defined as the ability of the state to formulate and implement strategies to achieve economic and social goals in society” (2002: 7). For others, state capacity is a “form of power”: “At the most general level, the term ‘state capacity’ refers 194

195

State capacity and Russia

to the state’s ability to get things done” (Lindvall and Teorell 2016: 7–​8). However, there is hardly full agreement in the literature on the key parameters of state capacity, its components, indicators, effects and consequences, despite the long ongoing theoretical and methodological debates. When it comes to more detailed definitions, there is significant variation in approaches. For example, some suggest that state capacity may be conceptualised on the basis of three dimensions: institutional, political and administrative (although these are not sufficiently defined) (Roberts and Sherlock 1999). Francis Fukuyama’s concept of stateness (recognition of sovereignty over territory) and state capacity (ability to implement decisions) includes such functions as defence and security, provision of law and order, guarantees of property rights, protection of the poor, effective macroeconomic management, provision of public goods such as health and education, and also financial regulation, redistributive pensions, environmental protection and unemployment insurance (Fukuyama 2004). Stateness has been defined as the capacity of state entities to maintain sovereignty (Bäck and Hadenius 2008). State capacity has been said to include military capacity, bureaucratic or administrative capacity and the quality and coherence of political institutions (Hendrix 2010), and it has been equated with the quality of government (Charron and Lapuente 2010). State capacity has also been interpreted as “state strength”, which includes coercive capacity, fiscal capacity, legitimacy and political stability (Thompson and Ganguly 2016), and as a derivative of bureaucratic/​administrative capacity, legal capacity, infrastructural capacity, fiscal capacity and military capacity (Savoia and Sen 2015). In many respects state capacity is a latent variable –​it cannot be observed directly, but only through its various effects/​consequences in different spheres (economic, social, political) or through its possible causes/​factors. Another important feature of state capacity is its multidimensional character; in fact, one may concentrate on its various dimensions, or various capacities of modern states that are related to different state functions (traditional, such as maintenance of law and order and security and provision of resources through taxation, and new ones, such as social welfare, social security and social capital and innovation). From the conceptual and methodological point of view the abovementioned multidimensionality leads to a dilemma –​to choose a maximalist approach to define as many state functions and components of state capacity as possible (like Fukuyama 2004) or a minimalist approach concentrating on just one or several key components/​proxies. Both approaches exist in the literature and both may have their merits. However, in current research on state capacity there still appears to be more or less widespread agreement on three major components of state capacity: (1) coercive, (2) extractive and (3) administrative. The first –​coercive –​component is related to the so-​called “Weberian tradition”, according to which the primary function of an efficient state is to provide legitimate violence on a sovereign territory (and to be able to protect it). This basically means, on the one hand, external security, and, on the other, internal order including state control over non-​state violence. Thus, coercive capabilities are considered to be at the core of state capacity. The second –​extractive –​component can be traced to the abovementioned approach by Tilly and his conception of taxation as the means to collect resources necessary for the state to wage wars. At the same time, it is important to note that particular states, and Russia is among them, may possess various natural resources unrelated to taxation but providing the state with sometimes very huge assets used for various purposes. That is why the extractive capacity of the state should include not only taxes but also other state revenues that can be used for various public and private purposes. However, the possession of this type of capacity does not necessarily imply the effectiveness of its use, especially in autocratic contexts. 195

196

Andrei Melville

The third –​administrative –​component of state capacity demonstrates the ability of the state to generate effective and non-​corrupted bureaucratic institutions and bureaucracy to administer them in an impartial way. Here, again, the influence of Weber’s conception of bureaucracy can be clearly seen. Administrative capacity implies the ability of the state to create effective institutions that control corruption, protect property rights and provide impartiality and high-​ quality governmental regulation. Obviously, these three components of state capacity do not necessarily go simultaneously together. In specific historical, political, social and other contexts, different states follow different national priorities and reach different results. For example, there may be cases when some states would concentrate on developing coercive capacity at the expense of administrative capacity. Some authors would also stress “legal” (Savoia and Sen 2012) or “legitimizing” capacity (Wang 1995). Others would suggest to consider also a “political dimension” of state capacity –​up to distinguishing a specific “political capacity” or “relative political capacity” (Jackman 1993; Organski and Kugler 1980; Arbetman-​Rabinovitz and Johnson 2007; Hendrix 2010; Kugler and Tammen 2012; Afzal 2015). As the end result we often see an inclusion of many other components into broadly defined “relative political capacity”. To sum up, as an ideal model of state capacity the combination of the three abovementioned components is a dominant trend in the extant literature and provides the generic basis for conceptualisation of the notion of state capacity.

State capacity: Measurement In political science and the social sciences in general, conceptualisation of phenomena under consideration is usually prior to their concrete operationalisation and measurement. In relation to state capacity one of the basic problems of conceptualisation and measurement is its multidimensional nature, which in turn requires appropriate instruments of measurement. There are also additional difficulties resulting from the nature and technologies of measurement per se. Strictly speaking, any measurement implies at least some simplification of the reality under analysis. In our case the latent character of state capacity implies that there may be unmeasurable (or hardly measurable) dimensions of the phenomenon under consideration –​those related to the motivations of actors and other subjective factors, for example. What is measurable in state capacity relates largely to possible factors of influence and their effects. When selecting the variables for the measurement of state capacity, some authors choose a maximalist approach. For example, Hanson and Sigman (2016) in their efforts to measure and compare state capacity of various countries of the world, including Russia, focus on several dozens of indicators. There may be obvious advantages in this approach, as it increases the volume of available information; however, the shortcoming has to do with the inevitable duplication of information and hence increases the “information noise”, leading to non-​desirable mutual correlations in data. On the other hand, there are quite a few efforts to measure state capacity with the help of several proxies. For Nicholas Charron (2016) such a proxy is effective and non-​corrupted bureaucracy, which is measured with the help of indicators of the International Country Risk Guide (ICRG) and World Governance Indicators (WGI). Hanna Bäck and Axel Hadenius (2008) rely on “bureaucratic quality”, also calculated using the ICRG. Jessica Fortin (2010) suggests using the proxy of contract intensive money from the International Monetary Fund as an indicator of trust in national financial institutions. Returning to the three major components of state capacity outlined in the previous section of this chapter, we may note that there are different ways for their operationalisation and measurement. The existing literature provides various approaches and methods. For example, 196

197

State capacity and Russia

the coercive component of state capacity is measured in the literature with the help of such indicators as the share of military personnel from the total population or labour force, military expenditures per capita or as a percentage of GDP. In other cases, suggested indicators include the degree of legal control of political institutions over the military (from the Institutional Profiles Database) or the degree of ownership of the monopoly on the use of force on a particular territory (from the Bertelsmann Transformation Index). Extractive capacity is in many cases measured using the ratio of collected taxes to GDP. Another option could be the ratio of income taxes to all taxes in general. It should be noted, though, as was discussed above, that in many quite significant cases, including Russia, we need to take into account resources collected not only from taxation but from natural resources as well. Finally, administrative capacity can also be measured with the help of various empirical indicators. One possibility, widely used in the literature, is to explore different proxies, such as property rights and contract enforcement (Soifer and vom Hau 2008), control of corruption (Bäck and Hadenius 2008), contract intensive money and the IMF indicator of confidence in financial institutions (Fortin 2010). Another option is to use existing datasets of the quality of government, such as the QoG version of the project of Gothenburg University, the ICRG or the World Governance Indicators, calculated using the World Bank’s methodology. Existing literature on state capacity provides many other examples of measurement approaches. Despite all their variety, one of the most widely used and almost universally accepted is a combination of variables from the World Governance Indicators (on its methodology, see Kaufmann et al 2010). This project was launched by the World Bank in 1996 and provides data for almost all countries of the world according to six dimensions (max. +​2.5; min. -​2.5): • Voice and accountability (perceptions of the ability of citizens to select government, freedom of expression, freedom of associations and free media); • Political stability and absence of violence (likelihood of political instability, chances that the government could be destabilised or overthrown by unconstitutional or violent means); • Government effectiveness (quality of public services, quality of civil service and its independence from political pressures, quality of policy formulation and implementation); • Regulatory quality (government ability to formulate and implement policies and regulations that permit and promote private sector development); • Rule of law (quality of contract enforcement, property rights, police, courts); • Control of corruption (impartial policy in the interests of public power, not private gain, extent of petty and grand forms of corruption, the role of public power to minimise corruption and “state capture” by elites and private interests). Concrete measures of these dimensions derive from a variety of sources, including available information data, expert assessments and public opinion. The WGI approach is sometimes rather severely criticised on methodological grounds, including the mixture of political variables and those related to different aspects of governance and for extensive mutual correlations between variables. Sometimes it is argued that the first two indicators relate not so much to state capacity as to characteristics of political regimes. Also, the World Bank’s (and UN) strategy of building “good governance” in developing countries in the result proved to be not a realistic normative goal and in some cases was replaced by the concept of “good enough governance”. Nonetheless, as of today, it remains among the most respected, widely used and cited sources of measurement of state capacity including comparative analysis of situations in different 197

198

Andrei Melville

countries of the modern world with the use of time series. We will use this data, as well as other sources, to discuss the subsequent evolution of state capacity in post-​Soviet Russia.

Post-​Soviet Russia: State collapse and state building In terms of the dynamic of state capacity we may outline several major stages in post-​Soviet Russia partly corresponding with presidencies of Yeltsin (1991–​9), Putin (2000–​8), Medvedev (2008–​12) and, again, Putin (2012–​till now). However, it is important to take into account older traditions of the Russian state and stateness, including also Gorbachev’s era of perestroika, which eventually resulted in the collapse of the USSR. History may be an important departing point to understand the state and state capacity dynamic in post-​Soviet Russia. Among historians and social scientists in general there is a school (sometimes called “Westerners”) that believes that the formation and evolution of statehood and the state in Russia basically followed generic European patterns. Their opponents meanwhile (in the past and present), sometimes called “Nativists”, argue in favour of Russian “uniqueness”, in particular in terms of the origins and specifics of state formation and the nature of the Russian state. However, quite often the common denominator in both cases is the concept of a strong autocratic state as the integral feature of Russian national existence (Tsygankov 2014). From this point of view, state autocracy dominated society and eventually sought imperial expansion; the Russian “normal state” was a rational response to a multitude of domestic and external challenges. Thus, as some commentators would say, Russia in its origins is a strong authoritarian state per se, by its “genetics”, as “heir of the Genghis Khan empire”. In the twentieth century there were two dramatic and remarkable cases of the collapse of the strong autocratic state and a radical decline of state capacity –​in Russia in 1917 after the revolution and in the Soviet Union in 1991 after perestroika, followed by more or less successful or unsuccessful efforts at state building. Out of the 1917 state collapse a new totalitarian Soviet state emerged with impressive capacities in various spheres –​extracting and mobilising resources needed for development, industrialisation and modernisation from “above”, providing full though not necessarily effective administrative control and securing repressive order in the country while achieving extraordinary military might and success. The collapse of the Soviet state (as recently was again demonstrated by Zubok 2021) was due primarily to both structural and actor-​related factors –​to domestic causes, economic stagnation, social and political decay and state erosion that was accelerated by perestroika and unsuccessful attempts to gradually transform the Soviet system. In general, as Michael McFaul argues, all cases of dramatic reforms, like those of the “third wave of democratisation”, naturally lead to a temporary weakening of state cohesion and state capacity (McFaul 2021). This normal and natural weakening of state capacity during radical transitions associated with perestroika was dramatically aggravated by a combination of simultaneous tasks. Gorbachev’s reforms were facing several complex goals that were to be dealt with simultaneously: (1) political democratisation; (2) economic transformation from the state to market economy; (3) state building and creation of a new identity; and (4) exit from empire and imperial traditions. These simultaneous challenges significantly affected the outcomes of further developments in the USSR and new Russia. Structural problems of the Soviet-​Russian transition were combined and aggravated by actor-​related factors including the Gorbachev–​Yeltsin conflict and subsequent shortcomings and policy mistakes, including those during the post-​Soviet period. As a result, the process of state building during the Yeltsin era in many respects turned out to be not successful and this directly affected Russia’s state capacity. 198

199

State capacity and Russia

A dramatic economic and social crisis led to substantial decreases in the extractive capacity of the Russian state. Regional conflicts and separatism, war in Chechnya, a general crisis of “legitimate violence”, decreases in military spending and weakening of the armed forces resulted in a decrease in the state’s coercive capacity. Destroyed or radically weakened institutions of governance led to a dramatic decrease in administrative capacity. The increased influence of “new oligarchs” and regional clans seeking autonomy from the centre significantly contributed to administrative decay and state fragmentation. In this context it is important to note the general mismatch between the processes of state building after state collapse and regime building and regime consolidation (Robinson 2008; White 2018). Regime consolidation may not necessarily imply the attainment of high levels of state capacity, as these are related but different and not necessarily “parallel” processes. In particular, consolidation of a personalist political regime may not require strong, independent and effective institutions (Frye 2021); on the contrary, weak and imperfect institutions may serve the goal of creating and preserving the regime in power. During Putin’s reign since the early 2000s, after the “weak and turbulent” 1990s, the major national goal was de facto formulated pretty clearly: back to the “strong state” tradition, including in the first place the restoration of centralised and consolidated state power and political regime with the elimination and full control over all independent centres of influence (political, economic, social, informational), irrespective of the actual levels of state capacity –​ coercive, extractive and administrative. However, one should note that the first and second Putin terms (2000–​4 and 2004–​8) and Medvedev’s interregnum (2008–​12) were also periods of attempted reforms in a very favourable structural context of world oil prices and public support, which could have radically affected the process of state building and the building of state capacity and led Russia towards at least some expected modernisation from above, especially during Medvedev’s term. The most notable were tax reform with modest and relative success; educational reform with mixed results that are still debated; and administrative reform and reform of the healthcare system, with the first one close to failure and the second not fully attaining the proclaimed goals (Gel’man 2017). The period of Putin’s rule since 2012 marked a radical departure towards a more affirmative and confrontational foreign policy and further tightening of state control in most spheres leading to deeper stagnation of the status quo, especially after the constitutional amendments in 2020, which nullified the counting of any previous incumbent’s terms in office. These trends had important effects on various components of Russia’s state capacity and quality of governance (Gel’man 2021). In the first place, one obvious result was the reinforcement of the state’s coercive capacity in two major respects. Russia’s military capabilities were substantially increased because of intensive military spending and the development of new, sometimes pretty exotic, weaponry, nuclear and conventional, based on advanced technologies. The effects of the deliberate policy turn towards tighter control over politics and society had led to the dominance of siloviki (military and secret services) in all spheres of politics and economics and the increased role of various types of repression –​from direct to preventive. However, the so-​called “limited military operation” in Ukraine in 2022 raises at least some doubts about the actual state of Russia’s military capacity and the ability of the intelligence to adequately predict the situation. In such a context the repressive component of coercive capacity may become at least some compensation for problems with actual military capacity. In comparison with the Yeltsin period, the extractive capacity of the state under Putin improved, primarily due to the centralisation and consolidation of federal power, increases in oil prices in the early 2000s and rather successful tax reform. However, during the 1990s and throughout 199

200

Andrei Melville

the 2000s, the basis of extractive capacity remained the same –​extraction of rent mainly from natural resources –​which remains a serious problem with possible grave consequences, especially in a situation of international sanctions. These sanctions also severely limit the chances for improvement of Russia’s current state capacity. Administrative capacity in many respects remains a very serious problem in today’s Russia because of the very low bureaucratic quality, unguaranteed property rights, widespread corruption and inefficient institutions of governance. Some authors argue that the Russian government’s handling of the COVID epidemic is another example of its weak administrative capacity (although there are different views on this issue). In general, WGI data (as of 2020) provides us with ample evidence of the poor quality of administration and governance in Russia. Table 17.1 demonstrates that the first two WGI indicators (“Voice and accountability” and “Political stability and absence of violence”), related largely to political regime and political performance, are overall very low or decreasing during all the period of observation, with one short exception during the Medvedev’ “thaw”. “Government effectiveness” is slightly higher during the “Putin II” period, which may result from the effects of the centralisation and concentration of state power. “Regulatory quality” is stably low during all the observation period. Even lower is the “Rule of law”, which may derive from various factors: in the beginning of observation in 1996, during the second part of the Yeltsin period, because of the general institutional decay and very poor governability, and afterwards because of the attempts to re-​ establish the “strong state” under Putin, which in fact remained weak in terms of state capacity. The most impressive indicator is “Control of corruption”, which remains relatively stable and very low during various phases of state building and regime building in post-​Soviet Russia from Yeltsin to Putin I, and then to Medvedev and Putin II. In fact, corruption remains one of the key dimensions of weak institutions and poor governance, which undermine state capacity in Russia, as well as many other post-​Soviet states. In this respect, WGI data is quite consonant with the conclusions of other well-​known ratings. For example, according to the Corruption Perceptions Index 2020 of Transparency International, Russia’s corruption ranking is 129 out of the 180 countries under analysis (between Mali and Laos). Bertelsmann Stiftung’s Transformation Index (BTI) in its 2020 review of 137 countries awards Russia 3 points in its anti-​corruption policy out of 10 (it is quite indicative that BTI gives Russia 9 points out of 10 in the rating of monopoly on the use of force, thus confirming its solid coercive capacity). As was mentioned above, one of the quite important theoretical and practical problems relating to state capacity and debated in the literature is its relationship with political regimes and the quality of administration and institutions. According to a widespread J-​curve argument Table 17.1  Russia in WGI, 1996–​2020 Indicators

Voice and accountability Political stability and absence of violence Government effectiveness Regulatory quality Rule of law Control of corruption

1996–​2020 (from max. +​2.5 to min. -​2.5) 1996

2000

2008

2012

2020

–0.22 –1.17

–0.35 –1.4

–0.87 0.75

–0.98 –0.82

–1.08 –0.73

–0.45 –0.43 –0.79 –1.05

–0.72 –0.58 –1.1 –1

–0.36 –0.39 –0.96 –1.11

–0.42 –0.34 –0.82 –1.04

0.03 –0.44 –0.76 –0.91

200

“Neighbors” in 2020

Ethiopia and Afghanistan Belorussia and Papua New Guinea Columbia and Serbia Uganda and Kenya Belize and El Salvador Liberia and Gabon

201

State capacity and Russia

(Bäck and Hadenius 2008; Moller and Skaaning 2011), institutional quality (in the World Bank logic) may be higher in full autocracies and is the lowest in transitional and hybrid regimes. We will use data on Russia and other post-​Soviet countries to empirically check these assumptions. To measure regime types (levels of democracy/​autocracy), the combined scores on Political Rights and Civil Liberties from the Freedom House “Freedom in the World” methodology (2020) are used. The quality of institutions as one of the crucial dimensions of administrative capacity is measured using the combined scores of the six indices of WGI (2020). Table 17.2 provides comparative data on correlations between political regimes in Russia and other post-​ Soviet countries and WGI. In column one, the first figure is for political rights and is out of 40, the second is for civil liberties and is out of 60. The second is the overall score for political rights and civil liberties (i.e. the sum of column one). From this table we can clearly observe a linear (not J-​shaped) correlation between quality of institutions and post-​Soviet regimes. The “not free”, according to Freedom House, countries (Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan, Russia, Kazakhstan and the Kyrgyz Republic) have the lowest scores on practically all six governance indicators. The relationship is direct and linear: the lower the democracy scores, the lower the governance scores (and vice versa). There is more variation in the “partly free” (or “hybrid”) countries (Armenia, Ukraine, Georgia and Moldova), but overall they have much higher scores on institutional quality. “Free” countries (Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia) are the unquestionable leaders in the quality of institutions of governance, thus in the administrative component of state capacity. The scatter plot in Figure 17.1 provides a persuasive visualisation of these empirical findings. Table 17.2  Russia and post-​Soviet political regimes and quality of institutions (FH and WGI 2020) Country

FH 2020 (political rights/​civil liberties)

FH Worldwide Governance Indicators 2020 (from +​2.5 to -​2.5) 2020 Government Regulatory Rule of Control of Political (overall Voice and effectiveness quality law corruption accountability stability & score) absence of violence

0/​2 0/​8 2/​8 2/​9 2/​9 5/​15 5/​18 4/​24

2 8 10 11 11 20 23 28

Not free –2.03 –1.78 –1.55 –1.54 –1.46 –1.08 –1.19 –0.59

–0.29 –0.52 –0.73 –0.44 –0.73 –0.73 –0.26 –0.43

–1.16 –0.71 –0.17 –0.51 –0.73 0.03 0.16 –0.54

–1.99 –1.02 –0.31 –0.94 –0.65 –0.44 0.14 –0.40

–1.41 –1.22 –0.69 –1.06 –1.00 –0.76 –0.40 –0.93

–1.54 –1.32 –1.05 –1.05 –0.17 –0.91 –0.39 –1.11

Armenia Ukraine Georgia Moldova

22/​33 26/​34 23/​37 26/​35

55 60 60 61

Partly free 0.04 0.09 0.06 –0.05

–0.57 –1.16 –0.43 –0.42

–0.12 –0.36 0.79 –0.46

0.25 –0.30 1.11 0.04

–0.08 –0.67 0.29 –0.41

0.03 –0.78 0.60 –0.57

Latvia Lithuania Estonia

37/​52 38/​52 38/​56

89 90 94

Free 0.87 1.01 1.17

0.46 0.87 0.71

0.88 1.06 1.34

1.19 1.09 1.54

0.96 0.99 1.38

0.72 0.81 1.61

Turkmenistan Tajikistan Azerbaijan Uzbekistan Belarus Russia Kazakhstan Kyrgyz Republic

201

202

Andrei Melville 2.5 2 EST

1.5 1

LVA GEO

0.5 0

KAZ

–0.5

AZE TJK

–1 –1.5

LTU

BLR

ARM

RUS KGZ

UZB

MDA

UKR

TKM

–2 –2.5

0

10

20

30

40

50

60

70

80

90

100

Figure 17.1  Democracy/​autocracy and quality of institutions in Russia and other post-​Soviet countries.

What can this correlation tell us about state building in Russia and other post-​Soviet countries, which are rated by FH as “not free” (non-​democratic)? They may have, as Russia does, relatively high levels of coercive and/​or extractive capacity; however, they have extremely poor administrative capacity primarily because of “bad governance”. Indeed, contrary to the World Bank’s ideal of “good governance”, on all six parameters of WGI the situation is reversed and represents a specific phenomenon of “bad enough governance” (Melville and Mironyuk 2016) or just “bad governance” (Gel’man 2017, 2021), which in fact is a WGI antithesis: • • • • • •

Without political freedoms and public accountability; No democratic stability (replaced by the authoritarian equilibrium), Lack and/​or perversion of the rule of law (“unrule of law”); High degrees of corruption; Poor quality of regulation; Ineffectiveness of governance.

In historical perspective, “bad governance” is not a perversion of some “norms” of ideal government in Russia or elsewhere, but rather a regular situation, in history and in today’s world. In fact, “bad governance” may be very useful and in this sense, paradoxically, quite “good” for those who are in a position to benefit from it. But who are they? The main beneficiaries of “bad governance” in Russia and in other post-​Soviet autocracies and hybrid regimes are those privileged groups that have the monopoly to privatise and control economic and political rent extraction. A rational strategy of early “winners take all” who do not have incentives to continue reforms was first described and presented in the form of the famous “Hellman’s curve” (Hellman 1998). The gist of the “Hellman’s curve” argument is that access to economic rent derived from the advantageous positions of “early winners” in the first rounds of post-​communist privatisation leaves them without any real incentives to continue reforms. However, one needs to acknowledge that, in Russia and some other post-​Soviet states, 202

203

State capacity and Russia

Figure 17.2  The “King of the Mountain” model: political and economic rent vs. quality of institutions.

the actual beneficiaries of “bad governance” may not be the actual “early winners” but rather their successors, who managed to rewrite the rules of the game and acquire political and economic control over the state and non-​state assets. In the post-​Soviet and especially Russian context it is crucially important to add to this argument a political dimension, as the extraction of economic and political rent are mutually conditional. Participation in or compliance with political monopoly (political rent) becomes in this situation a sine qua non for access to economic rent. Not a single oligarch can be confident in securing his/​her property rights without the full political compliance and direct financial support of the regime. Moreover, even political compliance is not always a personal guarantee. This mutual correlation of economic and political rent in relationship to institutional capacity is presented in Figure 17.2, in the model of the “King of the Mountain” (Melville et al 2014; Melville and Mironyuk 2016). This model represents a frozen inefficient equilibrium, when the ruler and elites are not interested and have no motivation to develop the institutional capacity of the state and improve institutions. While Douglas North et al (2009) contrast rent that may promote development to those who inhibit it, feasible economic and administrative efficiency is not a motivation for the “King of the Mountain”, whose monopoly is based primarily on stable rent extraction and “state capture”. In this sense the “King of the Mountain”, despite the situation of attained equilibrium, does not have any motivation to behave like the Mancur Olson’s famous “stationary bandit” with the long-​time horizon (Olson 1993), but rather seeks to perpetuate and exploit the stasis of rent extraction. The “King of the Mountain” model can be applied not only to Russia and some other post-​Soviet countries but also to many different countries that are autocratic and have weak institutions. In many other respects Russia is also not an exception or unique case. Contrary to the “nativist” arguments about the exclusive, sui generis nature of the Russian state, state building and social dynamic, in many crucial respects it follows some generic patterns of development, although with individual detours and mistakes. 203

204

Andrei Melville

The “strong state” traditions to different degrees are country specific. In Russia they remain reincarnated in different forms; after the state collapse in 1917 as a totalitarian Soviet state, after 1991 and the turbulent 1990s gradually evolving through the 2000s into a highly centralised “monocratic” (Taylor 2011) state based on a combination of economic and political rent, without independent centres of influence and almost full state control in most spheres of public life. The question remains: how to define the “strong state” and what are its parameters in terms of state capacity? Indeed, in the sense of coercive capacity it means the ability to project in different ways its external might and influence and to exercise full domestic control. The Russian state today may be credited for being able to provide security and exercise globally “affirmative” foreign policy and to enjoy the monopoly in domestic politics and society. However, these characteristics may not fit the requirements of today’s interdependent world and widely accepted norms of political and social wellbeing. Providing rent from natural resources remains an important component of the extractive capacity of many states, including Russia. Nonetheless, it may lead to a “resource curse” and inhibit innovative development, which eventually may become a problem for Russia. Finally, administrative capabilities, in the first place the quality of institutions of governance, remain, as was shown above, a very serious problem in today’s Russia, which overall weakens its state capacity. Taking into account the abovementioned relationship between state capacity and political regime, we can conclude that future prospects for Russia’s state building and the development of its state capacity are closely connected with political and social reforms, which may pave the road from stagnation of the status quo and open new windows of opportunity for economic, social and political development. Russia, like many countries of the modern world, is not doomed to reproduce inefficient and repressive variations of its traditional “strong state” matrix. Hopefully, the next “advent” of democratisation eventually may lead to new developments of state capacity and of the Russian state and society on the whole.

Conclusion State capacity remains one of the most discussed concepts in today’s comparative politics and political science in general. It is also an important aspect and a useful analytical tool to understand the dynamic of post-​Soviet politics in Russia. Three major components of state capacity –​coercive, extractive and administrative –​ represent important dimensions of conceptualisation and measurement, particularly for comparative analysis of state building and regime consolidation. Extant research demonstrates that, overall, the quality and levels of state capacity are related to and largely depend on the political regime and the regime dynamic. Despite some rare exceptions, high state capacity correlates with democracy and low state capacity with autocracy. At the same time the coercive, extractive and administrative capacities of the state do not necessarily go together; there may be discrepancies in their development, with, for example, coercive capacity under particular political regimes developing more successfully in comparison with the quality of bureaucracy and administration. Different state capacities may have specific historical roots; however, the crucial factor has to do with the strategic decisions of the ruling elites. Post-​Soviet Russia after the collapse of 1991 inherited a very poor quality of state capacity already dramatically weakened during the previous period. Yeltsin’s era, sometimes called the decade of the “time of troubles”, despite important attempts at democratisation, did not lead to successful state building. Vladimir Putin since the early 2000s attempted to erase the stigma of the “weak state” and to return to the old Russian-​Soviet tradition of monocratic stateness and 204

205

State capacity and Russia

full-​centralised control under rather favourable structural conditions (including oil prices and subsidies from the West). However, the dominance of the rent extraction model and prevailing practices of “bad governance” led to the perpetuation of the overall weak state with low state capacity. Three decades of post-​Soviet politics in Russia prove that state building and the level of state capacity to a large extent depend on the specifics of the political regime and its dynamic. As was empirically demonstrated above, trends towards authoritarianism go hand in hand with poor institutional quality and low state capacity; in fact, they reinforce each other. We also may reasonably expect that higher levels of state capacity would correlate with political reforms and political change.

References Afzal, S.W. (2015), “Determinants of Political Capacity in Developing States: Focus on Asia and Africa”, International Journal of Multidisciplinary Research and Development 2, 8: 94–​6. Arbetman-​Rabinowitz, M. and K. Johnson (2007), Relative Political Capacity: Empirical and Theoretical Underpinnings. (Claremont: Sentia Group). Bäck, H. and A. Hadenius (2008), “Democracy and State Capacity: Exploring a J-Shaped Relationship”, Governance 21, 1: 1–​24. Bertelsmann Stiftung (2020), BTI 2020 Country Report –​Russia (Gutersloh: Bertelsmann Stiftung). Carbone, G. and V. Memoli (2012), Does Democratization Foster State Consolidation? A Panel Analysis of the “Backwards Hypothesis”, www.soc​pol.unimi.it/​pap​ers/​2012-​04-​19_​G.%20Carb​one%20e%20V.%20 Mem​oli.pdf. Charron, N. (2016), “Diverging Cohesion? Globalization, State Capacity and Regional Inequalities Within and Across European Countries”, European Urban and Regional Studies 23, 3: 355–​73. Charron, N. and V. Lapuente (2010), “Does Democracy Produce Quality of Government?”, European Journal of Political Research 49, 4: 443–​70. Evans, P.B., D. Rueschemeyer and T. Skocpol (1985), Bringing the State Back In (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Fortin, J. (2010), “A Tool to Evaluate State Capacity in Post-​Communist Countries, 1989–​2006”, European Journal of Political Research 49, 5: 654–​86. Fortin-​Rittberger, J. (2014), “Exploring the Relationship between Infrastructural and Coercive State Capacity”, Democratization 21, 7: 1244–​64. Frye, T. (2021), Weak Strongman. The Limits of Power in Putin’s Russia (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Fukuyama, F. (2004), “The Imperative of State-​building”, Journal of Democracy 15, 2: 17–​31. Gel’man, V. (2017), “Political Foundations of Bad Governance in Post-​Soviet Eurasia: Towards a Research Agenda”, East European Politics 35, 4: 1–​21. Gel’man, V. (2021), “Constitution, Authoritarianism, and Bad Governance: The Case of Russia”, Russian Politics 8, 6: 71–​90. Hanson, J.K. and R. Sigman (2016), “State Capacity and World Bank Project Success”, Annual Meeting of the Midwest Political Science Association, Chicago, Illinois. Hellman, J. (1998), “Winners Take All. The Politics of Partial Reform in Postcommunist Transitions”, World Politics 50, 2: 203–​34. Hendrix, C.S. (2010), “Measuring State Capacity: Theoretical and Empirical Implications for the Study of Civil Conflict”, Journal of Peace Research 47, 3: 273–​85. Huntington, S. (1968), Political Order in Changing Societies (New Haven: Yale University Press). Jackman, R.W. (1993), Power Without Force: The Political Capacity of Nation-​States (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press). Kaufmann, D., A. Kraay and M. Mastruzzi (2010), The World Governance Indicators. Methodology and Analytical Issues (Washington DC: The World Bank Research Group). Kjær, M., O. Hansen and J. Thomsen (2002), Conceptualizing State Capacity. Democracy, the State and Administrative Reforms. DEMSTAR Report, 6. Kugler, J. and R.L. Tammen (2012), The Performance of Nations (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers).

205

206

Andrei Melville Lindvall, J. and J. Teorell (2016), State Capacity as Power: A Conceptual Framework, STANCE Working Paper Series 2016, No. 1. Lund University. Mann, M. (1984), “The Autonomous Power of the State: Its Origins, Mechanisms and Results”, European Journal of Sociology 25, 2: 185–​213. McFaul, M. (2021), “Russia’s Road to Autocracy”, Journal of Democracy 32, 4: 11–​26. Melville, A. and M. Mironyuk (2016), “Bad Enough Governance”: State Capacity and Quality of Institutions in Post-​Soviet Autocracies”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 32, 2: 132–​51. Melville, A., D. Stukal and M. Mironyuk (2014), “‘King of the Mountain’, or Why Postcommunist Autocracies Have Bad Institutions”, Russian Politics and Law 52, 2: 7–​29. Moller, J. and S-​E. Skaaning (2011), “Stateness First?”, Democratization 18, 1: 1–​24. North, D., J. Wallis and B. Weingast (2009), Violence and Social Orders: A Conceptual Framework for Interpreting Recorded Human History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Olson, M. (1993), “Dictatorship, Democracy, and Development”, American Political Science Review 87, 3: 567–​76. Organski, A.F.K and J. Kugler (1980), The War Ledger (Chicago: University of Chicago Press). Roberts, C., and T. Sherlock (1999), “Bringing the Russian State Back In: Explanations of the Derailed Transition to Market Democracy”, Comparative Politics 31, 4: 477–​98. Robinson, N. (2008), State, Regime and Russian Political Development. Limerick Papers in Politics and Public Administration, No 3. Roller, E. (2020), “Political Performance and State Capacity”, in D. Berg-​Schlosser, B. Badie and L. Morlino (eds.), The SAGE Handbook of Political Science, vol. 2 (London: Sage): 916–​33. Rothstein, B. (2012), “Good Governance”, in D. Levi-​Faur (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Governance (New York: Oxford University Press): 143–​54. Savoia, A. and K. Sen (2012), Measurement and Evolution of State Capacity: An Exploration of a Lesser Known Aspect of Governance, ESID Working Paper, No.10. University of Manchester. Savoia, A. and K. Sen (2015), “Measurement, Evolution, Determinants, and Consequences of State Capacity: A Review of Recent Research”, Journal of Economic Surveys 29, 3: 441–​58. Soifer, H. (2008), “State Infrastructural Power: Approaches to Conceptualization and Measurement”, Studies in Comparative International Development (SCID) 43, 3-​4: 231–​51. Soifer, H. and M. vom Hau (2008), “Unpacking the Strength of the State: The Utility of State Infrastructural Power”, Studies in Comparative International Development (SCID) 43, 3-​4: 219–​30. Taylor, B. (2011), State Building in Putin’s Russia. Policing and Coercion after Communism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Thompson, W. and S. Ganguly (2016), Ascending India and Its State Capacity (New Haven: Yale University Press). Tilly, C. (1990), Coercion, Capital, and European States, AD 990–​1990 (Cambridge [Mass]: Basil Blackwell). Transparency International (2020), Corruption Perceptions Index, www.trans​pare​ncy.org/​cpi. Tsygankov, A. (2014), The Strong State in Russia. Development and Crisis (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Wang, S. (1995), “The Rise of the Regions: Fiscal Reform and the Decline of Central State Capacity in China”, in A.G. Walder (ed.), The Waning of the Communist State: Economic Origins of Political Decline in China and Hungary (Berkeley: University of California Press): 87–​113. White, D. (2018), “State Capacity and Regime Resilience in Putin’s Russia”, International Political Science Review 39, 1: 130–​43. Zubok, V. (2021), Collapse. The Fall of the Soviet Union (New Haven: Yale University Press).

206

207

18 RUSSIA’S RETREAT FROM HUMAN RIGHTS William Pomeranz

The 1993 Russian Constitution was born of a political stalemate that turned violent. To restore order, President Boris Yeltsin fired on the parliament, dissolved the legislature, suspended the Constitutional Court and proposed a new founding law. The controversy surrounding the October 1993 events has largely been relegated to history. Nevertheless, the 1993 Constitution –​both its original text and the extensive 2020 amendments –​ has continued to shape Russia’s legal development well into the twenty-​first century. Whether the current Constitution survives the illegal invasion of Ukraine and accompanying crackdown on civil liberties remains an open question at the time of this essay (July 2022).

Russia adopts a new human rights vocabulary On paper at least, Russia’s new Constitution represented a major break from the Soviet past. It included new guarantees of freedom of speech, assembly, religion, jury trials, private property, prohibitions against double jeopardy, and other basic freedoms and due process protections. Gone too were the qualifications that accompanied some of the rights under the Soviet constitution. For example, Article 39 of the Soviet Constitution, which included the proviso that the “enjoyment by citizens of their rights and freedoms must not be to the detriment of the interests of society or the state, or infringe the rights of other citizens,” was eliminated. Instead, the first two articles of the Russian Constitution pronounced that Russia henceforth would be a “law-​based state” and that its enumerated rights and freedoms would be of “supreme value.” Yet despite these innovations, the Soviet influence on Russia’s highest law was still tangible, most notably in the enumeration of various social rights. Article 7 specifically stated that the Russian Federation would be a “social state,” and many of the longstanding social rights under Soviet law found their way into the 1993 Constitution, such as the right to education, health, social security, rest and leisure. Such protections may be outside the scope of US constitutional law, but references to them are commonly found in other founding laws as well as the UN Convention on Human Rights. The 1993 Constitution contained other technical changes that pushed Russia toward the rule of law –​a nascent separation of powers, an independent judiciary, a diminished prosecutor’s office (the Soviet Union’s most powerful legal institution) and independent bodies of local self-​ government. Finally, in one of the Constitution’s most radical but under-​appreciated provisions, DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-20

207

208

William Pomeranz

Article 15(4) opened up Russian law to non-​Russian interpretations of law and human rights. Specifically, this clause stated that “the generally recognised principles and norms of international law and the international treaties of the Russian Federation shall constitute an integral part of its legal system.” If an international treaty of the Russian Federation established rules other than those provided by the law, the provision continued, the rules of the international treaty would apply.

Yeltsin’s mixed legacy The 1993 Constitution laid the groundwork for a new Russia that theoretically promoted the enumerated individual rights and freedoms of citizens as the nation’s highest value. From the time of its passage, however, this document fell short of its expressed ideals and aspirations, most notably in the area of human rights. Indeed, within two years of its adoption, Yeltsin fell out with one of the leading beacons of human rights, the former dissident Sergei Kovalev. Yeltsin had appointed Kovalev as the first Russian ombudsman for human rights in January 1994, but after Russia’s military attack on Chechnya, Kovalev resigned in January 1996, later accusing Yeltsin of “criminal negligence and constitutional crime” (Pomeranz 1997: 23). Yeltsin’s reputation as a defender of human rights never recovered from the events in Chechnya. Vladimir Putin’s accession to the presidency in 2000 renewed the assault on human rights during the Second Chechen War. Putin also turned to the established tsarist and Soviet practice of politicising the law to go after one’s opponents. Over his two decades in power, Putin has used the courts against oligarchs, protesters, whistle blowers, government officials, religious minorities, the LGBTQ community and opposition politicians (most notably Aleksei Navalny), with little concern for the due process and civil liberties articulated in the Constitution.

Russia and the European Court of Human Rights Yet despite Putin’s instrumental approach to law, he tolerated (at least for a while) one of the most far-​reaching advances in Russian law in generations. In 1996, under then President Yeltsin, Russia joined the Council of Europe and then, two years later, ratified the European Convention on Human Rights. As a result, Russia became subject to international human rights standards as well as the jurisdiction of the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg, France (Kahn 2004). Russian lawyers soon took advantage of this new –​and potentially more favourable –​venue and began flooding the European Court with appeals. It took time for the Court to address this backlog, but in 1998 the Court issued its first rulings against Russia. In the coming years, the Court not only assessed monetary damages on the Russian Federation (which the state regularly paid), it also issued rulings that called for substantial changes to the Russian legal system (which produced a more limited response). Moreover, in light of Article15(4) and the 1993 Constitution’s receptiveness to international law, Russian lawyers began to cite the European Convention when making arguments in domestic cases. Not all Russian judges were sympathetic to appeals to international law, but soon thereafter the Russian Constitutional Court also began to refer to European Court opinions in their final decisions as well. As a civil law country, Russia does not believe in the power of precedent, so it remained a subject of debate as to how much weight these foreign judicial verdicts carried. Nevertheless, in 2011 the Chairman of the Constitutional Court, Valerii Zorkin, emphasised that over 50 decisions by the Court had been based on Strasbourg decisions, and so many Russians turned to the European Court that it was forced to introduce new expedited review procedures (Pomeranz 2012). 208

209

Russia’s retreat from human rights

The torture and death of Sergei Magnitsky Yet Russia’s attitude to the European Court, human rights, and legal reform was about to change. In 2008, the tax accountant Sergei Magnitsky was arrested when he discovered that the Ministry of Interior had perpetrated a massive fraud against his former boss’s company, Hermitage Capital. Rather than being congratulated for exposing this crime, Magnitsky was arrested, put in pre-​trial detention, and ultimately died in prison in what was later characterised as torture. Then President Medvedev ordered an independent investigation into Magnitsky’s death, and substantive criminal law changes were later proposed to address the abuse of pre-​ trial detention practices in economic cases. Yet the Ministry of Interior ultimately waged a successful rearguard action. Instead of punishing the investigators in the Magnitsky case, the Ministry of Interior honoured them, and the pressure to reform the criminal justice system soon dissipated (Pomeranz 2011). The Magnitsky controversy coincided with Russia’s application to join the World Trade Organisation (WTO). The accession revolved around many trade issues (such as the defence of intellectual property, the removal of formal and informal trade barriers), but this process became intertwined with Russia’s human rights record. Before Russia could join, the United States needed to repeal the landmark 1974 human rights legislation, the Jackson-​Vanik amendment, which had linked the free immigration of Russian Jews to any potential recognition of most-​ favoured trade status required under WTO rules. Free trade between Russia and the United States was a priority for both countries, and Russia had not limited Jewish emigration since the Soviet Union’s collapse. Nevertheless, Congress decided that it wanted to preserve some sort of check on Russia’ human rights policies, and so the Magnitsky list to expose human rights violations came into existence. The Russians objected to again linking human rights to international trade, and what should have been the culmination of integrating Russia into global markets was perceived by Russia as a less than open invitation. The year 2011 also saw a significant rupture between the Constitutional Court and the European Court of Human Rights. In the Markin case, which involved the right of a male soldier equally to enjoy access to parental leave, the European Court overturned a Constitutional Court decision rejecting Markin’s claim. This provoked a strong negative reaction from Zorkin, who objected to Strasbourg’s attempt to elevate the European Convention above the Russian Constitution itself. The dispute was smoothed over in the short run, but the Markin case put a renewed focus on the issue of Russian sovereignty vis-​à-​vis the European Court (Pomeranz 2012).

Putin’s return in 2012 and the crackdown on human rights Finally, 2011 corresponded to the “reverse tandem” and Vladimir Putin’s decision to return to seek a third term as Russian president. This decision sparked a series of protests culminating in the Bolotnaya Square demonstrations in 2012. Several severe criminal sentences were later handed out at the ensuing trial of the Bolotnaya demonstrators for what essentially was a police riot (Ryzhkov 2013). Putin further responded to the less than enthusiastic response to his return to power by introducing a series of counter-​reforms that limited freedom of assembly, the independence of civil society, and the primacy of human rights within the Russian Constitution. For example, the state introduced legislation whereby a person could be subject to criminal penalties if he/​ she held more than three unsanctioned meetings in a six-​month period. Ildar Dadin ultimately was convicted under this statute and received a two-​and-​a-​half-​year prison sentence. The 209

210

William Pomeranz

Constitutional Court overturned Dadin’s conviction, stating in part that the law only applied in those cases where demonstrations ceased to be peaceful or constituted a major threat to health or property. The Court, however, made no determination as to the underlying constitutionality of this law, and two years later Konstantin Kotov received four years under the statute for organising multiple unsanctioned protests, thereby ignoring the formal legal requirements set down by the Constitutional Court (Kornia 2019). Major protests largely disappeared in the aftermath of Bolotnaya, primarily for administrative reasons (authorities refused to issue permits for such demonstrations). The law on meetings further allowed authorities to change the time or place of a protest, further diminishing their potential impact. Indeed, the primary form of public dissent after Bolotnaya was the single-​ picket protest, where demonstrators were required to maintain a distance of 50 feet amongst each other, although arrests even occurred in these cases (OVD-​Info 2020). The Russian state had one more trick up its sleeve to clamp down on freedom of speech and the regime’s political opponents. In 2012, shortly after the Bolotnaya protests, the Russian parliament approved the law on foreign agents. The legislation carried serious Soviet-​era overtones, since Stalin regularly accused his opponents of being foreign agents (despite the lack of any credible evidence) (The Moscow Times 2021). Since its passage, numerous foreign news outlets and Russian political activists have been silenced (or voluntarily closed down), including RFE/​RL, Navalny’s anti-​corruption foundation, the election monitoring organisation Golos, and several others. Putin further expanded the scope of this foreign agent law in 2020 to include foreign-​funded individuals (The Moscow Times 2020). Foreign academic institutions have also been ensnarled in the search for so-​called “undesirable” organisations. In the most puzzling move, the procuracy branded Bard College with this label and accused it of being a threat to the country’s constitutional order. Bard subsequently ended its dual degree programme with St Petersburg State University. Putin consistently states that the foreign agent regulations are not too burdensome (Filimonov 2021), or alternatively claims that the United States puts similar obligations on representatives of foreign governments/​institutions through the Foreign Agent Registration Act (FARA). However, one of the key elements of FARA is the notion of agency, meaning whether a foreign government asserts an appropriate level of control over the US person. In contrast, control is essentially assumed under Russian law (as well as political intent) if an entity receives any money from abroad. Therefore, the corresponding laws are not the same, even though they employ similar terminology.

The Russian state as a defender of human rights Russia’s crackdown on civil society and independent NGOs has been an essential part of Putin’s human rights strategy. But the Russian state does not only wish to exert control over these groups –​it also wants to co-​opt their message. Thus, several state bodies have been formed that have assumed the mantle of human rights but remain firmly linked to the state. The first such institution is the Ombudsman for Human Rights. As noted above, the first person to hold this position, Sergei Kovalev, possessed an impeccable dissident and human rights record but lasted barely two years in the post. Most subsequent commissioners possessed some liberal credentials, but this changed in 2016 when Putin appointed Tatyana Moskalkova. Unlike her predecessors, Moskalkova had spent much of her career in the Ministry of Internal Affairs and possessed no connection to the human rights movement. The second new state institution assigned to defend human rights is the Presidential Human Rights Council. Established in 1993 by Boris Yeltsin, the composition of the Council 210

211

Russia’s retreat from human rights

has gone through several makeovers. It has included at times prominent human rights activists such as Lyudmila Alekseeva, the famous dissident and head of the Moscow Helsinki Group. Alekseeva, however, resigned in protest in the aftermath of the 2012 fraudulent presidential election and violent crackdown on protesters. Nevertheless, the Council continued to attract prominent human rights activists and representatives of civil society under the leadership of Mikhail Fedotov, the former head of the Union of Journalists and the author of Russia’s 1992 media law. Yet Fedotov was unceremoniously dumped as chairman in 2019, leading to the removal of several of the most independent and respected members of the Council (including Ilya Shablinsky, Yevgenii Bobrov, Yekaterina Shulman and Pavel Chikov). Tamara Morschakova, the retired Constitutional Court Justice, soon left the Council as well. In Fedotov’s place, Putin appointed Valerii Fadeev, a journalist, politician (he is a member of the ruling United Russia Party) and most definitely someone not affiliated with the human rights community (Luxmoore 2019). The final state body that has picked up the mantle of human rights is the most surprising and the most tenuous. The procurator’s office serves as the oldest legal institution in Russian history –​it traces its origins back to 1722 and Peter the Great. It has long coveted the title of the eyes of the state. As such, it has been a key player in the fight against human rights and civil society for centuries. The post-​Soviet procuracy lost much of its coercive powers. In fact, the 1993 Constitution made no mention of its long-​running legal oversight and supervisory powers. The procuracy subsequently set out on a major re-​branding effort to restore its position at the apex of Russia’s legal hierarchy. It has assumed an active role in the defence of Russian business (even though an ombudsman for entrepreneurs was founded in 2012). Successive general procurators have also highlighted the role of the procuracy in the fight against corruption and extremism, especially on the internet. The biggest stretch, however, involves the reinvention of the procuracy as a champion of human rights. Prosecutors handle millions of complaints per year from citizens regarding alleged violations of their rights, making it one of the largest providers of legal aid in Russia today. The procuracy further promotes itself as an institution of great human rights potential, especially when it comes to protecting the rights and freedoms of Russian citizens. In this capacity, however, the procuracy almost always emphasises its defence of labour and social rights, not civil liberties (Pomeranz 2019). President Putin reinforced this mission when he addressed the annual gathering of prosecutors in 2021. He called on the procuracy to ensure the “unconditional fulfilment of social guarantees” for all citizens, especially those with limited economic means (Sergeev 2021).

The renewed emphasis on social rights The importance of social rights over all other rights has been a recurring theme in the Putin era, and one that has been picked up by legislators and the other state institutions responsible for human rights (Latukhina 2020; Puzyrev 2021; Vinokurov 2022). In 2020, the ombudsman’s annual report highlighted the number of appeals dealing with social rights reviewed by the organisation (Doklad 2020). When Fadeev assumed the chairmanship of the Presidential Human Rights Council, he noted that he wanted the organisation to focus more on social rights than political rights (Luxmoore 2019). And Valerii Zorkin –​the chairman of the Constitutional Court and thus a primary defender of the rights and freedoms in Russia’s founding law –​has placed a renewed priority on Article 7 of the Constitution and its declaration of Russia as a “social state” (Zorkin 2021a). 211

212

William Pomeranz

Zorkin specifically cites the 2020 constitutional changes as a crucial turning point in Russia’s understanding of rights. The new amendments expanded Russia’s social protections (such as indexed pensions, the constitutional establishment of a minimum wage, and the defence of motherhood, fatherhood, children and the family). Such changes represented, in Zorkin’s view, a new balance of rights. Therefore, he argued that the Constitutional Court henceforth would now have to take into consideration the concept of the “legal social state” and the newly enshrined constitutional principles of “equality and social justice” in its future rulings (Zorkin 2021b). One must emphasise that social rights are not alien to other liberal constitutions and broader discussions of human rights. In Russia, however, the debate on human rights –​especially on the state level –​has shifted away from the civil liberties expounded upon in the first two chapters of the Russian Constitution. Instead, Russian citizens have been exposed to an onslaught of restrictions and repressive measures that seriously diminish the political rights and freedoms of the Russian people, especially in their ability to challenge the state. Several of these rollbacks have been mentioned above, such as the notorious foreign agent law, but in reality, the list of such legislation is long and includes the procuracy’s ability to declare an organisation “undesirable” (thereby banning members from running for office), the loose interpretation of slander under Russian criminal law, and the (mis)use of charges of extremism to close down internet websites.

Putin re-​writes the Constitution The 2020 constitutional amendments represented a fundamental re-​appraisal of human rights and Russia’s acceptance of international law. As previously mentioned, the broad acceptance of the general principles and norms of international law under the 1993 Constitution represented one of the most profound shifts of Russian law in the post-​Soviet period. As we have seen, it not only opened Russia to determinations of the European Court of Human Rights, it also expressed Russia’s overall acceptance of other branches of international law. This openness to foreign law was already undermined in 2015 when Russia passed legislation enabling the Constitutional Court to strike down any European Court decision that contradicted the Russian Constitution. The 2020 amendments elevated this rule into a constitutional principle. The amendments further retreated from standard international law practices by granting the Constitutional Court the right to reject a ruling by a foreign arbitration panel –​a death knell, in reality, to future foreign direct investment, since most foreign companies rely on such provisions in their contracts (Pomeranz 2021). The law-​based state –​the original aspiration of the 1993 Constitution –​seems even further out of reach in the aftermath of the 2020 constitutional amendments. The 1993 Constitution provided an implicit protection for the rights and liberties expounded in its first two chapters, stating that these rights could only be amended by the convening of a constituent assembly. Since no such law on the calling of a constituent assembly has ever has been passed, the 2020 amendments introduced no changes to these provisions. Putin ultimately got around this obstacle by scattering over 60 amendments in Chapters 3–​8, many of which undermined the spirit –​and the actual substance –​of the original document. Thus, what remained after the amendments was a diminished constitution, one filled with new contradictions and revived autocratic traditions. For example, Article 13 originally stated that local self-​government would be independent. This provision remains untouched, but the amendments now call for the creation of a unified system of public power that includes local self-​government. The president receives the right to remove any judge (if confirmed by the 212

213

Russia’s retreat from human rights

Federation Council), thereby weakening any notion of an independent judiciary. Article 129(1) restores supervisory powers of the procuracy and its ability to oversee the implementation of all laws. The Russian State Council, which dates back to the early nineteenth century, has also been given a new designation (a “constitutional state organ”) and assigned significant powers to reinforce Putin’s vaunted power vertical. The amendments formally restored Russia’s links to the Soviet Union and introduced a new extraterritorial dimension by allowing the Russian Federation to defend the interests of Russians living abroad. Finally, and most egregiously, a personal exception was carved out for the incumbent president that allows him to escape the two-​consecutive-​terms limit and potentially rule until 2036.

The closure of Memorial All of the Russian state’s efforts to roll back human rights culminated in January 2022, when the Russian state closed down Memorial, the country’s most venerable human rights organisation. Memorial wears two hats. It serves as an archival and historical record of Stalin’s repression, but it subsequently created a legal office that defends human rights in Russian courts and at the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg. Both organisations, however, got designated as foreign agents and the law finally caught up to them in 2021. The human rights centre was charged with supporting illegal protests directed at the destabilisation of Russia, as well as circulating lists of political prisoners that undermined faith in the judicial system. In addition, the international Memorial society was accused of systematic breaches of the foreign agent law –​ most notably, a failure to label itself as a foreign agent on its website and other publications. Other spurious charges were levelled against Memorial, such as that it created a false image of the Soviet Union as a terrorist state. (For a complete transcript of the speeches before the Supreme Court, see Memorial 2021). What was left in the aftermath of Memorial’s liquidation was a complete breakdown of Russia’s human rights infrastructure. Both cases were brought by the procuracy, which once again lived up to its reputation as the eyes of the state and while serving as the lead institution in the assault on basic civil liberties. The court decisions were handed down by the Supreme Court and the Moscow City Court, respectively. In both instances the verdicts were a foregone conclusion, even though Memorial’s lawyers put up a spirited defence. Genri Reznik, the famous human rights attorney and (still) member of the Presidential Human Rights Council, asked Putin directly in December 2021 if any adjustments could be made in the foreign agent law (Meeting 2021). Putin rejected such a proposal, accusing the US of posting CIA agents and other spies at major Russian security installations during the 1990s. Putin also once again equated the foreign agent law with the US FARA legislation. In another question directly on the closure of Memorial, Putin highlighted an Israeli report that found that a few Nazis had mistakenly found their way onto Memorial’s list of victims of Soviet repression. Finally, the European Court of Human Rights weighed in, demanding that Russia suspend the liquidation of Memorial until it had time to review the case (Euronews 2021). In the aftermath of the 2020 constitutional amendments, however, Russia felt no compulsion to consider Strasbourg’s opinion, and the European Court’s request was disregarded.

Conclusion The liquidation of Memorial occurred against the backdrop of Russia’s brutal invasion of Ukraine. The war is still ongoing at this time, and we still do not know the depth of the 213

214

William Pomeranz

violence and destruction that Russia has unleashed. The demise of Memorial, however, now appears in a new light, the last in a series of repressive measures by Putin to subjugate Russian civil society and human rights before the start of war. And in the aftermath of this aggression and recent crackdown, it is doubtful that Russia will re-​enter this dialogue with the European Court any time soon (Davidis 2021). Indeed, Russia’s more than quarter-​century relationship with the European Court ended in the wake of its invasion of Ukraine, when Russia withdrew from the Council of Europe (one day before it was formally expelled) (RFE/​RL 2022). Thus, instead of dealing with the European Court, Russia’s leaders may have to deal with war crimes before the International Criminal Court for their indiscriminate attacks on Ukrainian civilians. The last vestiges of independent media have closed down. Putin further signed a new law on 4 March 2022 imposing a maximum of 15 years imprisonment for distributing “fake” news about the war in Ukraine (Sovina 2022). Meanwhile the procuracy has reverted to its established role as the eyes of the state. It issued a statement saying that any assistance to a foreign state that undermines the security of the Russian Federation could be considered treason and punishable by up to 20 years in jail (Interfax 2022). The law itself is so vague that any statement against the war could theoretically fall under this provision. The war in Ukraine marks yet another retreat in Russia’s fitful pursuit of basic human rights. The 1993 Constitution –​which held out much theoretical promise –​has now essentially been reduced to a dead letter. One can only speculate when, and under what conditions, Russia will re-​engage in the debate over human rights. It has periodically returned to legal reform in any attempt to modernise and liberalise (or after a major military defeat). The present-​day obstacles, however, remain as intractable and deep-​rooted as ever.

References Davidis, S. (2021), “The Worst Year in the History of Post-​Soviet Russia”, Riddle, available at: https://​r idl. io/​en/​the-​worst-​year-​in-​the-​hist​ory-​of-​post-​sov​iet-​rus​sia/​. “Doklad Upol’nomochennogo po pravam cheloveka v Rossiiskoi Federatsii za 2020 god” (2020), available at: https://​ombu​dsma​nrf.org/​cont​ent/​doc​lad2​020. Euronews (2021), “European Court of Human Rights Calls on Russia to Suspend Memorial Closure”, Euronews, available at: www.euron​ews.com/​2021/​12/​29/​europ​ean-​court-​of-​human-​r ig​hts-​calls-​on-​ rus​sia-​to-​susp​end-​memor​ial-​clos​ure. Filimonov, A. (2021), “Putin snova skazal, chto ‘inoagentam’ ne grozit ugolovnaya otvetstvennost”, Meduza, available at: https://​med​uza.io/​feat​ure/​2021/​12/​23/​putin-​snova-​ska​zal-​chto-​ino​agen​tam-​v-​ ros​sii-​ne-​g ro​zit-​ugo​lovn​aya-​otv​etst​venn​ost-​vyn​uzhd​eny-​snova-​povto​r it-​eto-​nepra​vda. Interfax (2022), “Aid to Foreign State during Russia’s Special Operation to be Viewed as Treason against Motherland”, Interfax, available at: https://​inter​fax.com/​newsr​oom/​top-​stor​ies/​74619/​. Kahn, J. (2004), “Russia’s ‘Dictatorship of Law’ and the European Court of Human Rights”, Review of Central and East European Law 29, 1: 1–​14. Kornia, A. (2019), “Prigovor Konstantinu Kotovu stavit pod somnenie sostoyatel’nost’ reshenii KS”, Vedomosti, available at: www.vedomo​sti.ru/​polit​ics/​artic​les/​2019/​09/​06/​810​611-​prigo​vor-​kot​ovu. Latukhina, K. (2020), “Prezident prizval vsegda stavit prioritet sotsial’nuyu politiku”, Rossiiskaya gazeta, available at: https://​rg.ru/​2020/​11/​13/​putin-​priz​val-​vse​gda-​sta​vit-​v-​priori​tet -​socialnuiu-​politiku. html. Luxmoore, M. (2019), “Critics Warn of a Backslide after Putin Reshuffles Human Rights Council”, RFE/​RL, available at: www.rferl.org/​a/​crit​ics-​warn-​of-​a-​backsl​ide-​after-​putin-​res​huff​l es-​human-​r ig​ hts-​coun​cil/​30230​912.html. “Meeting of Council for Civil Society and Human Rights” (2021), available at: http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​ nts/​counc​ils/​by-​coun​cil/​18/​67331. Memorial (2021), “Vystupleneniya storon v preniyakh po likvedatsii Mezhdunarodnogo Memoriala”, available at: www.memo.ru/​ru-​ru/​memor​ial/​depa​rtme​nts/​interm​emor​ial/​news/​666?fbc​lid=​IwAR1 ZV1PiZl4tA8pkkK0n9IVDzMCvOo4I​34aL​Clo2​Usbz​2OFN​rMUo​LJIq​aro.

214

215

Russia’s retreat from human rights OVD-​Info (2020), “Single Person Pickets”, OVD-​Info, available at: https://​repo​rts.ovdi​nfo.org/​sin​gle-​per​ son-​pick​ets#. Pomeranz, W. (1997), “Judicial Review and the Russian Constitutional Court: The Chechen Case”, Review of Central and East European Law 23, 1: 9–​48. Pomeranz, W. (2011), “The Magnitsky Case and the Limits of Russian Legal Reform”, Russian Analytical Digest 92: 12–​15. Pomeranz, W. (2012), “Uneasy Partners: Russia and the European Court of Human Rights”, Human Rights Brief 19, 3: 17–​21. Pomeranz, W. (2019), “Russia’s Resilient Legal Powerhouse: The Procuracy Enters the 21st Century”, Kennan Cable No. 42, available at: www.wilso​ncen​ter.org/​publ​icat​ion/​ken​nan-​cable-​no-​42-​russ​ias-​ resili​ent-​legal-​pow​erho​use-​the-​procur​acy-​ent​ers-​the-​21st. Pomeranz, W. (2021), “Putin’s 2020 Constitutional Amendments: What Changed? What Remained the Same?”, Russian Politics 6, 1: 6–​26. Puzyrev, V. (2021), “Rossiya kak sotsial’noe gosudarstvo”, Vedomosti, available at: www.vedomo​sti.ru/​polit​ ics/​artic​les/​2021/​06/​20/​874​843-​ross​iya-​kak-​sot​sial​noe-​gosu​dars​tvo. RFE/​RL (2022), “Council of Europe Officially Expels Russia after 26 Years of Membership”, available at: www.rferl.org/​a/​coun​cil-​eur​ope-​exp​els-​rus​sia/​31756​178.html. Ryzhkov, V. (2013), “Putin’s Bolotnoye Show Trial”, The Moscow Times, available at: www.the​mosc​owti​ mes.com/​2013/​04/​24/​put​ins-​bolotn​oye-​show-​trial-​a23​586. Sergeev, N. (2021), “Nadzor bystrogo reagirovaniya”, Kommersant, available at: www.kom​mers​ant.ru/​ doc/​4731​489. Sovina, M. (2022), “Putin podpesal zakon ob ugolovnom otvestvennost za feiki ob deistviyakh”, Lenta.ru, available at: https://​lenta.ru/​news/​2022/​03/​04/​otv​etst​venn​ost/​. The Moscow Times (2020), “Putin Signs Controversial ‘Foreign Agent’ Expansion”, The Moscow Times, available at: www.the​mosc​owti​mes.com/​2020/​12/​30/​putin-​signs-​contro​vers​ial-​fore​ign-​agent-​law-​ expans​ion-​a72​524. The Moscow Times (2021), “How do Russia’s Undesirable and Foreign Agents Laws Work”, The Moscow Times, available at: www.the​mosc​owti​mes.com/​2021/​07/​16/​how-​do-​russ​ias-​unde​sira​ble-​organi​zati​ ons-​and-​fore​ign-​age​nts-​laws-​work-​a74​547. Vinokurov, A. (2022), “Ekonomika dolzhna byt’ sotsial’noi”, Kommersant, available at: www.kom​mers​ant. ru/​doc/​5171​023?from=​main. Zorkin, V. (2021a), “Pod znakom Osnovnogo Zakona”, Rossisskaya gazeta, available at: https://​rg.ru/​ 2021/​10/​27/​kons​titu​cion​nyj-​sud-​na-​rube​zhe-​chet​vert​ogo-​desiat​ilet​iia.html Zorkin, V. (2021b), Konstitutsionnoe pravosudie: protsedura i smysl (St Petersburg: Constitutional Court of the Russian Federation).

215

216

19 PROTEST AND OPPOSITION Jan Matti Dollbaum

A conflictual relationship When, on 24 December 2011, tens of thousands stood on Moscow’s Sakharov Square to protest fraudulent parliamentary elections, to many observers it was clear what was happening. Finally, the opposition to the authoritarian regime in the making, to Prime Minister Putin, to the dominant party United Russia or the “party of crooks and thieves”1, and to President Dmitry Medvedev had gotten together to demand free elections and to eventually topple the regime. At least in Moscow, 89 percent of survey respondents in the first rallies supported the demand “Not a single vote for Putin [in the upcoming presidential elections]” (Volkov 2012). And yet, many protesters hardly saw themselves as opposition strictly speaking. Prominent themes running through the thousands of self-​made banners read “We are not the opposition –​ we are your employers” or “We voted for the other idiots”.2 The first slogan shows a clear reluctance to adopt a label quickly ascribed to them from the outside; the second stresses a general mistrust of all political actors, including those of the political opposition. This episode stresses that protest and opposition, while having much in common, have a more complex and conflictual relationship than might be expected in an authoritarian regime. To untangle this relationship, in this chapter I first chronicle protest in the past thirty years (with a focus on the Putin era) and then use different episodes from this chronology to highlight the connections to opposition politics. The central argument developed over the chapter’s course holds that protest and opposition function to their own respective logic and should not be conflated, since many protesters reject the idea that their actions are political in nature. However, the two are tightly connected through a spiral of regime intervention: the decreasing space for political action has made protest an important (and sometimes the only) option for opposition groups to act. This has, in turn, prompted the Kremlin to increasingly view protest as dangerous and restrict it accordingly –​which bears on all kinds of protest, not just the explicitly oppositional.

Protest in the 1990s and 2000s In late Soviet times and throughout the Yeltsin era, protest had been a common phenomenon. Both the miners’ strikes in Siberian Kuzbass (Crowley 1997) and the nationalist mobilisation 216

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-21

217

Protest and opposition

in many parts of the Soviet state (Beissinger 2002) contributed to the Union’s rapid disintegration. In the 1990s, then, the economic upheavals and social crises regularly spilled over into protest mobilisation and strikes. In 1997 alone, Robertson recorded 111 working days per one thousand workers lost to strikes –​many times the number found in other countries commonly thought of as much more “rebellious”, such as Poland or Mexico (Robertson 2007: 784). In this period, worker mobilisation, including continuing miners’ strikes (Borisov and Clarke 1996), was spread out across Russia’s regions and hardly followed national political trends. More important for its explanation were local economic desperation and, crucially, interference by regional elites who furthered or repressed protest in the interest of extorting concessions from Moscow (Robertson 2011; Evans 2016). But as the century turned, and Vladimir Putin was sworn in as president, protest changed profoundly. First, with the consolidation of the central state, the concentration of political power in the central executive, and the emerging dominant party United Russia, loyalty began to promise greater benefits than rebellion, and elites in the regions chose to subordinate themselves to the new political leadership (Gel’man 2008). Consequently, they significantly brought down their attempts to extract concessions by sponsoring open contestation, so that regional protest lost its most powerful driving force (Robertson 2011). At the same time, the economic upturn and the gradual improvement of living conditions reduced the immediate social pressures for large parts of the citizenry –​including wage arrears that had caused much disruption in the 1990s. This period of low public contestation lasted until 2004, when a law that sought to liberalise the welfare system by monetising social benefits sparked widespread and unexpected protest. This reform, which affected people of different social categories such as pensioners, students, people with disabilities, workers in the northern regions, and victims of Soviet repression, developed into the first bottom-​up challenge to the government under Putin’s presidency. Eventually, the central government and many regions withdrew and softened several measures. Apart from this partial success, the protests also promoted the organisational capacities of dissatisfied population groups. In 2005, the Union of Coordination Councils was formed, uniting 25 local initiatives in six regions. Some of them survived the conflict over monetisation and expanded their sphere of activity (Clément 2007). The second half of the 2000s saw the onset of three trends that represent significant preconditions for the outbreak of mass protests in the winter of 2011. First, several relatively persistent coalitions of NGOs, citizens’ initiatives, and, occasionally, opposition parties emerged, such as the movement in the Far East against an import ban on cars or the movement against the governor of Kaliningrad, which arose out of anger over a hike in vehicle taxes (Greene 2014; Clément 2015). The second and third trends –​the geographical centralisation and the gradual politicisation of protest –​are closely connected. In 1997–​2000, Moscow had accounted for only approximately 10 percent of all protest events; in 2011, this share stood at over 30 percent (Robertson 2013). At the same time, in parallel to the economic upsurge, the topics shifted from economic grievances to “problems of growth” such as environmental destruction, urban development, civil rights, and explicitly political issues (Gabowitsch 2016: 165–​6), as exemplified by the “Marches of Dissenters” organised between 2005 and 2008 by a colourful coalition of non-​ parliamentary opposition groups. In accordance with this trend, Tomila Lankina (2015) finds protest activity in the late 2000s to be correlated with urbanisation and industrialisation.3 In parallel to the transformation of the dominant protest themes, meanwhile, the repertoire of protest changed from direct actions such as strikes, hunger strikes, and blockades to more symbolic action forms such as rallies and protest marches. While these developments prepared 217

218

Jan Matti Dollbaum

the ground for the mass protests after the parliamentary elections in December 2011 (Greene 2013), the scale and breadth of those protests nonetheless took most observers completely by surprise.

The “For Fair Elections” protests The For Fair Elections (FFE) or Bolotnaya protest cycle that stretched out between late 2011 and early 2013 deserves, of course, a much longer treatment than is possible here. Suffice it to stress three aspects that distinguished the protests from earlier mobilisations. First, the FFE protests fed upon a preceding wave of politicisation (largely) among educated urbanites, many of whom had stayed out of politics for a long time. Some had gradually come to support President Medvedev’s promises of broad societal modernisation, and most were indignant when Putin and Medvedev announced in September 2011 that they would swap positions and Putin would become president again. Aided by liberal opposition groups but developing largely in a decentralised way, a movement of volunteer electoral observers had emerged since the late 2000s that then monitored the parliamentary elections of December 2011. This movement’s diligent work allowed for evidence of falsifications to pile up quickly. Over social media, this could then spread with unprecedented speed and reach, fuelling additional anger at how authorities were treating people’s voices (incidentally, “vote” and “voice” are the same word in Russian). Importantly, therefore, these were genuinely political protests. A widespread slogan (though decreasingly shared over time among protesters), even, was “Russia without Putin”, demonstrating that these protests did not –​unlike others before –​call for Putin to restore order but targeted him directly as the head of the political system. Such politicisation, however, was not necessarily equivalent to the development of a precise political position, let alone support for any of the existing opposition parties. Second, the FFE protests did not just reflect politicisation, they also propelled it. Many protested for the first time in their lives and found themselves inspired to take up more permanent political or civic engagement on the local level (Dollbaum 2020b). It has even been argued that the FFE protests shifted the character of local protest by producing a group of activists who viewed their engagement as directly political –​as opposed to older groups who often saw themselves as working in explicit distance from politics (Zhuravlev et al 2020). Third, the FFE protests stood out because of the political regime’s reaction to them. Quite like other mass protests in the post-​Soviet space sparked by fraudulent elections, the protests did not voice a coherent political or social counter-​programme (Zhuravlev et al 2014). Still, they presented a platform for a potentially stronger opposition to form and consolidate and thus presented a threat in the eyes of the regime. At first, the approach appeared to be strategic toleration. In Moscow and many other large cities in the regions, the police stood back and the large state-​controlled media either ignored the rallies or reported neutrally (Lankina et al 2020). And it appeared to work. Timothy Frye and Ekaterina Borisova (2019) show with a natural experiment that witnessing the protests in Moscow increased trust in authorities, particularly among opposition-​minded respondents –​likely because they had expected a much more heavy-​handed reaction. However, this strategy soon changed. The government-​aligned media switched to ridiculing protesters or accusing them of being unpatriotic troublemakers, and the authorities orchestrated large support events for Putin (Smyth et al 2013), populated both by unenthusiastic state servants bused in to increase the numbers –​but also by genuine supporters. While at the beginning of the FFE protests against cheating and manipulation the Kremlin had found itself on the losing side of a moral argument (Sharafutdinova 2014), the state-​led counter-​mobilisation 218

219

Protest and opposition

was now recasting Putin as the guardian of Russia’s cultural and political sovereignty, allegedly endangered by hyper-​liberal urban protesters and their supporters in Western governments and NGOs. The sentences against the punk artists of Pussy Riot for their performance in Moscow’s Cathedral of Christ the Saviour was part of this campaign, as was the series of restrictive laws on protest, freedom of speech, and civil society organisations passed since mid-​2012 (Greene and Robertson 2019). The most famous of these forced NGOs to self-​label as “foreign agents” if part of their finances came from abroad (Moser and Skripchenko 2018). But the single most visible change in the regime’s approach to protest and independent civic action was the series of criminal cases, now known as the Bolotnaya trials, brought against participants of a large rally against Putin’s third inauguration on Moscow’s Bolotnaya square on 6 May 2012. Several dozens of activists of various political orientations, including non-​aligned protest newcomers, received prison terms for allegedly attacking police, often on very shaky evidence. This was a clear signal: protest that directly challenged political power was no longer going to be tolerated.

Protest after FFE In 2013, the authorities continued to discredit dissent as unpatriotic and used Ukraine’s Maidan protests and the violent regime overthrow as a smokescreen to reinforce their message that political protest creates chaos and destruction (Sharafutdinova 2020). The annexation of Crimea in 2014 then offered emotional highs for a substantive majority (Greene and Robertson 2019) and further reduced the readiness to participate in political protest that had reached 20 percent in 2011 but had fallen almost ten percentage points over the year 2012 (see Levada Center 2021). Following a sense of disappointment, the heightened repression, and the discursive counter-​ mobilisation, the next years saw less mobilisation than pre-​FFE times; this is clearly visible in Lankina’s (2018) publicly available protest event data. The war in the Ukrainian Donbas under Russia’s more or less camouflaged participation then drew mobilisation from liberals, which, however, usually remained small. Exceptions were two large demonstrations in Moscow in September 2014 and March 2015. The latter followed the assassination of liberal opposition politician Boris Nemtsov and gathered over 50,000 participants. Despite these peaks, the peace protests did not amalgamate into a protest cycle, let alone produce tangible political effects. What likely worried the Kremlin more –​just like in the mid-​2000s –​were economic and social protests. In 2015, long-​haul truck drivers, known in Russian as dalnoboyshchiki, protested against the introduction of a novel fee collection system for trucks over 12 tonnes, conducting bottom-​up strikes and road blockades and threatening to disrupt the distribution of goods across the country (Østbø 2017). They could not press the government into reversing the reform, but the fines for violations were substantially brought down following the protests. The second wave of socially motivated mobilisation erupted in the summer of 2018, when the government increased the retirement age, apparently hoping that the Football World Cup hosted by Russia would distract the public from this highly unpopular measure. These hopes were dashed as tens of thousands took to the streets across the country in June, reminding the government that in some regions the new retirement age (65 years for men, 63 years for women) was above the average life expectancy. In the beginning, the protests were spearheaded by the Federation of Independent Unions of Russia (FNPR); in July and September, the parliamentary opposition parties –​especially the Communist Party –​and opposition politician Aleksei Navalny also organised rallies (Olimpieva 2018). These protests were fuelled by an 219

220

Jan Matti Dollbaum

unusual consensus across political camps and society. However, after President Putin’s intervention that somewhat softened the reform, parliament adopted the law with the votes of United Russia. Political protest re-​emerged as well. Aleksei Navalny, who had risen to prominence during the FFE protests, in late 2016 announced his plan to run in the 2018 presidential election. Following the publication of a viral YouTube video in March 2017 that accused Prime Minister Medvedev of embezzling public money, Navalny’s team mobilised for anti-​corruption protests in March and June 2017, which in many places became the largest since the FFE protests or even since the 1990s. After Navalny was expectedly not allowed on the ballot, he again called for protest before the election, which, however, did not reach the levels of 2017. The next chapter in the re-​politicisation of protest since FFE was opened in 2019, when several opposition candidates were barred from running in the elections to the Moscow City Council. This move by the authorities, which looked too coordinated to simply be the result of individual bureaucratic decisions, did not just spark outrage among the candidates and their supporters, but –​in this way similar to 2011 –​also among Moscow’s wider population. But this time, the police acted much more brutally from the outset, drawing criticism from a wide range of cultural figures. A rally on Sakharov Square against police violence and for reinstating the candidates gathered over 50,000 people (Vedomosti 2019). Nonetheless, the authorities succeeded with their combination of repression and simple stubbornness: only one of several dozen barred candidates was re-​instated, and the elections went ahead. The same frustrating result awaited those participating in the exceptionally strong and durable mobilisation following the arrest of Sergei Furgal of the parliamentary opposition party LDPR and governor of the far eastern region of Khabarovsk in the summer and autumn of 2020. Pandemic regulations notwithstanding, tens of thousands repeatedly marched the streets in unsanctioned rallies. Police, surprisingly, stood by for a long time, and only turned to beatings and arrests after the peak of the mobilisation had passed. The demands of the protesters to reinstate Furgal and to drop the –​as they claimed –​politically motivated charges of organised murder were not met. This new wave of political protest that had built up since 2017 peaked in early 2021 and, like in 2012, was followed by a substantive and public increase in repression. Aleksei Navalny, poisoned in August 2020 during a trip to Siberia and transported abroad for treatment, returned to Russia in January 2021 and was immediately arrested and imprisoned for breaching parole obligations while recovering in Germany. Simultaneously, his team released a 90-​minute documentary on a giant palace on the shore of the Black Sea that they alleged was a bribe for the president. The ensuing protests, demanding consequences for elite corruption and an end to the politicised charges against Navalny, broke records. They were still far from the numbers in other post-​Soviet countries, but the cumulated 166,000 on the streets on January 23 were impressive, especially given that all rallies were unsanctioned (Semenov 2021). But the more important record concerned the authorities’ reactions. Over 11,000 people were detained and approximately one hundred criminal lawsuits filed both against Navalny’s close associates and ordinary protesters. Since these rallies were made up disproportionately of young people, schools and universities issued warnings not to attend. When editors of DOXA, a student magazine at the Higher School of Economics in Moscow, published a video message that called on authorities to end that practice, the procuracy opened a criminal case, accusing them of “involving minors in the perpetration of illegal activities” –​the same criminal accusation already levelled against Navalny’s chief strategist Leonid Volkov (BBC News Russian 2021). This was part of a discursive reaction paralleling the repression, which aimed at discrediting protest organisers in the eyes of the public and demobilising potential supporters 220

221

Protest and opposition

by associating protest with the image of “politics” as something insincere, manipulative, and dangerous. Navalny’s team tried for a few months to extend the momentum even under heightened pressure, but the decisive blow came when the Moscow prosecutor’s office called for Navalny’s organisations –​the Anti-​Corruption Foundation and his network of regional offices –​to be labelled “extremist” for trying to undermine the constitutional order. A court followed through, eliminating Russia’s largest fully independent political organisation, with most of Navalny’s close allies and many regional associates going into exile. Meanwhile, repression increased across society. For example, authorities used the much stiffened “foreign agent” law to further restrict the operation of independent media (applying the law to individual subscriptions from abroad); police detained over 200 municipal deputies from Russia’s regions at a meeting in Moscow; and several high-​profile cases emerged of people receiving fines –​or worse –​for social media activities: a former coordinator of Navalny’s office in Murmansk went to prison for two and a half years for reposting a video from the German band Rammstein (see Turchenko [2021] for some examples). In sum, the reactions to the Navalny-​led protests in 2021 signalled with unprecedented clarity the Kremlin’s willingness to quell any challenge it cannot control through softer means such as electoral or informational manipulation. After Russia’s full-​scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, the relentlessness of repression against protest and opposition in 2021 suddenly looked like a preventive measure to root out any possibility of coherent resistance to the war. Anti-​war protests did erupt in the first weeks, but the preceding destruction of most organisational capacity meant that it was weak and uncoordinated. Still, authorities increased repression even further. For instance, parliament passed legislation that introduced up to 15 years in prison for spreading “false information” about the Russian Armed Forces. The organisation OVD-​Info counted 212 criminal cases opened by August 2022 (OVD-​Info 2022). Countless activists fled the country.4

Mobilisation as a political strategy As has become clear in this brief rundown of protest in the past three decades, by far not all protest understands itself as oppositional –​even if it is on political topics such as elections. But protest has nonetheless long been an important strategy of various opposition groups and organisations in Russia. There are various reasons for this. First, with shrinking opportunities to partake in institutional politics since the 2000s, street action provided one of the few remaining avenues for mounting meaningful challenges. This was important especially for loose coalitions that bridged ideological divides, such as the “Other Russia” alliance, which included the liberal Solidarnost group and the radical National Bolsheviks that combined far-​left ideology with fascist imagery and other shock-​aesthetics. Moreover, in the absence of open political discussions on state media, protest could be used to gain public attention and to deliver political messages. An analysis by Katerina Tertytchnaya and Tomila Lankina (2020), for instance, suggests that exposure to FFE rallies drove bystanders to adopt more favourable views of the protests. Second, protest can be a vehicle to create stress for authorities, to try and force them to make mistakes –​or at least to reveal their authoritarian nature. But in contrast to historical cases from the US civil rights movement to Ukraine’s Euromaidan, where excessive repression of peaceful protest has often produced a backlash of reinforced mobilisation, in Russia, repression generally deters protesters –​as the examples of Moscow in 2019 and 2021 have shown. Organisers thus usually refrain from explicitly provoking clashes with security forces but have often called for unsanctioned rallies to demonstrate the state’s disrespect for its own constitution. This was, 221

222

Jan Matti Dollbaum

for example, the idea behind the “Strategy-​31” movement in the late 2000s, which routinely protested for Article 31 of the Russian Constitution on the right to assemble peacefully and unarmed –​a right that was regularly denied in practice. Third, as was seen during the FFE protests, rallies inspire action and can be used to galvanise supporters. This was demonstrated by Navalny’s campaign in 2013 for the Moscow mayoral elections, in which many former participants of the FFE protests participated as volunteers and paid staff (Smyth and Soboleva 2016). Navalny and Volkov replicated this experience in Navalny’s presidential campaign of 2017. The large anti-​corruption rallies attracted a number of newcomers, many of whom, inspired by the collective action, looked for opportunities for more permanent engagement and found them in Navalny’s offices. Having been continuously frustrated by the authorities in his attempts to register a party, Navalny used this chance to build at least a de facto party –​a country-​wide and organisational structure fully independent of the Kremlin, something unprecedented under Putin. Such a structure that could have credibly positioned itself as a political alternative during later potential regime crises was critically absent during the FFE protests. This was Navalny’s attempt to create it –​and protest was a strategic part of it (Dollbaum et al 2021). In other, less top-​down organised cases than Navalny’s, channelling protest momentum into organisational development proved difficult. The partial liberalisation of party registration laws, which President Medvedev had offered as concessions in the winter of 2011–​12, led to a flurry of new parties, some of which, such as the “Party of December 5”, sought to attract the protest audience and institutionalise the movement. But this turn to institutional politics came “premature[ly]” (Lasnier 2017), as these parties completely lacked the necessary resources and could not amass any public support –​partly because protesters did not see themselves as opposition in the first place. Comparative research has shown that the FFE protests fell short of their potential on the local level, too: whether new permanent groups and organisations were established depended to a large degree on how emerging conflicts over content and representation with the long-​standing activists in the regions were dealt with (Dollbaum 2020a). Therefore, the FFE movement came to be perceived largely as a failure by those who had expected it to usher in a new phase of democratic opposition. This view is difficult to argue with as far as organisation-​building is concerned (with the potential exception of Navalny’s network). However, the fact that the FFE and other protests brought many individuals into activism is no small feat in itself, especially in a political regime that actively seeks to demobilise and demoralise independent political action.

Politicising protest In addition to calling for explicitly political goals, opposition actors have often tried to politicise existing mobilisation. But this has time and again proven to be a difficult endeavour. Claims about power distribution are often strategically avoided to escape repression or to increase the chances of success. During the pension protests, for example, the FNPR as well as the elite of the Communist Party stayed clear of attacking the regime. The same is true for a series of smaller mobilisations in the Russian regions in 2019 that remained explicitly non-​political and sometimes brought notable results: the protests for Moscow journalist Ivan Golunov led the police to drop fabricated charges of drug possession; citizens in the north-​western region of Arkhangelsk and the Komi Republic successfully defended their woodlands against a planned disposal site for Moscow’s waste; and citizens of Ekaterinburg blocked the construction of a monumental cathedral on a central green space.5 These protests were very similar to those observed by Karine Clément in the 2000s: people defended themselves against the intrusion 222

223

Protest and opposition

of state or business into their lives but refrained from abstracting their causes to higher political levels. Similarly, labour protest (i.e. protest strictly addressed at conflicts with employers), which has multiplied since the financial crisis of 2008–​9, has been able to extract at least partial concessions in an impressive 23 percent of cases (calculation used Petr Bizyukov’s (2021) data on labour protest available at www.disc​uss-​data.net). It is therefore no wonder that citizens often strategically distance themselves from politics proper. Sometimes, protesters reject the politicisation of their grievances not for strategic reasons but because they perceive politics as something that is genuinely alien to their cause, or because they suspect politicians of being mainly interested in using the case for their own purposes (see the interview with Mischa Gabowitsch on dekoder.org [2019]).When asked what made Arkhangelsk’s protests against the waste disposal site special, a protester proudly stated that “this is completely driven by ordinary people … There are no political forces behind it, unlike what’s usually the case” (dekoder.org 2019). The consequence of this sometimes exaggerated and sometimes well-​founded hesitancy has been an extreme difficulty for opposition actors to connect with civic protest campaigns. Stephen Crowley and Irina Olimpieva write on the truckers’ protests in early 2016: Some of the opposition groups that had been behind the 2011/​2012 protests –​both on the left and the right –​tried to unite with the truckers, in order to combine economic with political demands to bring about substantial change in Russia. But the truckers would have none of it. Crowley and Olimpieva 2016 This does not mean that the truckers did not become politicised –​indeed, during later strike actions, they called for the government’s resignation and a leader announced that he would run for president (Crowley and Olimpieva 2018). But it means that coalitions between disaffected social groups and established opposition actors who seek to channel that disaffection into political demands are very rare (on the trucker protests, see also Østbø 2017). This is demonstrated by countless examples, such as the doctors’ strike of 2014 or the movement against the demolition of Stalin-​era apartment blocks in Moscow in 2017 (Lasnier 2018). The authoritarian regime has benefited from the mistrust that many citizens harbour against political actors. But it has also actively undermined coalition building. This has included maintaining a “sharp discursive divide between (legitimate) economic and (illegitimate) political protest” (Østbø 2017: 279). Strategic differences arising from different positions in the political system –​co-​opted and tolerated opposition versus extra-​systemic forces –​have added to that difficulty and prevented broad opposition alliances even in cases such as the pension reform, where the public would likely have endorsed more decisive joint action (Dollbaum 2021).

Protest and opposition –​two forms of the same threat? Yet, even in a situation such as the current one, where negative coalitions are unrealistic, resources are scarce, and trust in collective action is low, the regime has opted to place further constraints on protest by gradually intensifying both the severity and the public visibility of repression, increasingly treating protest and independent opposition as two forms of the same threat. But a tightening legal environment for protest means that authorities in the regions have more tools at their disposal to reign in protest that is not considered a direct challenge to the power distribution. In the long run, making protest more dangerous might thus lead to a reduction in its use across the board –​and thereby to a further decrease in civic participation 223

224

Jan Matti Dollbaum

–​but also in the regime’s direct sources of information on citizens’ grievances. Spontaneous, economically motivated protests are far from ruled out in the future, particularly if sanctions after Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine trigger greater economic hardship for many. Still, the increase in the breadth and severity of repression has made it difficult to imagine that an oppositional force would try to make public protest part of their strategy any time soon.

Notes 1 This slogan, likely the most famous of the movement, was coined by anti-​corruption activist Aleksei Navalny in February 2011 as part of his strategy of tactically voting for any party except United Russia. 2 For detailed analyses of slogans used in these protests, see Gabowitsch (2016), Arkhipova and Alekseevsky (2014), and Aliukov et al (2015). 3 Gabowitsch (2016) sees an additional driver of this change in the fact that, in the 2000s, the re-​ strengthened central state could again be held responsible for grievances. 4 For a more detailed account of protest during the war, see the second, updated, edition of Dollbaum et al (2021) that appeared in September 2022. 5 For a short video with activists’ commentary and other material on these and other protests, see the interactive digital documentation project by dekoder.org (2019).

References Aliukov, M.L., S.V. Erpyleva, A.A. Zhelnina, O. Zhuravlev and M.A. Zavadskaia (eds.) (2015), Politika apolitichnykh: grazhdanskie dvizheniia v Rossii 2011–​2013 godov (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie). Arkhipova, A. and M. Alekseevsky (eds.) (2014), “My ne nemy”: antropologiya protesta v Rossii 2011–​2012 godov (Tartu: ELM Scientific Publishing House). BBC News Russian (2021), “Sud zapretil chetyrem zhurnalistam studencheskogo izdaniya DOXA vykhodit’ iz doma”, BBC News Russkaya sluzhba, 14 April, www.bbc.com/​russ​ian/​news-​56743​195. Beissinger, M.R. (2002), Nationalist Mobilization and the Collapse of the Soviet State (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Bizyukov, P. (2021), “Monitoring of Labour Protests in Russia”, https://​doi.org/​10.48320/​92146​337-​ 4C95-​4036-​9014-​A8F8B​33BA​0DC. Borisov, V. and S. Clarke (1996), “The Russian Miners’ Strike of February 1996”, Capital & Class 20, 2: 23–​30. Clément, K. (2007), “Vyzov vlastnym otnosheniyam. Grazhdanskiye protestnyye dvizheniya v zakrytoi politicheskoi sisteme”, Svobodnaya mysl’, No. 1: 86–​97. Clément, K. (2015), “Unlikely Mobilisations: How Ordinary Russian People Become Involved in Collective Action”, European Journal of Cultural and Political Sociology 2, 3-​4: 211–​40. Crowley, S. (1997), “Coal Miners and the Transformation of the USSR”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 13, 2: 167–​95. Crowley, S. and I. Olimpieva (2016), “Is Putin about to Face a ‘Colored Revolution’?”, Washington Post, 2 October, www.was​hing​tonp​ost.com/​news/​mon​key-​cage/​wp/​2016/​02/​10/​is-​putin-​about-​to-​face-​ a-​colo​red-​rev​olut​ion/​. Crowley, S. and I. Olimpieva (2018), “Labor Protests and Their Consequences in Putin’s Russia”, Problems of Post-​Communism 65, 5: 344–​58. dekoder.org (2019), “Protests in Russia –​a Dekoder Special”, https://​prot​est.deko​der.org/​en. Dollbaum, J.M. (2020a), “When Does Diffusing Protest Lead to Local Organization Building? Evidence from a Comparative Subnational Study of Russia’s ‘For Fair Elections’ Movement”, Perspectives on Politics: 1–​16, https://​doi.org/​10.1017/​S15375​9272​0002​443. Dollbaum, J.M. (2020b), “Protest Trajectories in Electoral Authoritarianism: From Russia’s ‘For Fair Elections’ Movement to Alexei Navalny’s Presidential Campaign”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 36, 3: 192–​210. Dollbaum, J.M. (2021), “Social Policy on Social Media: How Opposition Actors Used Twitter and VKontakte to Oppose the Russian Pension Reform”, Problems of Post-​Communism 68, 6: 509–​20. Dollbaum, J.M., M. Lallouet and B. Noble (2021), Navalny: Putin’s Nemesis, Russia’s Future? (London: Hurst & Company).

224

225

Protest and opposition Evans, A.D. (2016), “Protest Patterns in Provincial Russia: A Paired Comparison of Company Towns”, Studies in Comparative International Development 51, 4: 456–​81. Frye, T. and E. Borisova (2019), “Elections, Protest, and Trust in Government: A Natural Experiment from Russia”, The Journal of Politics 81, 3: 820–​32. Gabowitsch, M. (2016), Protest in Putin’s Russia (Cambridge: Polity Press). Gel’man, V. (2008), “Party Politics in Russia: From Competition to Hierarchy”, Europe-​Asia Studies 60, 6: 913–​30. Greene, S.A. (2013), “Beyond Bolotnaia: Bridging Old and New in Russia’s Election Protest Movement”, Problems of Post-​Communism 60, 2: 40–​52. Greene, S.A. (2014), Moscow in Movement: Power and Opposition in Putin’s Russia (Stanford: Stanford University Press). Greene, S.A. and G.B. Robertson (2019), Putin v. the People: The Perilous Politics of a Divided Russia (New Haven: Yale University Press). Kryshtanovskaya, O.V., V.I. Shalak, M.L. Korostikov and N.S. Evsegneeva (2013), “Analiticheskii otchet o provedenii sotsiologicheskogo issledovaniya ‘Dinamika protestnoi aktivnosti: 2012–​2013’ ”. Lankina, T. (2015), “The Dynamics of Regional and National Contentious Politics in Russia: Evidence from a New Dataset”, Problems of Post-​Communism 62, 1: 26–​44. Lankina, T. (2018), “Lankina Russian Protest Event Dataset”, http://​epri​nts.lse.ac.uk/​90298/​. Lankina, T., K. Watanabe and Y. Netesova (2020), “How Russian Media Control, Manipulate, and Leverage Public Discontent: Framing Protest in Autocracies”, in K.J. Koesel, V.J. Bunce and J.C. Weiss (eds.), Citizens and the State in Authoritarian Regimes (Oxford: Oxford University Press): 137–​64. Lasnier, V. (2017), “Demobilisation and Its Consequences: After the Russian Movement Za Chestnye Vybory”, Europe-​Asia Studies 69, 5: 1–​23. Lasnier, V. (2018), “Russia’s Opposition Movement Five Years After Bolotnaia”, Problems of Post-​ Communism 65, 5: 359–​71. Levada Center (2021), “Protestnyye nastroyeniya”, 9 June 2021, www.lev​ada.ru/​2021/​09/​06/​pro​test​nye-​ nas​toen​iya/​. Moser, E. and A. Skripchenko (2018), “Russian NGOs and Their Struggle for Legitimacy in the Face of the ‘Foreign Agents’ Law: Surviving in Small Ecologies”, Europe-​Asia Studies 70, 4: 591–​614. Olimpieva, I. (2018), “Russian Pension Reform: The Rise and Failure of Organized Protests”, Russian Analytical Digest 225: 14–​16. Østbø, J. (2017), “Between Opportunist Revolutionaries and Mediating Spoilers: Failed Politicization of the Russian Truck Drivers’ Protest, 2015–​2016”, Demokratizatsiya 25, 3: 279–​304. OVD-​Info (2022), “Anti-​voennoe delo”, 5 March (regularly updated). https://​ovd.news/​news/​2022/​03/​ 05/​anti​voen​noe-​delo-​gid-​ovd-​info. Robertson, G.B. (2007), “Strikes and Labor Organization in Hybrid Regimes”, American Political Science Review 101, 4: 781–​98. Robertson, G.B. (2011), The Politics of Protest in Hybrid Regimes: Managing Dissent in Post-​Communist Russia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Robertson, G.B. (2013), “Protesting Putinism: The Election Protests of 2011–​ 2012 in Broader Perspective”, Problems of Post-​Communism 60, 2: 11–​23. Semenov, A. (2021), “Pro-​Navalny Protests Are Breaking Records across Russia”, Riddle, 16 April 2021, https://​r idl.io/​pro-​nava​lny-​prote​sts-​are-​break​ing-​reco​rds-​acr​oss-​rus​sia/​. Sharafutdinova, G. (2014), “The Pussy Riot Affair and Putin’s Démarche from Sovereign Democracy to Sovereign Morality”, Nationalities Papers 42, 4: 615–​21. Sharafutdinova, G. (2020), The Red Mirror: Putin’s Leadership and Russia’s Insecure Identity (New York: Oxford University Press). Smyth, R., A. Sobolev and I. Soboleva (2013), “A Well-​Organized Play: Symbolic Politics and the Effect of the Pro-​Putin Rallies”, Problems of Post-​Communism 60, 2: 24–​39. Smyth, R. and I.V. Soboleva (2016), “Navalny’s Gamesters: Protest, Opposition Innovation, and Authoritarian Stability in Russia”, Russian Politics 1, 4: 347–​71. Tertytchnaya, K. and T. Lankina (2020), “Electoral Protests and Political Attitudes under Electoral Authoritarianism”, The Journal of Politics 82, 1: 285–​99. Turchenko, M. (2021), “One Year in the Life of a Consolidated Personalist Dictatorship”, RIDDLE Russia (blog), 20 December 2021, www.ridl.io/​en/​one-​year-​in-​the-​life-​of-​a-​conso​lida​ted-​pers​onal​ ist-​dicta​tors​hip/​.

225

226

Jan Matti Dollbaum Vedomosti (2019), “ ‘Belyy schetchik’ naschital pochti 50 000 chelovek k okonchaniyu aktsii protesta”, 8 October 2019, www.vedomo​sti.ru/​polit​ics/​news/​2019/​08/​10/​808​541-​belii-​schetc​hik. Volkov, D. (2012), “Protestnyye mitingi v Rossii kontsa 2011–​nachala 2012 gg.: zapros na demokratizatsiyu politicheskikh institutov”, Vestnik obshchestvennogo mneniya. Dannyye. Analiz. Diskussii, No. 2 (112), http://​cyber​leni​nka.ru/​arti​cle/​n/​pro​test​nye-​miti​ngi-​v-​ros​sii-​kon​tsa-​2011-​nach​ala-​2012-​gg-​zap​ros-​ na-​demok​rati​zats​iyu-​politi​ches​kih-​ins​titu​tov. Zhuravlev, O., N. Savelyeva and S. Erpyleva (2014), “Individualizm i solidarnost’ v novykh rossiyskikh grazhdanskikh dvizheniyakh”, Zhurnal issledovanii sotsialnoi politiki: The Journal of Social Policy Studies 12, 2: 185–​200. Zhuravlev, O., N. Savelyeva and S. Erpyleva (2020), “The Cultural Pragmatics of an Event: The Politicization of Local Activism in Russia”, International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society 33, 2: 163–​80.

226

227

20 THE SECURITY SERVICES Kirill Shamiev and Bettina Renz

The role and influence of the Russian security services has been a widely discussed issue since the election of Vladimir Putin as president in 2000. Specifically, the political role of the siloviki has attracted the attention of analysts and academics both in Russia and abroad. The term siloviki is traditionally used in Russian jargon to describe employees of the Russian security services, law-​enforcement and military. In Russia these institutions are referred to collectively as silovye struktury or silovye vedmostva –​shortened to siloviki as a descriptor for their personnel. Literally, silovye struktury translates as “power-​wielding” or “force-​wielding” structures, and terms commonly used to describe these in English-​language analyses are power ministries, force structures, or security apparatus. With Putin’s rise to power, the meaning of the term siloviki became more specific and started to denote politically or economically active individuals with a career background in the security apparatus. However, as this chapter shows, assessing the influence of the security apparatus and of the siloviki on contemporary Russian politics and society is not straightforward. Rather than constituting a coherent bloc or interest group in Russian politics today, the siloviki are a loose group of individuals united by their allegiance to the president and with often similar positions on domestic and international political developments. As such, the term should be used cautiously because it can lead to the oversimplified and misleading notion of a unified siloviki bloc or project.

Developments in the Russian security apparatus since 1991 In accordance with Russian law in the sphere of security and defence, a number of bodies of executive power have under their command uniformed personnel and are allowed to maintain and command militarised formations. The exact composition of the Russian security apparatus remains contested and different characterisations have been offered by a number of analysts (Bacon 2000; Renz 2005; Vendil Pallin 2007; Taylor 2007). Under the presidency of Boris Yeltsin, the number of power ministries ballooned from three (KGB, MVD, and MoD in the USSR) to more than 15 entities. This number was again reduced during various rounds of reforms instigated by Putin since 2000. In total, around 6 percent of the Russian labour force today is employed in the security sector, with 40 percent of them serving in the regular armed forces. This number is higher than it was during the Soviet Union (Petrov 2019). All components of the Russian security apparatus are directly subordinate to the president, leaving DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-22

227

228

Kirill Shamiev and Bettina Renz

the government and the Duma without oversight over the ministries and services responsible for upholding Russian security and defence. Putin also centralised developmental command-​ and-​control powers related to management, salaries, and personnel numbers during his first two presidential terms. By making amendments to major federal laws, the Kremlin allocated direct powers to regulate the security services to the president, ranging from approving the payroll structure to signing off doctrinal documents. Many elements that are traditionally seen as important for a functioning system of civilian control in the West, such as parliamentary oversight, are reduced in contemporary Russia to the passing of laws and signing off of the annual budget on national defence. Even these functions are weak, however, because most of the laws are Kremlin sponsored and the relevant parliamentary committees are not provided with detailed information on the allocation of resources to the MoD and to other security agencies (Gomart 2008: 32). The reduction of civilian control over the security sector to presidential control has meant that the sector’s accountability to society is very low. This has strengthened the notion that the security apparatus constitutes a “presidential bloc” that is used by the civilian elite for gaining and holding on to power (Vendil Pallin 2007: 3). All components of the security sector, the most significant of which are outlined in the following sections, belong to the presidential bloc.

KGB successor organisations The Federal Security Service (FSB) is the major institutional successor of the Soviet KGB and the largest and most prominent of the Russian security services. Putin served as its director from 1998 until his appointment as prime minister in August 1999. The FSB does not have the status of a ministry but is a federal service headed by a director who is answerable directly to the president. The FSB’s tasks are wide ranging and reflect the variety of structures under its command. They include intelligence and counterintelligence activities such as signal intelligence, dealing with organised crime on a national and international level (including economic cases), guarding state borders, ensuring information security, and counterterrorism. The FSB can be called a quasi-​military organisation, as it employs both civilian and military personnel. Its most militarised elements are the special assignment units (spetsnaz), Alfa and Vympel. These units were involved in all major counter-​terrorist operations in Russia (Renz 2005). They were also deployed to Syria as a special force hunting down rebel commanders (Murtazin 2020). In 2020, a joint investigation by The Insider, Bellingcat and Der Spiegel claimed that operatives of the Vympel unit assassinated former Chechen insurgent Zelimkhan Khangoshvili in the centre of Berlin (The Insider 2020). The FSB has also developed significant signals intelligence capabilities. Apart from ordinary agents eavesdropping on individuals’ electronic communications, the FSB manages the SORM system (System for Operative Investigative Activities). This system monitors all telephone and internet connections and gathers personal data on users’ actions (Whittaker 2019). Recent developments indicate that the FSB has developed the capabilities required to inspect communications on a large scale and to deny any user in the country access to any website (Karl 2021). The FSB also operates GosSOPKA (a state system for detecting, preventing, and eliminating the consequences of computer attacks on information resources), a system intended to prevent and protect Russia’s critical infrastructure from cyber-​attacks. GosSOPKA coordinates Russia’s cyber defence efforts via the National Coordination Centre for Computer Incidents (NCCCI) (Kari 2019). The main direction of Russia’s cyber policy is to build an autonomous and secure segment of the internet that is transparent for the state and does not rely on Western technologies and infrastructure. 228

229

The security services

The FSB has undoubtedly become an important pillar of Putin’s regime. Its vast intelligence capabilities have been used against domestic political targets, such as, for example, Aleksei Navalny, who was poisoned by a military-​g rade substance in the summer of 2020. An independent investigation revealed that agents from the FSB’s secretive special substances unit had been following Navalny for several months before the assassination attempt. A lesser reported aspect of the FSB’s activities are its investigative and enforcement capabilities in the banking, customs, and business sectors. Agents of the Fourth Directorate (The Service of Economic Security) are closely intertwined with major Russian banks and corporations. This gives the FSB an incomparable advantage to control financial flows and extract informal extra-​ budgetary funds for its operational purposes. The Fourth Directorate also watches ministries and government agencies under the anticorruption mandate (Dossier Centre 2020a). Nikolai Patrushev (director of the FSB between 1999 and 2008) and Alexander Bortnikov (director since 2008) have served as the heads of the Fourth Directorate in the past (Sergeev 2021). The Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) is another successor organisation of the Soviet KGB. Its functions are similar to those of its foreign counterparts –​for example, the CIA or the British MI6. As such, it can be described as the most “traditional” of Russia’s intelligence agencies, with its main focus on intelligence gathering abroad. SVR operatives are present at every Russian embassy and predominantly focus on foreign nationals. Owing to the nature of its activities, information about the SVR’s establishment strength is classified but has been estimated at 10,000–​15,000 personnel, including approximately 300–​500 special assignment forces –​ Zaslon –​which are used for guarding diplomatic missions and Russian officials visiting zones of conflict (Bennett 2000; Mukhin 2000; Nikolsky 2014). The SVR is a technically minded service, with intelligence gathering constituting the central plank of its activities. The service has not missed the digital revolution in the Russian security sector and has reportedly developed extensive cyber capabilities about which very little is known. The UK and US governments have suspected that APT29, Cozy Bear, and The Dukes cyber groups are acting on behalf of the SVR. These groups were held responsible for the recent Solar Winds, COVID-​19 vaccine producer, and Microsoft cyber surveillance attacks (NCSS et al 2021). The Federal Guard Service (FSO) is also an offshoot of the Soviet KGB. The FSO’s major tasks are to protect the president and other Russian high-​ranking officials, as well as buildings and strategically important infrastructure. The FSO has a clear military element, as it includes a brigade and two regiments, including the prestigious Presidential Guards regiment. The FSO’s numerical strength has been estimated to be around 30,000 personnel, including 8,000–​9,000 military personnel on protection duty (Nikolsky 2013). Reportedly, the FSO also operates its own polling agency, the Special Communications and Information Service. This prepares internal reports on socio-​political trends in Russia and abroad. Russian journalists have noted that the FSO tends to provide more negative trends than public polling firms and is often in conflict with the FSB over information delivered to the president (Pertsev and Solopov 2020).

The Interior Ministry (MVD) The Russian Interior Ministry, or MVD, is the institutional successor of the Soviet MVD. The range of tasks fulfilled by the MVD’s numerous departments is very broad. Its law-​ ­enforcement element, the police, is tasked with the fighting of crime and other “traditional” police assignments, including road traffic safety. The ministry also has at its disposal several special agencies, which were created to deal with new and emerging security challenges. These include the Main Migration Directorate (since 2016), the Main Directorate for Drugs Control (since 2016), and the Main Directorate for Combating Extremism (Centre “E”). The MVD 229

230

Kirill Shamiev and Bettina Renz

has become the main “street-​level” security ministry, with functions extending beyond traditional policing. Since 2016, the MVD has been responsible for all migration questions, narcotic drugs control, road safety, fighting organised crime, and spying on and detaining dissidents and extremist groups. Centre “E” has become known for its efforts to infiltrate opposition groups and prosecute their members under extremist charges that are also applied to violent religious radicals. The Centre was created in 2008 and was originally designed to fight organised crime, religious terrorism, and right-​wing extremism. After the large-​scale demonstrations in 2011–​12, the Centre was tasked with infiltrating the Russian opposition and political parties, organising surveillance during protests, and monitoring social networks for extremist content. Orders are usually made by the headquarters, but some operatives are reportedly “enthusiastic” about their anti-​opposition activity (Vorontsov 2012). The Centre works in close cooperation with the FSB, which is the main service responsible for political control in Russia but has a limited number of people on the ground. The MVD manages the Russian Interpol office that cooperates with foreign police agencies in fighting international crime, but it also uses these powers to arrest Russian dissidents abroad under the Interpol mandate (Lemon 2019). For much of the post-​Soviet era, the MVD was the second-​largest component of Russia’s security apparatus, after the Ministry of Defence, with more than one million staff. This included a significant militarised element of approximately 200,000 internal (or domestic) troops, a legacy of the Soviet era, which had long been seen as inefficient and in need of reform. In April 2016, these troops were disbanded and their assets and personnel transferred to a new National Guard Service, which also received the MVD’s highly trained riot police OMON and rapid response unit SOBR.

The National Guard The Federal National Guard Service is the youngest addition to Russia’s security apparatus, having been created in April 2016. Although the establishment of the National Guard came as a relative surprise at the time and there had been next to no prior discussion, the option of creating such a service had been floated since the early 1990s as a solution for reforming the inefficient and outdated MVD interior troops. The new service is a sizeable organisation and has been estimated to have between 320,000 and 430,000 personnel, with the former interior troops making up its largest element (Nikolsky 2016; Kramnik and Bogdanov 2016). The National Guard’s remit, according to the relevant presidential decree and federal law, is to ensure the security of the state and society and to protect human rights and the freedom of citizens, to help ensure public order during emergency situations, and to fight against terrorism and extremism (Presidential Decree 157; Federal Law 226-​FZ). However, National Guard troops were deployed in the war in Ukraine, initially acting together with the military’s ground forces but later fulfilling more traditional tasks of protecting infrastructure, fighting Ukrainian resistance, and repressing local communities. The National Guard’s official tasks are not wholly dissimilar to those of comparable organisations elsewhere, such as, for example, the US National Guard. Analysts have cautioned, however, that such services also regularly feature in authoritarian states, especially in situations where incumbent regimes are motivated by perceived threats to the stability of their regime (Kramnik and Bogdanov 2016). As such, the majority of observers, both in Russia and abroad, share the view that the main reason for creating the National Guard in 2016 was not to solve the problem of the to-​date largely unreformed and outdated interior troops, but to strengthen the Kremlin’s tools for protecting regime stability and to quell potential public disorder (Nikolsky 2016). There are concerns that civil society will be the service’s main target and 230

231

The security services

that it was set up in order to subordinate its forces directly to the president. Having removed “the unnecessary link –​that of minister –​between the commander-​in-​chief and the head of the National Guards”, its troops can now be deployed with impunity (The Moscow Times 2016). This context gives further insight into what the National Guard’s abovementioned task of protecting the “human rights and freedoms of citizens” means in the eyes of the Kremlin. As Yurii Baluevskii, a former Chief of the General Staff and adviser to the director of the National Guard, explained it: The National Guards were created not to repress, but to prevent the thoughtless actions of those wishing to destabilise the situation within the country in order to push the state to the same level of, for example, Libya, Syria and Ukraine today. Our task is to protect our citizens, public order and security and, ultimately, to prevent colour revolutions. Baluevskii 2017

The Ministry of Defence The Ministry of Defence (MoD) is the largest component of Russia’s security sector. Its functions include those “traditionally” expected from a country’s armed forces –​the protection of territory and population from external threats and the projection of Russia’s power abroad. Its numerical strength is maintained at approximately one million service members, composed of officers, conscripts, and all-​volunteer soldiers. Since individuals with a career background in the regular armed forces are generally discussed as belonging to the siloviki bloc, the MoD is included in this chapter, although it is not a security service in the Western understanding of the term. Military reforms pursued from 2007 to 2012 radically changed the structure of the armed forces, boosted salaries, and started an unprecedented rearmament program (Bartles 2011; Herspring 2013; Renz 2014; Shamiev 2019). As a part of the reforms, the Special Operations Forces (SSO, sily spetsialnykh operatsii) of the MoD were created in 2009. The SSO became famous as a result of their involvement in the Crimea annexation and on the basis of their reportedly highly effective operations in Syria, where their soldiers provided target support to the air force and assassinated valuable military targets (Woellner 2019; TASS 2017). The SSO act under the direct command of the Chief of the General Staff. The most significant structural change resulting from the reforms was the creation of the National Defence Management Centre (formerly the Central Command Post) in 2014, which was set up to increase cohesiveness and integration within the military and with other security agencies and civilian bodies (Radin et al 2019: 54–​5). The invasion of Ukraine highlighted several serious problems in the Russian military, but any assessment of its capabilities should be put in context and assessed together with the role of other security agencies contributing to the war effort. With the appointment of the civilian and former Federal Tax Service head, Anatoly Serdyukov, as defence minister in 2007, the MoD’s capabilities to influence the political process actually decreased (Smith 2010). It is a quirk of the Russian political system that the minister of defence has two concurrent representative functions: representing the president in the armed forces and the military in the government. A civilian official in charge of the MoD is, thus, less connected to internal military factions and much more a representative of the government. Serdyukov’s successor, Sergei Shoigu, who was appointed defence minister in 2012, has also never served in the military. However, he is regarded as a silovik based on his leadership from 1994 to 2012 of another force structure, the Ministry for Civil Defence and Emergency 231

232

Kirill Shamiev and Bettina Renz

Situations (EMERCOM) (Renz 2018: 92–​7). EMERCOM has never been seen as playing a notable political role. At the same time, the nature of its mostly humanitarian tasks in emergency and crisis response meant that the ministry with Shoigu as its longstanding leader always enjoyed a high degree of public trust. It was probably on this basis that Shoigu was chosen to take up one of the top three positions on the party list of Unity, the predecessor of the pro-​ Kremlin United Russia party, which achieved a surprise victory in the 1999 parliamentary elections. As defence minister, Shoigu used his popularity to improve the armed forces’ public relations by expanding TV and social media presence, which positively contributed to the increase of public trust in and prestige of the military profession (Levada Center 2019). The Russian military today is one of the most well regarded and trusted institutions alongside the president and the FSB. Under Shoigu and his first deputy, Chief of the General Staff General Valerii Gerasimov, the MoD invigorated its activities in foreign affairs. Unable to match the conventional military capabilities of the United States due to economic disparities, the MoD successfully managed to integrate unconventional offensive modes of operation in its military posture. In recent years, the MoD has become infamous for the activities of its intelligence directorate of the General Staff, Glavnoe (formerly –​Razvedyvatelnoe) Upravleniie (GU, formerly GRU). GU’s operatives have been suspected of being responsible for several assassination attempts in Europe, and every Russian embassy officially hosts “military spies” as defence and naval attachés. GU is organisationally separate from the SVR, the official Russian external spying agency, and it is often perceived as the more aggressive and militarised branch of Russian foreign intelligence. GU’s officers reportedly spearheaded the destabilisation in eastern Ukraine, the hacking of Hillary Clinton’s emails, the Salisbury assassination attempt, and the OPCW chemical watchdog hacking attempt (BBC News 2021; Sabbagh 2021: 10). As such, the GU transformed itself from a traditional elite military commando force into a serious spying and sabotage agency. Unusually, the MoD has manned its cyber units with volunteer “soldiers” and tech-​savvy conscripts, who have allegedly been involved in assertive and defensive cyber operations (Ermolin 2019). Due to Russia’s mandatory military service, the MoD can draft young alumni from the best Russian technical universities, offering them comfortable service conditions in front of computers instead of the cold trenches awaiting ordinary infantry troops. The Russian security apparatus has undergone fundamental changes over the last three decades. The need to exercise control over this powerful sector in the aftermath of the collapse of the Soviet Union, as well as power struggles within the Russian polity, influenced the direction of these changes especially in the early post-​Soviet years. The country’s need to adapt its security apparatus to meet the challenges of the changing security environment were another driver for change. For almost two decades, both Yeltsin and Putin prioritised the law enforcement and security services over the regular armed forces when it came to funding and reforms. With the costly and extensive military reforms from 2007 onwards, the relative neglect of the MoD came to an end and conventional military power is yet again seen as a potent instrument of foreign policy. However, the focus on military reforms did not come at the expense of the security services tasked with protecting domestic security and public order. These institutions continue to adapt in response to what Putin has been seeing as a major “new” security challenge: potential internal challenges to the stability of his regime.

The influence of the Russian security apparatus and the role of the siloviki Following Putin’s election as president in 2000, the growing number of siloviki in official posts attracted the attention of analysts both in Russia and abroad, who saw this as evidence that the 232

233

The security services

security apparatus’ political influence was growing. In a seminal study of the Russian political elite in 2003, Olga Kryshtanovskaya and Stephen White found that between 15 and 70 percent of elite posts in various institutions on the federal and regional level were now employed by siloviki. Due to the sheer quantity of siloviki in political positions, they concluded, it would be difficult to avoid transferring the methods inherent in military and security structures to society as a whole (Kryshtanovskaya and White 2003). Other analysts expressed similar concerns, anticipating the effects of an increasingly undemocratic outlook, setting siloviki apart from other politicians because of their “military frame of mind” (Isakova 2002: 221). Some even went as far as to suggest that the increasing number of siloviki in Russian politics denoted a “peaceful military takeover” (Petrov 2002: 88). As one analyst observed, since “the media have seized on this trend … practically every Kremlin policy change construed by the media as ‘anti-​Western’, from Iran policy to back-​tax claims, has been credited to this mythologized [siloviki] clan” (Bremmer and Charap 2006–​7: 83). Further political developments showed that, following Putin’s return to the presidency in 2012, his top advisors almost exclusively were people with FSB, SVR, FSO, and Investigative Committee backgrounds (Soldatov and Rochlitz 2018: 26–​7). It is beyond a doubt that Russia has become increasingly authoritarian since 2000, with intensified repressions against dissidents and more active use of military force abroad. Concerns were expressed not only about what the rising involvement of the power ministries and security services would mean for Russia’s democratic development. Other analysts cautioned that the siloviki also sought to gain influence over the economic process. Daniel Treisman argued that the oligarchs were increasingly squeezed out by representatives of the security services after Putin came to power. In his view, this led to the emergence of a new powerful business elite, which he termed the “silovarchs”. He found that, in 2005, siloviki were dominating the boardrooms of Russian companies whose combined assets accounted for one third of the country’s GDP. Treisman claimed that, under Putin, “industrial and financial capital has fused with secret police networks to produce a new political and economic order.” He concluded that due to the secret services’ tools and intelligence networks at the disposal of these figures, the emerging “silovarchy” further disposed Russia to authoritarian politics (Treisman 2007). Other investigations of the money-​security convergence in Russia showed an overwhelming proliferation of security agents (predominantly representatives of the FSB and MVD) in business and criminal affairs. Joss I. Meakins made an empirically rich argument about the involvement of active and former operatives in organised crime, money laundering, international corruption, and smuggling as part of corruption schemes and for operational reasons (2018: 241–​4). In his view, intra-​and inter-​service rivalries leading to criminal cases and suspicious deaths of security service personnel are evidence of an often-​neglected driver determining the involvement of siloviki in public affairs –​financial greed, rather than ideological positions. Instances of inter-​service rivalry and tension have been noted throughout the post-​Soviet era. The duplication and overlap of functions across several institutions has been a source of division and has led, in the words of the Russian defence analyst Roustam Kaliyev, to “constant competition and interagency ‘war’ ” (Kaliyev 2002). An enabling factor for this has been the fluidity by design of Russian legal norms relating to economic crimes and embezzlement. When two or more security agencies have competing powers –​for example, in the anti-​corruption sector –​they have formal rights and informal incentives (resources, appointments, power) to go after representatives of another service. Once a criminal case is opened, the target has little chance of acquittal due to the dependent nature of Russian courts. In total, just 0.3 percent of public prosecution cases end up acquitted in Russia (Volkov 2013). Therefore, political power, which is largely derived from personal links to Putin, has become a vital source of personal 233

234

Kirill Shamiev and Bettina Renz

safety for representatives of the siloviki. A monopolisation of Russian policy making by the power ministries and security services is therefore highly unlikely due to the ongoing “fragmentation between factions within the siloviki camp” (Shevtsova 2007: 101). Public interest in the siloviki, especially during the early years of Putin’s presidency, produced a large volume of subsequent studies of this group and of their influence on Russian politics and society. Some analysts argued that conclusions about the roles they play, and about the influence of the security apparatus at large, were not as straightforward as often presumed. The fact that democratic freedoms in Russia were increasingly curtailed was not disputed. However, the extent to which this was due to the rising number of siloviki and the growing influence of the security apparatus was not as obvious as sometimes assumed. For example, a study of regional economic development and relations between governors and local FSB heads has not found significant evidence for the special role of siloviki in the regions. The study found, however, that the Kremlin can “supplement” a newly appointed governor with a new regional FSB head to support the governor’s ruling (Yakovlev and Aisin 2019). Other authors have cautioned that analyses should not be based on a priori assumptions about the influence of the security apparatus on Russian politics. In practice, the siloviki are an incoherent conservative group of uniformed elite whose willingness to act independently and proactively in politics is questionable (Taylor 2017). The presumption of a link between siloviki in political posts, the rising influence of the security services, and a more authoritarian policy direction is used too readily as an overarching explanation of political processes in contemporary Russia. It does not do justice to the complexity of the Russian political system and the political processes at work (Bacon et al 2006: 37). Recent research indicates that the domestic security agencies (FSB, MVD, FSO) have the weightiest influence on repressing targets on behalf of Putin. Their autonomous legal influence is rather limited, however, and channelled through selected parliamentarians. Transparency International-​Russia calculated that the influence of security agencies inside the Duma was growing. The seventh convocation of the Duma (2016–​21) had around 19 percent of MPs (86 deputies) acting as lobbyists on behalf of the security agencies. The FSB had 4 percent (20), the MoD –​6 percent (26) (Bulanov and Churakova 2018). On the one hand, the legislative process in the Russian parliament is complicated and requires significant interagency coordination that makes standalone security-​oriented influence difficult and rare (Vinogradova et al 2016). On the other hand, the FSB and FSO, alongside the spying agencies GRU and SVR, have a trump card in Russian politics –​they regularly submit (counter)intelligence reports and briefing notes to the president (Meakins 2018). Since these presidential reports can contain biased and one-​sided information, they have the potential to act as an indirect lever of influence by the respective security services over the Kremlin’s political decision-​making. The FSB has acted in this way, preparing the invasion of Ukraine, feeding unrealistic and biased assessments of the situation in Ukraine to the Kremlin and planting unreliable agents inside the Ukrainian government (Miller and Belton 2022). Some studies found that the portrayal of the siloviki as the dominant power brokers in contemporary Russia underestimates the influence of other groups in the Russian regime. Siloviki have not been the only influential group under Putin’s leadership. A group cited as being close to Putin, in addition to the siloviki, is the so-​called “technocrats”. These are comprised of civilian economists, business people, and lawyers, some of whom Putin had worked with in the St Petersburg city administration and brought into his team when he formed his government in 2000 (Bremmer and Charap 2006–​7: 85). The fact that Dmitry Medvedev, who had been seen as a member of the “technocrats”, became president from 2008 to 2012 gave credence to this observation and demonstrated that the influence of the siloviki was not as all-​embracing as

234

235

The security services

sometimes alleged. Recent research on the siloviki suggests that the dominance of the security elite (the FSB in particular) within Putin’s closest circle is indisputable. However, the broader elite is much more diverse and heterogeneous. Moreover, the available empirical evidence is not sufficient to make qualitative claims about the degree of unilateral and coherent influence of the siloviki on the government (Rivera and Rivera 2018). For example, Serdyukov’s military reforms led to unprecedented conflict in the security community. The MoD alienated leaders of the military-​industrial complex, the FSB, some parts of the military (the Russian Airborne Forces [VDV]), and even the Ministry of Finance (Shamiev 2019). Serdyukov was ultimately ousted in 2012 under corruption charges made by the Military Counter-​Intelligence Directorate of the FSB (Dossier Centre 2020b). Russia has indeed become more securitised, repressive at home, and assertive in foreign policy, but the causes of such behaviour cannot be boiled down to the role of the siloviki in power. Yeltsin, Putin, and Medvedev’s elite composition strategies indicate that this logic is actually reversed. The “recruitment of ministers with political skills to manage the military and coercive agencies as well as key economic client groups” was determined by the presidents’ authoritarian political outlook, and not vice-​versa (Schleiter 2013). Once a Russian president’s commitment to democratic ruling erodes, he tends to hire personally loyal specialists with security experience instead of civilian professionals with broader skillsets and social networks. The idea that elite recruitment in Russia, including the appointment of siloviki to political posts, is steered by the civilian leadership’s political preference is supported by changes following the election of Medvedev. From the outset, he took an explicitly pragmatic stance on the issue, portraying the siloviki as regular participants in Russian political life whose background neither had a positive nor negative impact on their conduct and performance (Renz 2010: 66). Under his leadership, the practice of appointing siloviki to central positions slowed down. In a study of elite transformation in Russia in 2010, Olga Kryshtanovskaya and Gleb Pavlovsky found that Medvedev had replaced more than 60 percent of Kremlin officials since his election, bringing in a new and younger cohort of bureaucrats with civilian backgrounds (Whitmore 2010). The political will of the Russian president has a significant impact on the composition of the top elite, hence the increasingly authoritarian outlook of the country’s political system. In other words, the siloviki are in charge when the president allows them to be. The security apparatus is, without a doubt, an important actor in the Russian system of power. It is also beyond doubt that the security services have been used instrumentally to pursue and implement policies that have led to the serious tightening of democratic freedoms and an increasingly more authoritarian regime. However, it is too simplistic to portray the security services as the driving force behind the Kremlin’s policy making, or to conclude that they are beyond control. Control in Russia lies with the president, to whom the entire security apparatus is subordinated. The extraordinary Russian Security Council meeting on 21 February 2022 preceding the invasion of Ukraine showed how submissive the heads of the Russian security services are in the presence of Putin. The following developments support the notion that the role the siloviki play in Russian politics and society is a symptom of the way in which the country is governed and of the policy priorities of its civilian leadership. But it is not the cause.

Acknowledgements Kirill Shamiev gratefully acknowledges support from the Basic Research Programme of the National Research University Higher School of Economics, Moscow.

235

236

Kirill Shamiev and Bettina Renz

References Note: all hyperlinks last accessed/​checked on 20 January 2022. Bacon, E. (2000), “The Power Ministries”, in N. Robertson (ed.), Institutions and Political Change in Russia (Basingstoke: Macmillan). Bacon, E., B. Renz and J. Cooper (2006), Securitising Russia: The Domestic Politics of Putin (Manchester: Manchester University Press). Baluevskii, Y. (2017), “Voina ne konchaetsia, ona –​zamiraet”, Nezavisimoe voennoe obozrenie, 26 May 2017, http://​nvo.ng.ru/​rea​lty/​2017-​05-​26/​1_​949​_​ros​gvar​dia.html. Bartles, C.K. (2011), “Defense Reforms of Russian Defense Minister Anatolii Serdyukov”, Journal of Slavic Military Studies 24, 1: 55–​80. BBC News (2021), “Why Russia’s GRU Military Intelligence Service is so Feared”, 19 April, www.bbc. com/​news/​world-​eur​ope-​56798​001. Bennett, G. (2000), “The Federal Agency for Government Communications and Information”, Conflict Studies Research Centre Document No. C105. Bremmer, I. and S. Charap (2006–​7), “The Siloviki in Putin’s Russia: Who They Are and What They Want”, The Washington Quarterly 30, 1: 83–​92. Bulanov, K., and O. Churakova (2018), “Kazhdyi piatyi deputat Gosdumy okazalsia lobbistom silovikov”, Vedomosti, 26 August, www.vedomo​sti.ru/​polit​ics/​artic​les/​2018/​08/​28/​779​195-​trans​pere​nsi. Dossier Centre (2020a), “Lubianskaia Federatsiya. Kak FSB opredeliaet politiku i ekonomiku Rossii”, Dossier, https://​fsb.doss​ier.cen​ter/​rep​ort/​. Dossier Centre (2020b), “Otstavka Serdyukova”, FSB (blog), 9 April, https://​fsb.doss​ier.cen​ter/​serdu​kov/​. Ermolin, A. (2019), “Sergei Ivanov”, Voennyi sovet (Moscow: Ekho Moskvy). https://​echo.msk.ru/​progr​ ams/​voenso​vet/​2509​407-​echo/​. Federal Law 226-​FZ (2016), O voiskakh natsional’noi gvardii Rossiiskoi Federatsii, 3 July, https://​rg.ru/​2016/​ 07/​06/​gvar​dia-​dok.html. Gomart, T. (2008), Russian Civil-​Military Relations: Putin’s Legacy (Washington: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace). Herspring, D. (2013), “Anatoly Serdyukov and the Russian Military”, Problems of Post-​Communism 60, 6: 42–​58, https://​doi.org/​10.2753/​PPC1​075-​821​6600​604. Isakova, I. (2002), “The Evolution of Civil-​Military Relations in Russia”, in A. Cottey, T. Edmunds and A. Forster (eds.), Democratic Control of the Military in Postcommunist Europe: Guarding the Guards (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). Kaliyev, R. (2002), “Can ‘Power Ministries’ be reformed?”, Perspective 13, 1. Kari, M.J. (2019), “Russian Strategic Culture in Cyberspace: Theory of Strategic Culture –​a Tool to Explain Russia’s Cyber Threat Perception and Response to Cyber Threats”, Dissertation, University of Jyväskylä, Finland, https://​jyx.jyu.fi/​bitstr​eam/​han​dle/​123456​789/​65402/​978-​951-​39-​7837-​2_​va​ itos​_​201​9_​10​_​11_​jyx.pdf. Karl, B. (2021), “Russia Ramps Up Censorship Beef with Twitter Using Deep Packet Inspection Tech”, Techdirt (blog), 8 April, www.techd​irt.com/​artic​les/​20210​407/​0953​0646​567/​rus​sia-​ramps-​up-​cen​sors​ hip-​beef-​with-​twit​ter-​using-​deep-​pac​ket-​ins​pect​ion-​tech.shtml. Kramnik, I. and K. Bogdanov (2016), “Kardinal’nye gvardeitsy: v Rossii sozdali parallel’nuyu armiyu”, lenta.ru news service, 6 April, https://​lenta.ru/​artic​les/​2016/​04/​06/​ng/​. Kryshtanovskaya, O. and S. White (2003), “Putin’s Militocracy”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 19, 4: 289–​306. Lemon, E. (2019), “Weaponizing Interpol”, Journal of Democracy 30, 2: 15–​29, https://​doi.org/​10.1353/​ jod.2019.0019. Levada Center (2019), “Rekordnoe chislo rossiian nazvalo sluzhbu v armii obiazannost’iu muzhchiny”, www.lev​ada.ru/​2019/​06/​18/​rekord​noe-​chi​slo-​rossi​yan-​nazv​ali-​sluz​hbu-​v-​armii-​obyaza​nnos​tyu-​ muzhch​iny/​. Meakins, J.I. (2018), “Squabbling Siloviki: Factionalism Within Russia’s Security Services”, International 70, https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​08850​607. Journal of Intelligence and CounterIntelligence 31, 2: 235–​ 2018.1417​525. Miller, G. and C. Belton (2022), “Russia’s Spies Misread Ukraine and Misled Kremlin as War Loomed”, Washington Post, 19 August, www.was​hing​tonp​ost.com/​world/​inte​ract​ive/​2022/​rus​sia-​fsb-​intel​lige​ nce-​ukra​ine-​war/​. Mukhin, A. (2000), Spetssluzhby Rossii i “bol’shaia politika” (Moscow: SPIK-​Tsentr).

236

237

The security services Murtazin, I. (2020), “Ikh dobivali, strelyaya v upor. V gibeli chetyrekh ofitserov spetsnaza FSB v Sirii ne oboshlos’ bez predatel’stva: versiya”, Novaya gazeta, 5 February, https://​novay​agaz​eta.ru/​artic​les/​2020/​ 02/​04/​83766-​ih-​dobiv​ali-​strely​aya-​v-​upor. NCSS, CISA, FBI and NSA (2021), “Joint Advisory: Further TTPs Associated with SVR Cyber Actors”, Advisory, National Cyber Security Centre, www.ncsc.gov.uk/​files/​Advis​ory%20Furt​her%20T​TPs%20 ass​ocia​ted%20w​ith%20SVR%20cy​ber%20act​ors.pdf. Nikolsky, A. (2013), “The Russian Federal Drug Control Service”, Moscow Defense Brief 38, 6. Nikolsky, A. (2014), “Russian ‘Spetsnaz’ Forces –​From Saboteurs to Court Bailiffs”, Moscow Defense Brief 39, 1. Nikolsky, A. (2016), “Russia’s New National Guard: Foreign, Domestic and Personal Aspects”, Moscow Defense Brief 52, 2. Pertsev, A. and M. Solopov (2020), “What Putin Reads: Vital Policymaking in Russia Relies on Sociological Research Conducted by the Secret Service. Here’s How It Works”, Meduza, 17 July, https://​med​uza.io/​en/​feat​ure/​2020/​07/​17/​what-​putin-​reads. Petrov, N. (2002), “Seven Faces of Putin’s Russia: Federal Districts as the New Level of State-​Territorial Composition”, Security Dialogue 33, 1: 73–​91. Petrov, N. (2019), “20 let Putina: transformatsiya silovikov”, Vedomosti, 21 August, www.vedomo​sti.ru/​ opin​ion/​artic​les/​2019/​08/​21/​809​260-​tran​sfor​mats​iya-​eliti. Presidential Decree 157 (2016), Voprosy Federal’noi sluzhby voisk natsional’noi gvardii Rossiiskoi Federatsii, 5 April. Radin, A., L.E. Davis, E. Geist, E. Han, D. Massicot, M. Povlock and C. Reach (2019), “The Future of the Russian Military: Russia’s Ground Combat Capabilities and Implications for U.S.-​Russia Competition”, RAND Corporation, www.rand.org/​pubs/​resea​rch_​repo​rts/​RR3​099.html. Renz, B. (2005), “Russia’s ‘Force Structures’ and the Study of Civil-​Military Relations”, Journal of Slavic Military Studies 18, 4: 559–​85 Renz, B. (2010), “Civil-​Military Relations and the Security Apparatus”, in M. Galeotti (ed.), The Politics of Security in Modern Russia (Farnham: Ashgate). Renz, B. (2014), “Russian Military Capabilities after 20 Years of Reform”, Survival 56, 3: 61–​84 Renz, B. (2018), Russia’s Military Revival (Cambridge: Polity Press). Rivera, D.W. and S. Werning Rivera (2018), “The Militarization of the Russian Elite under Putin”, Problems of Post-​Communism 65, 4: 221–​32. Sabbagh, D. (2021), “Only 10% of Russian Spy Operations in Europe Uncovered, Says Former MI6 Chief ”, The Guardian, 19 April, www.theg​uard​ian.com/​world/​2021/​apr/​19/​uk-​gov​ernm​ent-​regis​ trat​ion-​sch​eme-​fore​ign-​spies-​boris-​john​son. Schleiter, P. (2013), “Democracy, Authoritarianism, and Ministerial Selection in Russia: How Presidential Preferences Shape Technocratic Cabinets”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 29, 1: 31–​55, https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​ 10605​86X.2013.778​544. Sergeev, S. (2021), “Iz SeBa —​v zamy”, Kommersant, 4 March, www.kom​mers​ant.ru/​doc/​4713​238. Shamiev, K. (2019), “Against a Bitter Pill: The Role of Interest Groups in Armed Forces Reform in Russia”, Armed Forces & Society 47, 2: 319–​42, https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​00953​27X1​9852​648. Shevtsova, L. (2007), Russia: Lost in Transition –​The Yeltsin and Putin Legacies (Washington DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace). Smith, M. (2010), “The Politics of Security”, in M. Galeotti (ed.), The Politics of Security in Modern Russia (Farnham: Ashgate): 29–​49. Soldatov, A. and M. Rochlitz (2018), “The Siloviki in Russian Politics”, in D. Treisman (ed.), The New Autocracy: Information, Politics, and Policy in Putin’s Russia (Washington DC: The Brookings Institution): 83–​108, www.brooki​ngs.edu/​book/​the-​new-​autocr​acy/​. TASS (2017), “Defense Chief Praises Russian Military’s Success in Syria”, 22 February, https://​tass.com/​ defe​nse/​932​437. Taylor, B.D. (2007), Russia’s Power Ministries: Coercion and Commerce (Syracuse University, Institute for National Security and Counterterrorism). Taylor, B.D. (2017), “The Russian Siloviki & Political Change,” Daedalus 146, 2: 53–​63, https://​doi.org/​ 10.1162/​DAED_​a_​00​434. The Insider (2020), “ ‘V’ znachit ‘Vympel’. Kak TsSN FSB organizoval ubiistvo Khangoshvili v Berline”, 14 February, https://​the​ins.ru/​polit​ika/​201​728. The Moscow Times (2016), “Putin’s Personal Army: Analysts on Russia’s National Guard”, 7 April, https://​ the​mosc​owti​mes.com/​artic​les/​put​ins-​perso​nal-​army-​analy​sts-​on-​russ​ias-​natio​nal-​guard-​52445.

237

238

Kirill Shamiev and Bettina Renz Treisman, D. (2007), “Putin’s Silovarchs”, Orbis 51, 1: 141–​53 Vendil Pallin, C. (2007), “The Russian Power Ministries: Tools and Insurance of Power”, Journal of Slavic Military Studies 20, 1: 1–​25 Vinogradova, E., P. Kantyshev and E. Ser’gina (2016), “Kto mozhet zarabotat’ na zakone Yarovoi”, Vedomosti, 21 August, www.vedomo​sti.ru/​tec​hnol​ogy/​artic​les/​2016/​08/​22/​653​895-​kto-​zar​abot​aet-​ zak​one-​yaro​voi. Volkov, V. (2013), “Tsena i risk opravdatel’nogo prigovora dlya sud’i kraine vysoki”, https://​pravo.ru/​rev​ iew/​view/​89070/​?=​138​0813​087. Vorontsov, V. (2012), “Chto sotrudniki Tsentra ‘E’ delayut na mitingakh? Pochemu oni vse odinakovye? Otkuda berutsya dela za reposty?”, Interview by Pavel Merzlikin, https://​med​uza.io/​feat​ure/​2019/​ 08/​23/​chto-​sot​r udn​iki-​tsen​tra-​e-​dela​yut-​na-​mitin​gah-​poch​emu-​oni-​vse-​odi​nako​vye-​otk​uda-​berut​ sya-​dela-​za-​repo​sty. Whitmore, B. (2010), “Medvedev’s ‘Krysha’”, Radio Free Europe/​Radio Liberty, October, www.rferl. org/​cont​ent/​Medve​devs​_​Kry​sha/​2182​905.html. Whittaker, Z. (2019), “Documents Reveal How Russia Wiretaps Phone Companies”, TechCrunch (blog), 18 September, https://​soc​ial.tec​hcru​nch.com/​2019/​09/​18/​rus​sia-​sorm-​nokia-​surve​illa​nce/​. Woellner, B.P. (2019), “The Advent of the Russian Special Operations Command”, Army Command and General Staff College, Fort Leavenworth, United States, https://​apps.dtic.mil/​sti/​citati​ons/​ AD1083​710. Yakovlev, A. and A. Aisin (2019), “Friends or Foes? The Effect of Governor-​Siloviki Interaction on Economic Growth in Russian Regions”, Russian Politics 4, 4: 520–​45, https://​doi.org/​10.1163/​2451-​ 8921-​00404​005.

238

239

21 THE MILITARY Jennifer G. Mathers

The Russian military has been one of the biggest beneficiaries of Vladimir Putin’s return to the presidency in 2012. Funded to levels unimaginable during the 1990s, the Russian armed forces have enjoyed a resurgence of prestige and support among civilian society shaped by performance in the field, especially the professional and disciplined behaviour of the so-​called “polite people” during the 2014 annexation of Crimea. Foreign observers have been impressed by a sustained period of military reform that includes regular large-​scale exercises, the production of modernised weapons systems and the effective use of military force to support foreign policy aims. By the early 2020s it looked as though Russia had finally created a military both at ease with its position in Russia’s social and political structures and fit for a state that aspires –​and claims –​to be a great power. The performance of Russia’s military in the large-​scale invasion of Ukraine that began in February 2022 has caused a significant reassessment of that view. Russia struggled to overcome the mismatch between the aims of its “special military operation” and the capabilities deployed to achieve them and, in the process, displayed a series of weaknesses that contributed to heavy early losses of both equipment and personnel. The brutality shown towards the civilian population was particularly shocking, as was the military’s abandoning of the bodies of many of its own slain soldiers and its failure to keep families informed of the fates of their loved ones in uniform. At the time of writing, the invasion of Ukraine is in progress, but whatever the outcome, the damage done to Russia’s reputation as a formidable military power is likely to be long-​lasting and difficult to reverse.

The lost years of the 1990s The armed forces experienced the first decade of Russia’s existence as an independent, post-​ Soviet state as confusion, chaos and a desperate attempt to survive in utterly new circumstances. Unmoored from its previous anchoring in a system of ideological control and formal subordination to its political masters through Communist Party rule and starved of resources from the state and respect from society, the armed forces struggled to find its place in the new political, economic and social order. The Russian military was created by an order of President Boris Yeltsin in May 1992. From the very beginning it had to contend with a host of legacies from its Soviet predecessor. The DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-23

239

240

Jennifer G. Mathers

substance of Russia’s armed forces was cobbled together from elements of the USSR’s military that had not been claimed by other Soviet successor states to be the foundations for their new national forces. This was true not only of weapons, equipment and bases but also personnel; tens of thousands of soldiers and officers left to serve in the armed forces of other newly independent states (Miller 2004). The reputation of Russia’s military similarly was tainted by the revelations of brutality and incompetence that had emerged during Gorbachev’s leadership. His policy of glasnost or openness was designed to shine a light on Soviet practices and institutions to generate popular support for political change. Few institutions were as much in need of radical change as the armed forces. Stories published by newly empowered investigative journalists about the primitive living conditions, shortages of food, brutal commanding officers and dedovshchina –​ the systematic bullying and torture of conscripts at the hands of their fellows –​shocked and horrified ordinary Soviet citizens, especially young men approaching conscription age and their families (Herspring 2006). Draft-​dodging became endemic, enabled by Committees of Soldiers’ Mothers: a loose network of grassroots organisations that campaigned against compulsory military service and brutality in the armed forces and provided advice on avoiding conscription to desperate teenagers and their parents (Caiazza 2002). The establishment of a new military institution, combined with a dramatically changed external threat environment caused by the end of the Cold War and the (albeit short-​lived) expectation of a new partnership with the West, created an opportunity to cast Russia’s armed forces in a new mould. This would have been the ideal time for visionary political leadership to rethink the principles behind official statements of military doctrine and strategy and to create a smaller, professional force designed and equipped to meet post-​Cold War security challenges, such as low intensity conflicts on the edges of Russia’s new borders. To say that this opportunity was missed is a very considerable understatement. Boris Yeltsin was far from a visionary leader when it came to Russia’s armed forces. His concern with the military as an institution lay in whether it would support him in a series of internal power struggles that were fought throughout the 1990s. But while Yeltsin did succeed in using the military to defeat his political opponents in Russia’s parliament in October 1993, the Ministry of Defence received no discernible “reward”. The defence budget continued to decline precipitously. The procurement of new weapons and equipment virtually halted as the Defence Ministry lacked the funds to place orders with defence manufacturers. In 1992 defence procurement contracts were cut by 65 percent and by the late 1990s the armed forces were not able to commission new tanks, artillery, ships, submarines or combat aircraft (Locksley 2001). The salaries of soldiers and officers were months late being paid. Military bases –​including bases housing nuclear missiles –​had their electricity cut off because they could not afford to pay their bills. Newspapers reported horrific stories of soldiers and sailors starving because their units were allocated neither food nor the money to buy it. Conscripts deserted and officers resigned to take jobs in the private sector (Duggleby 1998). An element of volunteer service, or service by contract, was introduced in 1992 in an effort to shore up recruitment, but it was not an unqualified success. Those who came forward to serve under contract tended to be the very people who struggled to find employment in the civilian economy: the poorly educated, those who were addicted to drugs or alcohol, those with criminal records, and women (Dick 1997). But while contract service brought a new demographic into the ranks of the armed forces, the Ministry of Defence had no idea what to do with tens of thousands of women soldiers. This was in part a failure of imagination, as young women did not fit the image of the ideal soldier cherished by the high command, although there was also a practical element involved. Labour legislation designed to protect women in

240

241

The military

their childbearing years limited the duties that women soldiers could legally be assigned, effectively prohibiting them from combat roles (Mathers 2006). By the mid-​1990s it was clear that Yeltsin and the political leadership were unwilling or unable to address the urgent, material needs of the military, let alone provide a vision for its future development. In a bold move, Defence Minister Pavel Grachev called upon officers to stand in the December 1995 Duma elections to represent the interests of the military directly. But while 123 officers stood as Ministry of Defence candidates and more than 40 others stood as candidates for political parties, in the end only 22 were elected, and only two of these were official MoD candidates (Thomas 1996). Individual former officers became politically prominent as governors of regions or as Duma deputies, and one former general, Lev Rokhlin, established a “Movement in Support of the Army, Defence Industry and Military Science” with affiliations to more than 150 organisations across Russia, but it failed to make a significant political impact and faded from the scene after Rokhlin’s death in 1998. Despite concerns at the time that the ideal conditions for a military coup were in place, the armed forces never came together as a cohesive and effective actor, even to fight for their own interests. Instead, the belief that the military should remain outside politics was deeply entrenched and never seriously challenged by the officer corps (Taylor 2001).

War in Chechnya: 1994–​96 The first real test of Russia’s new military came in the mid-​1990s when Yeltsin used the armed forces to prevent Chechnya from seceding from the Russian Federation. It was a test that the Russian Ministry of Defence failed decisively. Its inability to contain and defeat a small-​scale insurgency on Russia’s own territory laid bare a range of weaknesses, while the brutal treatment of both Russian conscripts and local civilians at the hands of the armed forces marked a further step in the alienation of the military from society. Chechnya had been a problem for Moscow ever since the failure of the August 1991 coup attempt, and the collapse of Communist Party rule provided former Soviet Air Force colonel Dzhokar Dudaev and his supporters with the opportunity to declare independence. Chechnya was not only a breakaway region but a source of criminal activity and instability in a volatile region. Yeltsin’s decision to use a military invasion of Chechnya followed an unsuccessful attempt at a covert operation aimed at bringing to power a leadership that Yeltsin believed he could work with. The invasion was planned to begin with an assault on the Chechen capital Grozny on 31 December 1994. From the beginning Russia’s senior military leadership was divided on the operation, with several deputy ministers sceptical about the feasibility of a military solution to the problem of Chechnya and reportedly excluded from important planning meetings, while Minister of Defence Pavel Grachev promised Yeltsin a quick and easy victory (Evangelista 2002). Things began to go wrong almost from the outset. Under-​strength regiments had been filled out with soldiers drawn from other parts of the army and given no time to train together. Military equipment quickly showed the effects of years of poor maintenance, while communications were inadequate to the task of carrying out combined arms operations. Russian tanks attempting to take control of Grozny were ambushed by Chechen fighters (Seely 2001). Russians and Chechens alike changed tactics and the war degenerated into a brutal bloodbath: Russian artillery flattened buildings and killed civilians while Chechen fighters combined ambushes and raids on Russian military installations with attacks on soft targets, such as the 1995 hostage taking at a hospital in Budyonnovsk.

241

242

Jennifer G. Mathers

The failings of the Russian military in Chechnya were on display to ordinary citizens. Both Russian and foreign journalists had virtually unlimited access to the war zone, including to Chechen rebels, who were eager to tell their side of the story. Interviews with Russian soldiers revealed the lack of preparation for the initial assault on Grozny, including confusion over basic information about their mission (Thomas 1997). Among the most extraordinary sights broadcast to viewers in Russia was that of ordinary women –​the mothers of Russian soldiers sent to war –​going to the front lines to demand the return of their sons and news of those who were missing in action (Zawilski 2006). The combination of poor performance in planning and waging the war and indifference to the fate of Russia’s soldiers displayed by the Ministry of Defence further undermined the reputation of the armed forces in the eyes of ordinary Russians. The war also came in for criticism from within the Ministry of Defence. More than 500 officers either resigned in protest against the way that the war was being waged or were sacked for refusing to follow orders. Chechnya thus cost Russia many of its most promising and independent-​minded officers. Their loss not only had an immediate impact on Russia’s ability to conduct the war; it also set back the cause of military reform by removing the only significant constituency within the armed forces for meaningful change. For the remainder of the 1990s, reform of the military was focused on reductions in overall numbers (largely achieved through spontaneous wastage) and high-​level organisational changes that did little to address fundamental issues that would improve combat readiness.

Recognising the scale of the problem: Vladimir Putin’s first presidency On 31 December 1999 Boris Yeltsin resigned as president and appointed his prime minister Vladimir Putin as acting president until the elections due in March 2000. The new top man in the Kremlin was already popular with the military for his tough stance on Chechnya, where fighting had resumed following an incursion by Chechen fighters into neighbouring Dagestan in August 1999 and a series of bombings of apartment buildings in Moscow and other Russian cities in September that the Kremlin blamed on Chechen terrorists. Putin’s first full day as acting president was spent visiting Russian troops in Chechnya –​a sharp contrast to Yeltsin, who had never ventured anywhere near the combat zone. In another contrast to his predecessor, Putin made it clear that he would give the Ministry of Defence and the other security services a free hand to carry out operations as they saw fit. It comes as no surprise that Putin received overwhelming support from members of the armed forces in the March 2000 elections, estimated to be as much as 30–​50 percent higher than in civilian society (Barany 2007). From the outset Putin recognised that Russia’s military was facing significant problems and expressed his determination to see it returned to a position that was respected both at home and abroad. The sheer scale of those problems, however, together with resistance from within the Ministry of Defence to many reform measures, meant that, by the time Putin handed over the presidency to Dmitry Medvedev in May 2008, there was very little progress towards the goal that Putin himself articulated: a smaller and more mobile, highly trained and well-​equipped professional armed forces capable of addressing the security threats facing Russia in the twenty-​ first century (Tret’yakov et al 2000–​1). The Ministry of Defence forces performed much better in the second war in Chechnya than they did in the first, but this was due to changes in tactics. Russian forces attacked Grozny with relentless artillery fire and only advanced towards the city after it had effectively been destroyed. Chechen fighters increasingly turned to small-​scale guerrilla ambushes and attacks, which Russia met with brutal “cleansing” missions involving the kidnap, torture and murder of 242

243

The military

Chechen men and teenage boys and the terrorising of women, children and the elderly (Baev 2005). As the war turned into a counter-​terror operation, Ministry of Defence forces were increasingly replaced by the armed troops controlled by the Federal Security Service (FSB) and the Ministry of the Interior (MVD) and by Moscow’s policy of Chechenisation: recruiting a local warlord (Akhmad Kadyrov) who was willing to cooperate with Moscow as Chechnya’s new political leader and giving him the problem of controlling the region (Russell 2010). But while Russia’s second invasion of Chechnya avoided some of the disasters of the first, there were still significant problems with discipline and morale, as well as the coordination of complex operations. It was one thing for Putin to articulate a vision for a reformed military. It was another to get agreement within the Ministry of Defence on that vision. Proposals for changes to size, structure and staffing met with sustained resistance from the officer corps. The plan to increase spending on defence was the only measure that gained universal support. Emblematic of the resistance to change were the power struggles between successive Ministers of Defence and the Chief of the General Staff, Anatolii Kvashin. Kvashin opposed Defence Minister Igor Sergeev’s plans to place greater emphasis and resources on developing Russia’s nuclear weapons and then repeatedly clashed with Sergeev’s successor, Sergei Ivanov. Kvashin exploited a provision in the Law on Defence that gave the General Staff operational control of the armed forces and used it to question, delay or reverse Ivanov’s decisions until Putin supported a change in the law and fired Kvashin (Herspring 2006). Sergei Ivanov was appointed Defence Minister in March 2001. As a former KGB officer who had known Putin for many years, Ivanov had the president’s ear and should have been in the perfect position to push through reform proposals supported by the Kremlin, but institutional resistance overcame even Ivanov’s formidable advantages. The opposition to ending conscription and moving to an all-​professional basis for staffing the armed forces is an example of the scale of resistance that Ivanov faced. By the time that Putin came to power, recruitment and retention were even more of a problem than they had been in the 1990s. Living and working conditions in the armed forces were basic at best, and there was still little accommodation for officers that was suitable for families. Salaries were low. Military recruiters in the early 2000s struggled to fill their quotas of conscripts in the twice-​ annual drafts, resorting to rounding up young men of conscription age on the streets and accepting draftees with criminal records. Thousands of ordinary soldiers deserted every year, while in 2002 alone an estimated 29,000 officers took early retirement (Golts 2004). The crisis in military recruitment reflects the attitude towards military service, both among young men and in Russian society more broadly. There was no social stigma attached to evading conscription and many young men regarded serving in the military as a waste of time and an impediment to making progress in their chosen careers (Eichler 2012), not to mention dangerous: there were several well-​publicised cases of abuse that ended in the amputation of limbs or the deaths of conscripts (Herspring 2006). Despite the evidence that conscription was not an effective means of staffing the armed forces, the General Staff opposed the introduction of an all-​volunteer army. In September 2002 the Ministry of Defence began a year-​long trial with the 76th Airborne Division in Pskov to test the viability of voluntary military service. To drive up the cost and demonstrate that an all-​volunteer force was an unrealistic ambition, the General Staff set high salaries for the new contract soldiers and insisted that the Ministry invest in high-​quality (and expensive) accommodation for the regiment (Vendil Pallin 2009). Although the Pskov experiment was not an unqualified success –​in part because recruitment and retention proved challenging even with inflated salaries –​the Kremlin supported a steady increase in the proportion of contract soldiers. This stance was confirmed repeatedly by 243

244

Jennifer G. Mathers

Putin in public statements during 2003, when he linked the shift to a more significant role for volunteers to a pledge not to send conscripts to combat zones (Vendil Pallin 2009). Ivanov struggled to make major progress towards military reform during his tenure as Minister of Defence, but he did preside over the end of the clear decline of the armed forces as an institution. Money started flowing into the armed forces again on a regular basis. By the time Ivanov was replaced in 2007 by Anatoly Serdyukov, the investment in the defence industry was beginning to show results. Research and development began again, although genuinely new weapons were still years away from mass production and the ones supplied to units were largely upgraded versions of Soviet designs (De La Pedraja 2019).

War with Georgia and serious military reform In August 2008 the Russian armed forces fought a five-​day war against Georgia that revealed some significant shortcomings in Russia’s military capabilities and proved to be the catalyst for the most far-​reaching reforms yet undertaken by the Ministry of Defence. Although Russia achieved its political aims –​taking control of the breakaway regions of Abkhazia and South Ossetia and improving its strategic position in the Caucasus –​its success was largely due to superior numbers. Russian forces struggled with effective command and control, hampered by different services using communications systems that could not speak to each other. This had a predictably disastrous effect on combined arms operations (Vendil Pallin and Westerlund 2009). Russian commanders complained that they needed more modern tools, such as p­ recision-​ guided weapons, thermal imaging equipment, night vision goggles and satellite navigation (Klein 2012). As for the troops themselves, this was another conflict in which conscripts and contract soldiers fought together, but the volunteers did not perform markedly better than their drafted counterparts. The military’s performance in Georgia gave Russia’s new Defence Minister the opportunity to launch sweeping changes to all aspects of the armed forces. Serdyukov, with his background in the Tax Service, had been chosen for the top job to deal with corruption. According to a 2008 report by the Audit Chamber, fraud and theft had cost the Defence Ministry more than 164.1 million rubles (Herspring and McDermott 2010). Losses on this scale practically negated the high levels of investment in the armed forces and were becoming too much of a problem for the Kremlin to ignore. The widespread criticism of the military’s performance in the war with Georgia provided an opening to expand the mandate of Serdyukov’s house cleaning, while his outsider status meant that he should have been able to approach the task without being influenced by loyalties to a particular service or by favours owed to friends in the officer corps. Serdyukov’s “New Look” reforms of Russia’s military were bold and ambitious. They aimed to deliver the efficient, mobile, professionally trained and highly equipped force that successive defence ministers –​and presidents –​had long promised. The most drastic and controversial changes came in staffing, where Serdyukov set about cutting the top-​heavy officer corps. Out of an armed force of 1.1 million service personnel, there were 355,000 officers –​a proportion that is considerably out of line with most state militaries, where the officer corps is at most about 16 percent of the force as a whole (Golts 2018). Action was swift and brutal: within four years, Serdyukov had eliminated more than half of all officer posts (Klein 2012). Another controversial staffing reform was the creation of non-​ commissioned officers (NCOs). Russia had always lacked a genuine NCO level, with junior officers performing the tasks that would fall to NCOs in other militaries. Serdyukov also opened up more roles within the Ministry of Defence to civilians, especially administrative jobs that did not require military expertise. The length of conscription had already been cut to 12 months before Serdyukov was 244

245

The military

appointed, but he took steps to improve pay and living conditions for all soldiers, drafted and volunteer alike. To make Russia’s armed forces more agile and able to respond swiftly to crises, Serdyukov embarked on a major restructuring, replacing the division as the basic unit with the smaller brigade. He also tackled the longstanding problem of skeleton units. These were units that were staffed and equipped at a fraction of their intended capacity, to be brought up to full strength by the mobilisation of reserves. At the time of the 2008 war with Georgia, only about 17 percent of units were fully staffed and equipped and ready to be deployed (Renz 2018). The final step in transforming the Russian military into a formidable fighting force was the provision of new or extensively modernised weapons and equipment. As was the case with changes to staffing and structures, this involved overcoming the legacies of the 1990s. Throughout that decade, Russia’s defence industry had virtually ceased to function. Without orders from the Ministry of Defence, there was little activity in defence production or in the research and development of new systems (Shlykov 2004). Although defence spending had increased dramatically in the early 2000s, the defence industry’s response to the raft of new orders was slow. It has also struggled to overcome deeply institutionalised cultures, such as clinging to the safety of incrementalism rather than attempting the riskier strategy of technological innovation. It was perhaps inevitable that a minister who offended as many entrenched interests and ended as many careers as Serdyukov did would be vulnerable to plots against him. Formally he lost his post through a combination of scandals: allegations of an extra marital affair as well as claims that he was personally benefiting from the corruption that he had been appointed to end (Golts 2018). It is far more likely, however, that he was punished for the crime of daring to defy too many people who had friends in powerful places. On 6 November 2012 Vladimir Putin, who by then had returned to the presidency, signed the order to remove Serdyukov from his post.

The military as a tool of foreign policy: Putin returns to the presidency Putin’s choice for a new Defence Minister was Sergei Shoigu, a man with a background in the construction industry who had made his career as the head of the Ministry of Emergencies. Although he was another outsider to the Ministry of Defence, Shoigu had a well-​deserved reputation for both competence and the ability to get along with others. During his tenure as Minister of Defence he has given way on some aspects of the “New Look” reforms to appease powerful interests in the ministry –​reinstating some roles within the officer corps that Serdyukov had abolished –​while consolidating and moving forward on others, such as expanding the proportion of volunteer soldiers within the ranks. Shoigu signalled the importance of improving readiness by introducing large-​scale military exercises in 2009 (Giles 2014). Under Shoigu’s tenure, the majority of forces were composed of volunteers rather than conscripts; by 2020 Russia was drafting only about 30 percent of its soldiers. As always, progress in providing the forces with the most modern equipment and weapons has been slow. The defence industry continued to struggle to make the transition from improving on existing systems based on old designs to producing ones that are substantially new, with delays experienced across all services moving from testing to deployment. The Ground and Airborne Forces have received modernised versions of armoured vehicles and a range of unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs), while the Aerospace Forces have had bombers and transport aircraft upgraded. The Navy has had to delay repairs and modernisation of major vessels such as the aircraft carrier Admiral Kuznetsov and the cruiser Admiral Nakhimov due to a shortage of components, although it 245

246

Jennifer G. Mathers

has taken delivery of some new ships, including Borey-​A nuclear-​powered ballistic missile submarines. The Strategic Rocket Forces have perhaps been the most significant beneficiary of state spending on the defence industry, with its share of new technology reported to have grown to 85 percent since the late 2010s (International Institute for Strategic Studies 2022). As the armed forces began to see some benefits from a continuous period of investment and a clearer sense of direction, Putin became increasingly willing to use the military as an instrument of policy. The annexation of Crimea in 2014 was the first time since the introduction of Serdyukov’s reforms that the world had the opportunity to see Russia’s soldiers in action outside of the parade ground or training exercises, and the results seemed impressive. These “little green men” –​or “polite people” as they were referred to in Russia –​were well-​ equipped and disciplined. They took control of the peninsula by occupying key strategic sites while Russian warships blocked the ports (Kofman et al 2017). Although they were largely special forces and represented less than 1 percent of the military, the polite people became a symbol of a revived armed forces that would enable a revived Russian state to exert its will abroad. Within a few years of the operation in Crimea, there were clear indications that Russian society was viewing the army and military service in a much more positive light. In 2017 opinion polls indicated that the military was the second most trusted institution after the presidency (Levada Centre 2017). By 2020, 63 percent of those polled said that they would like to see a close relative serving in the armed forces (Russian Public Opinion Research Centre 2020). In addition to its deployment of troops to Crimea, Russia also established an ongoing –​ although publicly denied –​military presence in the Donbas region of eastern Ukraine, providing training, equipment and troops for local armed militias calling for independence (Sutyagin 2015). This use of force enabled Moscow to create a “frozen conflict” in Ukraine that effectively gave Russia control over part of Ukraine’s territory and created significant and open-​ended military, political, economic and social problems for Kyiv. In 2015 Russia expanded its use of force beyond its nearest neighbours with the decision to come to the aid of Syria’s President Bashar al-​Assad. Moscow’s intervention in the Syrian civil war marked a dramatic return to an active role in the Middle East. Russia also used its aerial bombardment campaign in Syria as an extended training and testing exercise: short-​term deployments permitted a substantial number of troops, and especially pilots, to obtain valuable combat experience and to test weapons and equipment (Lavrov 2018). Russia’s military operations in the Donbas and in Syria each involved a limited use of force that, in combination with other actors, such as Syria’s state military and the armed groups in eastern Ukraine, enabled Moscow to project power and advance Russia’s foreign policy priorities while limiting its exposure on a large scale. As a result, many in the outside world concluded that the Russian military was, at last, a force to be feared.

24 February 2022: Russia invades Ukraine This impression of Russian military strength was severely damaged by its performance in the mass invasion of Ukraine launched on 24 February 2022. Designed by Putin and a handful of senior officials, the initial invasion was intended to be a swift attack on Kyiv and the replacement of the Ukrainian government with a puppet regime in a scenario that envisaged a quick and easy victory (Harding 2022). Instead, Ukraine’s armed forces and its society alike put up a determined resistance that slowed the advance of Russian forces towards the capital to a crawl, forcing a retreat and a revision of the strategy to focus on consolidating and extending gains that had been made in the east and along the Black Sea coast. 246

247

The military

But while the failures of the first few weeks of the campaign can be explained by poor intelligence, planning and preparation, Russia’s commanders struggled to apply the lessons they were learning in real time, suggesting the presence of more fundamental problems and raising questions about the extent of genuine change effected by nearly 15 years of military reform. Low levels of motivation, morale and training were in evidence. Conscripts were sent into combat in defiance of Putin’s explicit pledge to end that practice, with a coerced or forged signature on a contract of voluntary service to provide some cover for the unit’s commander. Poorly maintained vehicles broke down and were abandoned by their crews, while logistics failed in the task of keeping units supplied with food and fuel. Specialised communications systems failed to function, leaving soldiers to rely on personal mobile phones to relay sensitive orders that were easily intercepted by Ukrainian forces (Watling and Reynolds 2022). In short, many of the same problems identified in Russia’s 2008 war against Georgia were also present in the invasion of Ukraine. Although Moscow has previously deployed its military effectively in support of Russian foreign policy, especially since 2012, the 2022 invasion of Ukraine is the first time that the Ministry of Defence did not have the luxury of deploying only selected, handpicked units in very limited missions. And the first truly mass military operation that Russia has fought is also the first time Moscow’s forces have encountered an opponent able to mount an effective defence, and one receiving a high volume of supplies from NATO member states. Russia’s losses in the early part of the campaign have been extreme: conservative estimates suggest that nearly 10,000 Russian soldiers were killed in the first month, with a surprising number of officers and even some generals among that number. Hundreds of tanks and other equipment were lost, including the flagship of Russia’s Black Sea Fleet: the Moskva (Tavberidze 2022). The severe economic sanctions imposed by Western governments in 2022 target Russia’s defence industry and compound the effect of those introduced after the annexation of Crimea. Until those sanctions are lifted, Russia will struggle to replace what has been used or lost in the fighting in Ukraine, let alone develop and produce more advanced weapons and equipment. Finally, the way that this war is being fought threatens to undermine the recent improvements in the military’s standing in society. Although the state has been able to exert tight control over news about the conflict that is broadcast within Russia, personal messages reaching the families of soldiers in the field contradict the official narrative. The careless treatment of their own soldiers –​both living and dead –​by the Ministry of Defence and the secrecy surrounding the extent of losses are issues that have inflamed Russian society in the past and caused long-​term damage to the military’s reputation and its ability to recruit the numbers and quality of soldiers that it needs. All the signs suggest that the Russian military’s recovery from its war in Ukraine will be long, slow and uncertain.

References Baev, P. (2005), “Chechnya and the Russian Military: A War Too Far?”, in R. Sakwa (ed.), Chechnya: From Past to Future (London: Anthem Press). Barany, Z. (2007), Democratic Breakdown and the Decline of the Russian Military (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Caiazza, A. (2002), Mothers and Soldiers: Gender, Citizenship, and Civil Society in Contemporary Russia (London: Routledge). De La Pedraja, R. (2019), The Russian Military Resurgence: Post-​Soviet Decline and Rebuilding, 1992–​2018 (Jefferson: McFarland & Company, Inc). Dick, C.J. (1997), “A Bear Without Claws: The Russian Army in the 1990s”, Journal of Slavic Military Studies 10, 1: 1–​10.

247

248

Jennifer G. Mathers Duggleby, R.W. (1998), “The Disintegration of the Russian Armed Forces”, Journal of Slavic Military Studies 11, 2: 1–​24. Eichler, M. (2012), Militarizing Men: Gender, Conscription, and War in Post-​Soviet Russia (Stanford: Stanford University Press). Evangelista, M. (2002), The Chechen Wars: Will Russia Go the Way of the Soviet Union? (Washington DC: Brookings Institution Press). Giles, K. (2014), “A New Phase in Russian Military Transformation”, The Journal of Slavic Military Studies 27, 1: 147–​62. Golts, A. (2004), “The Social and Political Condition of the Russian Military”, in S.E. Miller and D. Trenin (eds.), The Russian Military: Power and Policy (Cambridge [Mass]: The MIT Press). Golts, A. (2018), Military Reform and Militarism in Russia (Washington DC: The Jamestown Foundation). Harding, L. (2022), “How Ukrainian Defiance has Derailed Putin’s Plans”, The Guardian, 26 February, www.theg​uard​ian.com/​world/​2022/​feb/​26/​how-​ukrain​ian-​defia​nce-​has-​derai​led-​put​ins-​plans. Herspring, D.R. (2006), The Kremlin and the High Command: Presidential Impact on the Russian Military from Gorbachev to Putin (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas). Herspring, D.R. and R.N. McDermott (2010), “Serdyukov Promotes Systematic Russian Military Reform”, Orbis 54, 2: 284–​301. International Institute for Strategic Studies (2022), The Military Balance 122, 1 (Abingdon: Taylor & Francis). Klein, M. (2012), “Towards a ‘New Look’ of the Russian Armed Forces?”, in R.N. McDermott, B. Nygren and C. Vendil Pallin (eds.), The Russian Armed Forces in Transition: Economic, Geopolitical and Institutional Uncertainties (London: Routledge). Kofman, M., K. Migacheva, B. Nichiporuk, A. Radin, O. Tkacheva and J. Oberholtzer (2017), Lessons from Russia’s Operations in Crimea and Eastern Ukraine (Washington DC: Rand). Lavrov, A. (2018), The Russian Air Campaign in Syria: A Preliminary Analysis, Occasional Paper (Moscow: Centre for Analysis of Strategies and Technologies). Levada Center (2017), “Institutional Trust”, www.lev​ada.ru/​en/​2017/​11/​10/​instit​utio​nal-​trust-​3/​. Locksley, C.C. (2001), “Concept, Algorithm, Indecision: Why Military Reform has Failed in Russia Since 1992”, Journal of Slavic Military Studies 14, 1: 1–​26. Mathers, J.G. (2006), “Women, Society and the Military”, in S.L. Webber and J.G. Mathers (eds.), Military and Society in Post-​Soviet Russia (Manchester: Manchester University Press): 207–​27. Miller, S.E. (2004), “Moscow’s Military Power: Russia’s Search for Security in an Age of Transition”, in S.E. Miller and D. Trenin (eds.), The Russian Military: Power and Policy (Cambridge [Mass]: The MIT Press): 1–​41. Renz, B. (2018), Russia’s Military Revival (Cambridge: Polity). Russell, J. (2010), Chechnya: Russia’s “War on Terror” (London: Routledge). Russian Public Opinion Research Centre (2020), “February 23: Military, Patriotic or a Gender-​Specific Holiday?”, https://​wciom.com/​press-​rele​ase/​febru​ary-​23-​milit​ary-​patrio​tic-​or-​a-​gen​der-​speci​fic-​ holi​day. Seely, R. (2001), Russo-​Chechen Conflict, 1800–​2000: A Deadly Embrace (London: Frank Cass). Shlykov, V.V. (2004), “The Economics of Defense in Russia and the Legacy of Structural Militarization”, in S.E. Miller and D. Trenin (eds.), The Russian Military: Power and Policy (Cambridge [Mass]: The MIT Press), https://​doi.org/​10.7551/​mitpr​ess/​6027.003.0009. Sutyagin, I. (2015), Russian Forces in Ukraine (London: Royal United Services Institute Briefing Paper). Tavberidze, V. (2022), “Leading Strategist Questions Russian Forces’ Ability to ‘Act Like a Western Army’ ”, RFE/​RL, 23 April, www.rferl.org/​a/​foggo-​rus​sia-​west​ern-​army/​31817​580.html. Taylor, B.D. (2001), “Russia’s Passive Army: Rethinking Military Coups”, Comparative Political Studies 34, 8: 924–​52. Thomas, T.L. (1996), “The Russian Military and the 1995 Duma Elections”, Journal of Slavic Military Studies 9, 3: 519–​47. Thomas, T.L. (1997), “The Caucasus Conflict and Russian Security: The Russian Armed Forces Confront Chechnya III. The Battle for Grozny, 1–​26 January 1995”, Journal of Slavic Military Studies 10, 1: 50–​108. Tret’yakov, V., T. Andoshina and M. Leont’ev (2000–​ 01), “Armiya dolzhna bit’ professional’noi”, Nezavisimoe voennoe obozrenie, 49, 29 December–​11 January. Vendil Pallin, C. (2009), Russian Military Reform: A Failed Exercise in Defence Decision Making (London: Routledge).

248

249

The military Vendil Pallin, C. and F. Westerlund (2009), “Russia’s War in Georgia: Lessons and Consequences”, Small Wars & Insurgencies 20, 2: 400–​24. Watling, J. and N. Reynolds (2022), Operation Z: The Death Throes of an Imperial Delusion, Special Report (London: Royal United Services Institute). Zawilski, V. (2006), “Saving Russia’s Sons: The Soldiers’ Mothers and the Russian-​Chechen Wars”, in S.L. Webber and J.G. Mathers (eds.), Military and Society in Post-​Soviet Russia (Manchester: Manchester University Press): 228–​40.

249

250

251

PART 3

Political economy

252

253

22 POLITICAL ECONOMY Neil Robinson

Introduction At first glance Russia’s political economy has developed in two stages. In the 1990s, Russia’s political economy was chaotic as the country’s leaders tried to build a market economy. The economy was wracked by a series of crises and the country experienced a collapse of production that far exceeded what was expected of a post-​communist transitional recession, the contraction of economic activity that accompanies the movement from a planned to a market economy. Russia was unable to ameliorate chaos and economic decline through economic reform. Control of economic policy was weakened by infighting among different economic interests and political forces. This chaos seemingly ended in the 2000s when the Putin regime consolidated political power and secured control over economic policy-​making. The economy recovered up until the global financial crisis hit Russia in 2008. Although economic growth has been patchy since 2008, political control over the economy has remained strong. For that reason, the second stage of development of Russia’s post-​Soviet political economy has often been described as a shift from chaos to “state capitalism” (Radygin 2004; Lane 2008; Djankov 2015; Charokopos and Dagoumas 2018; Dolfsma and Grosman 2019). The idea that Russia has moved from chaos to stability in its political economy captures some important facets of Russian development. Russia’s state capitalism is a politically ordered response to the dangers of allowing too much market freedom, and to the needs of development. For autocrats like Putin, state capitalism should neutralise the potential dangers of free markets. Allowing too much market freedom is seen as politically dangerous for non-​democratic leaders, since it might morph into political freedom, imperil regime performance legitimacy by weakening general economic development as resources are diverted from investment to private consumption, and risks exposure to boom-​bust cycles (Bremmer 2008, 2009; Wolnicki 2010). We shall argue in this chapter that Russia does not have a stable form of state capitalism, however. The political drive to create state capitalism is compromised by the need to support the Putin regime, support that comes through the appropriation of rents (essentially unearned and excessive profits) and market distorting activities by elites. This means that state capitalism remains incomplete, and Russia’s political economy is a form of what we will describe below as “patrimonial capitalism”. Patrimonial capitalism means that Russia’s development is fettered by investment shortfalls, inefficiency, and a sub-​optimal relationship with the global economy. DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-25

253

254

Neil Robinson

Legitimacy cannot be based solely on economic performance under such conditions as development is limited, but pressure remains to develop the economy from both society and from the imperatives that seeking legitimacy through non-​economic actions create. Russia’s political economy remains unstable, therefore, less so than it was in the 1990s, but, and as in that decade, unable to align different forms of political economy to achieve a stable equilibrium.

Russia’s hybrid political economy in the 1990s The intent of economic reforms initiated in 1992 was to create a version of Anglo–​American capitalism, a “liberal market economy” in which “[m]‌arket relationships are characterized by the arm’s-​length exchange of goods or services in a context of competition and … actors adjust their willingness to supply and demand goods or services” in response to “price signals generated by such markets” (Hall and Soskice 2001: 8). The plan for marketisation was radical. It paid little heed to existing practices or power relations and arrangements, since it aimed to change the balance of power within Russia by changing the way that economic and political forces interacted (Murrell 1992; Woodruff 1999: 3–​6). The central pillars of reform were the commercialisation of economic behaviour through the liberalisation of prices and a credible commitment to reform from politicians, which were to precede and set the terms of property privatisation (Åslund 1995: 82). Price liberalisation would commercialise economic behaviour by making producers consider how to make production profitable. They would have to consider labour and production costs and establish if there was demand for their goods. This would be assisted by the liberalisation of foreign trade that would import product competition and therefore prices from abroad. Enterprises that could not commercialise by producing to meet demand and at cost would not be able to survive. They would not be able to pay their workers or attract investment. To survive they would have to adapt by replacing their management. In this way, and even before privatisation, property usage would begin to go to those best able to generate a profit from its exploitation (Robinson 2012: 26–​8). Maintaining a credible commitment to reform –​persuading people that there was no going back on reform policies –​ was needed to convince economic actors that there was no alternative to commercialising economic activity. If firm directors and bureaucrats were not so persuaded, they would continue to act as they had under the Soviet system, i.e. produce and trade goods with no consideration of costs, breaking even or making profit. A credible commitment to reform could not be maintained and reform was quickly (and inevitably) compromised so that a liberal market economy could not be built. Instead, a hybrid system of political economy emerged in which different forms of economic exchange and power overlapped. Elements of a liberal market economy were introduced. Property was privatised and foreign trade liberalised. Prices were liberalised rather than set by central planners, and decisions of what to produce, and with what inputs in terms of labour and materials, were also no longer planned. However, the form of capitalism that developed was “political capitalism” rather than market capitalism. All capitalism is political, of course, in that political agents shape the conditions of market competition everywhere, but political capitalism arises when the relative autonomy and organisational integrity of the state are compromised by private actors. A state has relative autonomy when there is “a fairly strong institutional differentiation of the political realm of formal collective decision making from the overall system of inequality in society”, which means the economically powerful do not get to decide all aspects of policy, and when it has organisational integrity whereby political agents share common bureaucratic norms that stress working toward the common social good (even if there is contestation of what that is) and do not act for their private interest (Rueschemeyer et al 1992: 63). Political capitalism as 254

255

Political economy

the compromise of a state’s relative autonomy and organisational integrity arises at moments of crisis when politics becomes chaotic and bureaucratic order breaks down (Ganev 2009: 671–​2). When this happens, political agents can work for their own advantage, economic power and political power overlap and economic regulation shifts from managing the terms of market competition to distributing wealth to favoured groups. The political capitalism that developed in Russia in the 1990s had two forms. First, elements of a liberal market economy did not connect with large parts of the economy, particularly industrial production, which became “neo-​Soviet”. This part of the economy was not “Soviet”, in that property became private, production was not centrally planned, and firms could, if they decided, innovate and make their own connections to the global economy (although not many did). However, economic exchange remained demonetised. Firms traded with one another on credit, often using fictitious prices, bartered with one another, skimped on wage payments or made them in kind, and avoided paying their energy and tax bills, particularly the bills from the state-​owned gas monopoly, Gazprom. Such actions were mostly done with official support from regional authorities. These practices created continuity with the Soviet past. Sub-​national authorities recreated Soviet-​era subsidies to protect local economies and employment, and firm managers traded with their traditional business partners through barter and on credit, and at prices set with no regard to market rates (Gaddy and Ickes 1998). Trade on credit meant that there was a huge build-​up of inter-​firm arrears, the debt owed by firms to each other, and the monetisation of economic exchange remained low. This meant that central government control over economic development was weak and revenue collection was lower than it should have been, since tax could not be collected on barter deals or from firms that had no money, only debts (Easter 2012: 55–​7). In short, Russian industry was not exposed to competition or commercialised, and there was close co-​operation to protect the status quo and the privileges and influence that it bestowed between economic and political elites. Non-​payment of taxes, energy bills and wages created rent for the economic elites that controlled industry and their political partners. This rent was generated at a loss to the state (which should have got the taxes), private households (wage earners) and the energy firms and society (which owned them still for part of this period and which might have been able to sell energy on world markets for a good profit or at least to have taxed such sales). The subsidies and rents created by these practices were huge. The rents generated by non-​payment of taxes and wages did not become investment but fuelled capital flight, which was far greater from Russia (by a factor of up to 10 per capita) and longer lasting (throughout the 1990s rather than for 2–​3 years) than in other post-​communist transitional economies (Loungani and Mauro 2001: 691). Unsurprisingly, GDP and industrial production shrank nearly every year of the 1990s, and the state budget was under permanent strain. The creation of a neo-​Soviet political capitalism in which private property combined with elite collusion and reform avoidance to generate rents created a state fiscal crisis that, in turn, was a key factor in creating the second part of Russian political capitalism in the 1990s, the oligarchic economy. The basis of the oligarchic economy was the transformation of wealth accumulated during the Soviet system’s collapse and the first few years of transition into economic dominance –​a few oligarchs were estimated to control over 50 percent of the Russian economy by the late 1990s –​and political influence, which included control over major media outlets and the oligarchic funding of Yeltsin’s re-​election campaign in 1996 (Guriev and Rachinsky 2005). Soviet collapse and reform created fortunes for a small number of economic actors through arbitrage (manipulating the price differences between Soviet and Russian prices and those of the global economy to generate rent), currency trading and the financing of trade (Brady 1999: 50–​62). The banks and individuals that engaged in these activities accumulated 255

256

Neil Robinson

large amounts of cash that the Russian government wanted to access to ease its fiscal problems. The government sought to access this cash in two ways between 1994 and 1997. First, the government sold bonds, many of them short-​term, to cover its revenue shortfall (Treisman 1998). Initially these bonds were bought by Russian banks, but in late 1996 the bond market was opened to foreign buyers. The market grew rapidly and was funding the Russian government budget to an amount equal to 12 percent of Russian GDP by mid-​1997 (Robinson 2012: 34). Second, it passed over to banks the management of major firms in raw material production, particularly oil and metals, and areas such as telecommunications in return for loans from banks. Banks were supposed to modernise and invest in the firms they managed through this “loans for shares” scheme before auctioning off the now reformed, and hence more valuable, firms. After paying off the original loan, profits from these auctions were to be split between the banks and the government. Such auctions, however, generated little profit for the government and usually saw the banks purchase the firms they managed at a price far below their market value. For example, Mikhail Khodorkovsky’s Menatep Bank got a 78 percent share of the Yukos Oil Co., worth $15 billion by the early 2000s, for $309 million in 1995 (Goldman 2003: 147). Much of the industry that was passed to the oligarchs was in industries that could export their products and attract foreign investment, sectors of the economy that were potentially able to become part of the globalised economy. This was in marked contrast to the neo-​Soviet economy that produced “non-​tradable” goods, things that were unsaleable on international markets. The scale of oligarch wealth led many to argue that these “winners” of economic transition would be able to lock in and stabilise a hybrid, “partially reformed” political economy (Hellman 1998; EBRD 1999: 102–​14). The Russian state had been “captured” by “winner” groups and their power was such that they would reproduce the hybrid economy and the compromised regime that supported it (Hellman and Kaufmann 2001; Treisman 1999). The oligarchic form was thus seen as the dominant form of political capitalism from the mid-​1990s. However, this view of the stability of oligarchic capitalism ignored the difficulty of sustaining both the oligarchic economy and the neo-​Soviet economy, and the untenable fiscal position of the Russian state trapped between these two forms of political capitalism. Both the oligarchic economy and neo-​Soviet economy were rent seeking forms of economy, with these rents coming from the Russian state and society. Oligarchs earnt rent from “loans for shares” windfalls, from the high interest rates earnt on government debt, and as agents selling government debt to foreigners. The neo-​Soviet economy (and many oligarchs too) received rent from its workers in unpaid wages, or wages paid in kind where goods received for work were valued at more than their market worth as wages, and from state and society when they failed to pay taxes or for the energy they received from Gazprom. Everyone –​oligarchs and old elites alike –​exported capital from Russia. These rent transfers could not all be made indefinitely when there was no other source of revenue for the Russian state to fund itself and meet its obligations (welfare and defence, primarily) to even a minimal extent. The policy solution to this dilemma adopted in 1997 was to try to use the oligarchic economy as a lever to monetise the neo-​Soviet economy. Firms controlled by oligarchs as well as Gazprom were pressured to pay tax using money in the hope that they, in turn, would pressure customers to pay their bills using money, with these customers then forcing their business partners to pay in cash, etc. Oligarchs were threatened with loss of control over firms that did not pay their taxes. Although tax receipts went up in 1997, it was too little too late. Infighting over the next tranche of the “loans for shares” scheme weakened reform credibility as oligarchs compromised the government. The crisis in Asian emerging economies that began in 1997 spread to Russia in 1998. Foreign buyers who had flooded into the Russian government debt market after 1996 with the promise of a new wave of reform withdrew from it in 1998. 256

257

Political economy

This caused a new fiscal crisis and, in August 1998, the government was forced to default on its debt payments and the ruble collapsed (Robinson 1999; Rutland 2001).

Putin and patrimonial capitalism The August 1998 crisis demonstrated the difficulty of getting the neo-​Soviet and the oligarchic political capitalism economy to co-​exist. It also, and to a degree inadvertently, weakened the foundations of this hybrid form of political capitalism that had taken root in the 1990s so that it mutated. This mutation took place under the umbrella of Putin’s consolidation of executive power. A corollary to Putin’s assertion of executive power was an expansion of the state’s holdings in the economy after 2000 and more state officials on company management boards. This expansion of the state’s holdings was particularly dramatic in the oil and energy industries, which saw the renationalisation of Yukos (and imprisonment of Khodorkovsky) and the take-​over of foreign-​owned assets, particularly Gazprom’s take-​over of the Sakhalin gas fields from BP (Sakwa 2009; Gustafson 2012). This expansion of state influence and consolidation of executive power is not the same as the creation of state capitalism, particularly if we think of state capitalism (or as some might term it “bureaucratic market economy”) as development-​centred, with political authorities substituting themselves for social classes and institutions that elsewhere have created internationally competitive capitalist economies through the promotion of innovation and technological change (Buhr and Frankenburger 2014: 408–​10). Russia under Putin, despite some of his claims, has not become a “developmental state” in which is “concentrate[d]‌ sufficient power, authority, autonomy, competence and capacity at the centre to shape, pursue and encourage the achievement of explicit developmental objectives” (Leftwich 1996: 284). Putin created a new form of redistributive system rather than a developmental state. At the apex of this system was the distribution of resources to friends and elite allies (often described as “Putin’s kleptocracy”) (Dawisha 2014). Below this come lesser forms of corruption, economic protectionism and welfare spending directed at keeping up regime support. The form of political capitalism that this has created is best described as patrimonial capitalism. Patrimonial capitalism is a form of political capitalism that can develop as economies weakly integrated in the global economy –​as the Soviet economy was, and as Russia remained in the 1990s –​ become more enmeshed in the global economy but at the same time protect elite and political interests from competition from global economic forces and constraint from international market pressures (Schlumberger 2008; Robinson 2011, 2013a). An essential condition for the development of patrimonial capitalism is that political leadership is not subject to democratic constraint. This enables the introduction of formal rules and laws for market development and regulation but at the same time empowers elites to use informal practices (corruption, influence peddling) to consolidate their hold over economic resources. Formal rules are often used to punish the politically disloyal as much as to regulate markets in a fair fashion. Informality enables elites to capture the major economic sectors (i.e. those that generate rent) and these sectors are resistant to penetration from global economic forces; in the absence of the rule of law, property and contract rights are secured best through personal connections, the development of which are highly costly to “outsiders”. If reform happens it serves elite interests. The development of patrimonial capitalism took place piecemeal after 2000 and was based on a boom in the Russian economy between 1999 and 2007, and the stabilisation of political power under Putin. The latter created the political conditions for the development of patrimonial capitalism, since it gave Putin the power to use the political and legal system to make oligarchs dependent on him and to punish those who were a threat or disloyal, such as Khodorkovsky. Economic growth and the takeover of energy industries by the state created 257

258

Neil Robinson

a means of stabilising the neo-​Soviet economy and channelling wealth to elites. The neo-​ Soviet economy’s non-​competitiveness was protected by state action as domestic energy prices remained below international market prices and the Central Bank of Russia intervened in currency markets using revenues earned from oil and gas sales to keep the value of the ruble low. This perpetuated a key plank of what had been the neo-​Soviet economy under Yeltsin, transferring value from the energy sectors to the rest of the economy and, in particular, to the highly energy-​inefficient industrial economy. Under Yeltsin this had led to de-​monetisation, the non-​payment of taxes and wages, or their payment in kind. These were now paid in money, thanks in part to tax reform and also because of the re-​monetisation caused by the 1998 crisis and the greater wealth created by the energy booms (Kvintradze 2010). At the same time currency devaluation was a transfer of resources back from the state to elites. The devalued currency and the availability of cheap credit internationally meant that it was cheap for Russia’s major businesses to borrow in foreign currency: on average, the ruble cost of dollar loans was 1 percent between 2003 and mid-​2007. There was a flurry of borrowing by Russia’s major private firms and many state-​owned firms such as Rosneft (which borrowed to finance its “purchase” of Yukos) and Gazprom (which borrowed to finance the Sakhalin projects lost by BP). The very low rates at which borrowing took place represented a subsidy to the borrowers from energy production. External borrowing reached about 40 percent of GDP (Connolly 2009). Economic growth under Putin was not based on deep-​seated structural change but showed signs of “energy rent addiction” (Gaddy and Ickes 2009). The institutional bases of development remained weak, as capacity to regulate a market remained low and there was little development of the Russian financial system to increase the availability of credit to Russian business. Foreign investment was frequently not foreign but came from tax havens to which Russian money had been directed as capital flight. What foreign investment and borrowing that did occur to compensate for the weakness of domestic lending went to the large enterprises in transnationalised sectors (mostly energy and metals), or was spent not on modernisation but on asset acquisition and mergers by Russian firms, acquisitions that were frequently overseas. There was some expansion of the service and construction sectors but, overall, the economy did not diversify or modernise, and the parameters of the non-​tradable and transnationalised economies remained much the same. Russia’s competitiveness did not improve either generally or in comparison with other emerging market economies (Cooper 2006; Connolly 2008; Garinina 2009). This meant that the economic sectors that had been part of the neo-​Soviet remained “non-​tradeable”, whilst those sectors that generated rent –​sectors that could export such as metals and energy –​were controlled by a combination of state officials and state-​ approved oligarchs. All non-​elite controlled firms were vulnerable to predation from officials. Most usually this took the form of being forced to make payments to corrupt officials in order to continue trading (Schulze et al 2016). Owners of successful firms, however, have frequently been illegally dispossessed of their property through reiderstvo (raiding). This process of asset grabbing involves networks of officials and politically connected businesses acquiring firms by securing court judgments, threatening them with action by security services or using corrupt officials to shut them down. Reiderstvo has been endemic, with some estimating that there are 60,000 cases a year (Viktorov 2019: 437). The practice shows the weakness of formal property rights in Russia’s patrimonial system, where legal rights are less important than political patronage. The long-​term stability of this system was in doubt before the global financial crisis that engulfed Russia in the autumn of 2008. Its stability was dependent on energy sales, i.e. on the state of global demand for energy and on Russia’s continued ability to produce it. The former did not look to be an immediate problem in the mid-​2000s, since China’s growth and 258

259

Political economy

demand from advanced capitalist economies meant that there was a large market for Russia’s hydrocarbons. Russia’s ability to meet demand was another question, however, since there were worries about the extent of Russian oil reserves, the costs of exploiting new sources of oil, and whether Russia had the technological capacity to exploit them (Gustafson 2012: 449–​79; Henderson 2013). The threat of energy price fluctuations to the patrimonial market system were guarded against by the creation of a “Stabilisation Fund”, a reserve of funds created to ensure the state could maintain expenditure in the event of a shortfall in revenues caused by a decline in the prices of energy (Kudrin 2006). Economic diversification, however, was needed to replace sources of energy as a source of revenue. Diversification meant reform to encourage investment in other sectors and modernise them so that they could be competitive on global markets and balance energy sales with alternative streams of export income. Reform, however, needed to not upset elite relations or cause social pain as it had in the 1990s, since Putin’s popularity rested to a great extent on his being credited with responsibility for economic growth and the stability that Russia enjoyed relative to the 1990s. Reform plans were, therefore, relatively modest when announced in 2008 and involved the transfer of resources to existing interests to encourage them to change through their involvement with new “national corporations” and projects (Makarenko 2008). At best, then, reform plans seemed to be about managing and transforming patrimonial capitalism at the same time and reforming protected elite interests. The arrival of the global financial crisis in Russia put a stop to even these modest plans. Russia experienced one of the most dramatic declines in GDP when the crisis hit. The crisis hit Russia hard, as global energy prices collapsed as Western economies contracted (IEPP 2010: 10–​19; Robinson 2013b). As energy prices fell, tax revenue plummeted and the value of the ruble, which was dependent on high energy prices, fell. This raised the costs of borrowing and of existing loans taken out in foreign currencies by private firms. The government’s first response was to protect the ruble’s value and the ability of Russian firms to repay their debts denominated in foreign currencies. The chief beneficiaries of these policies were energy firms, metals producers and other rent-​generating firms (GU–​VES MATS 2009: 44–​6). The cost fell both on households, as the falling value of the ruble decreased real wages and purchasing power, and on those firms not able to access the government’s largesse. Relief for these firms only came in 2009, when the state intervened to support domestic producers and increased welfare payments to maintain employment and household consumption. This spending did not seek change as a condition for accessing it. Spending was not targeted or purposeful, in other words, and so as one Russian analyst put it, the “government continues the game as before … There is no guarantee that the allocated money will be used to develop advanced technologies and expand production, rather than to cover losses or new currency and financial speculation” (Dzarasov 2009: 66). The crisis response followed the logic of patrimonial capitalism. Defending the ruble meant protecting elite ownership of export revenue firms and that shares in these firms could not be claimed by foreign debtors if loan payments were defaulted. Keeping foreign ownership weak also helped protect state revenue and sources of income for regime officials, who could pressure Russian owners whose property rights were dependent on political loyalty for money. Only after elite interests were protected was there a broader response to the crisis that tackled its wider socio-​economic impact. This broader response used the reserve funds that the windfall rents from the energy price boom of the earlier 2000s had brought and was successful in dealing with the recession that the crisis caused, especially as the response coincided with a rally in oil prices from the second quarter of 2009. The crisis was not, however, a prompt for structural economic change and diversification to make the Russian economy and state budget stronger, and it did not lead to reform of the political foundations of the patrimonial economy. Dmitry 259

260

Neil Robinson

Medvedev, whose presidential term took place during the crisis whilst Putin waited out the constitutionally mandated interregnum between his presidential terms in the prime minister’s office, made repeated calls for the modernisation of the economy to break the dependency on energy exports. The crisis, Medvedev argued, would not be really over until energy dependency was reduced, and this would require some political changes to rein in bureaucracy and provide some greater public and business input into policy-​making. Medvedev was not talking about democratising the Russian political system extensively, but nothing came of his calls for reform and Putin’s return to the presidency in 2012 ended any notion that the global financial crisis could be a spur to renewed change of Russia’s political economy. Putin’s return to the presidency ended serious discussion of mutually supportive economic and political reform. Putin’s legitimacy came to rest on claims about protecting Russian sovereignty and culture and on foreign policy activism (in the Crimea, for example) as much as on economic development. Reform of the economy has been shaped by these events, particularly by the Western sanctions that followed the invasion of Crimea (see Chapter 25 by Rosefielde in this volume), the outbreak of conflict in Eastern Ukraine and tragedies such as the shooting down of MH17. Sanctions cut Russia off from some lines of international finance and technology transfer, but this only served to “reinforce the prevailing system of political economy”, increasing the role of the state in the financial system to compensate for the exclusion of elite-​ linked firms from Western finance, as energy revenues were used to fund this and to pay for increased military expenditure (Connolly 2018: 195). This has locked in dependency on oil and gas prices and energy rents to both fund the state budget and to maintain some level of economic growth. If these rents fall, the budget surplus rapidly turns into a deficit without spending from funds set aside from energy sales to cover the gap. This happened when energy prices fell and the Russian economy was hit by sanctions after the invasion of Crimea in 2014 and as the economy slumped due to lower energy prices (Borisova et al 2016). A similar slump has occurred as energy prices have fallen due to global economic contraction during the COVID-​19 pandemic (Connolly et al 2020).

Conclusion Russian capitalism is predominantly defined by politics rather than by the relative strengths and regulation of its financial and industrial sectors, or of business and labour. The impact of the global economy on the development of Russia’s political economy is heavily mediated by domestic political actors and their interests. Russian patrimonial capitalism is not inherently directed towards the promotion of growth and competitiveness as other forms of capitalism are; it is not growth averse, but it is not necessarily and automatically growth-​seeking or growth-​ generating either. This sub-​optimal system is locked in because of rent-​dependency and rent-​ seeking, and because reform has continually stalled over the fear of the political uncertainty it might bring. Also locked in, therefore, is the risk of being forced to make changes if rent sources decline and the state cannot fulfil its minimal functions, as was the case in the 1990s and as was threatened during the global financial crisis. This risk can be lessened by stockpiling financial resources to cope with crisis, but this does not remove the inbuilt vulnerability to crisis of Russia’s political economy. This vulnerability has been carried over from the 1990s into the Putin era, and nothing that Putin has done so far has addressed its root causes. The invasion of Ukraine in 2022 has not immediately and radically changed the picture of Russia’s political economy drawn in this chapter. Change may come, however, because of the impact of sanctions and the costs of war. Sanctions and the need to both fund war and provide some shelter to the population from the war’s economic shocks are being dealt with by using 260

261

Political economy

reserve funds in the short term. However, there are signs that the state might play a more directive role in the economy; some firms, for example, have been forced to sell foreign currency to prop up the ruble. Prospectively, moving the economy to a war footing might force political authorities to override elite interests and direct rents to public, rather than private, purposes. This might make the state more developmentally minded and better resourced to act as a force for development. Patronage politics will not, however, end cleanly or absolutely, as they are too important to Putin’s rule and corruption is too entrenched across the Russian political system as a whole. Consequently, while the war might mark a dramatic watershed in some areas of Russian politics, Russia’s political economy will probably be marked by many continuities as it adapts to sanctions and Russia’s new place in the global economy.

References Åslund, A. (1995), How Russia Became a Market Economy (Washington, DC: Brookings Institution). Borisova, I., B. Zamaraev, I. Kozlov, A. Nazarova, E. Sukhanov (2016), “Rossiiskaya ekonomika pod gnetom sanktsii i deshevoi nefti”, Voprosy ekonomiki 7: 5–​35. Brady, R. (1999), Kapitalizm. Russia’s Struggle to Free Its Economy (New Haven: Yale University Press). Bremmer, I. (2008), “The Return of State Capitalism”, Survival 50, 3: 55–​64. Bremmer, I. (2009), “State Capitalism Comes of Age: The End of the Free Market?”, Foreign Affairs 88, 3: 40–​55. Buhr, D. and R. Frankenberger (2014), “Emerging Varieties of Incorporated Capitalism. Theoretical Considerations and Empirical Evidence”, Business and Politics 16, 3: 393–​427. Charokopos, M. and A. Dagoumas (2018), “State Capitalism in Time: Russian Natural Gas at the Service of Foreign Policy”, Europe-​Asia Studies 70, 3: 441–​61. Connolly, R. (2008), “The Structure of Russian Industrial Exports in Comparative Perspective”, Eurasian Geography and Economics 49, 5: 586–​603. Connolly, R. (2009), “Financial Vulnerabilities in Russia”, Russian Analytical Digest 65: 4. Connolly, R. (2018), Russia’s Response to Sanctions. How Western Economic Statecraft is Reshaping Political Economy in Russia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Connolly, R., P. Hanson and M. Bradshaw (2020), “It’s Déjà Vu All Over Again: COVID-​19, the Global Energy Market, and the Russian Economy”, Eurasian Geography and Economics 61, 4-​5: 511–​31. Cooper, J. (2006), “Can Russia Compete in the Global Economy?”, Eurasian Geography and Economics 47, 4: 407–​26. Dawisha, K. (2014), Putin’s Kleptocracy. Who Owns Russia? (New York: Simon & Schuster). Djankov, S. (2015), Russia’s Economy Under Putin: From Crony Capitalism to State Capitalism (Washington DC: Peterson Institute for International Economics). Dolfsma, W. and A. Grosman (2019), “State Capitalism Revisited: A Review of Emergent Forms and Developments”, Journal of Economic Issues 53, 2: 579–​86. Dzarasov, S. (2009), “The Russian Crisis. Sources and Lessons”, Problems of Economic Transition 52, 5: 52–​73. Easter, G. (2012), “Revenue Imperatives: State Over Market in Postcommunist Russia”, in N. Robinson (ed.), The Political Economy of Russia (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield). EBRD (European Bank for Reconstruction and Development) (1999), Transition Report 1999. Ten Years of Transition (London: European Bank for Reconstruction and Development). Gaddy, C. and B. Ickes (1998), “Russia’s Virtual Economy”, Foreign Affairs 77, 5: 53–​67. Gaddy, C and B. Ickes (2009), “Russia’s Declining Oil Production: Managing Price Risk and Rent Addiction”, Eurasian Geography and Economics 50, 1: 1–​14. Ganev, V. (2009), “Postcommunist Political Capitalism: A Weberian Interpretation”, Comparative Studies in Society and History 51, 3: 648–​74. Garanina, O. (2009), “What Beyond Oil and Gas? Russian Trade Specialisation in Manufactures”, Post-​ Communist Economies 21, 1: 1–​29. Goldman, M.I. (2003), The Piratization of Russia. Economic Reform Goes Awry (London: Routledge). Guriev, S. and A. Rachinsky (2005), “The Role of Oligarchs in Russian Capitalism”, Journal of Economic Perspectives 19, 1: 131–​50. Gustafson, T. (2012), Wheel of Fortune. The Battle for Oil and Power in Russia (Cambridge [Mass]: Belknap Press).

261

262

Neil Robinson GU-​VES MATs (Gosudarstvenii universitet–​Vyshaya shkola ekonomiki Mezhvedomstvenii analiticheskii tsentr) (2009), “Otsenka antikrizisnikh mer po podderzhke real’nogo sektora rossiiskoi ekonomiki”, Voprosy ekonomiki 5: 21–​46. Hall, P. and D. Soskice (2001), “An Introduction to Varieties of Capitalism”, in P. Hall and D. Soskice (eds.), Varieties of Capitalism. The Institutional Sources of Comparative Advantage (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Hellman, J. (1998), “Winners Take All: The Politics of Partial Reform in Postcommunist Transitions”, World Politics 50, 4: 203–​34. Hellman, J. and D. Kaufmann (2001), “Confronting the Challenge of State Capture in Transition Economies”, Finance & Development 38, 3: 31–​5. Henderson, J. (2013), Tight Oil Developments in Russia (Oxford: Oxford Institute for Energy Studies). IEPP (Institut ekonomiki perekhodnogo perioda) (2010), Krizisnaya ekonomika sovremennoi Rossii (Moscow: Institut ekonomiki perekhodnogo perioda). Kudrin, A. (2006), “Stabilizatsionnyi fond: zarubezhnyi i rossiiskii opyt”, Voprosy ekonomiki 2: 8–​45. Kvintradze, E. (2010), “Russia’s Output Collapse and Recovery: Evidence from the Post-​ Soviet Transition”, IMF Working Paper (89). Lane, D. (2008), “From Chaotic to State-​Led Capitalism”, New Political Economy 13, 2: 177–​84. Leftwich, A. (1996), “Two Cheers for Democracy? Democracy and the Developmental State”, in A. Leftwich (ed.), Democracy and Development. Theory and Practice (Cambridge: Polity). Loungani, P. and P. Mauro (2001), “Capital Flight from Russia”, World Economy 24, 5: 689–​706. Makarenko, B. (2008), “Vozmozhna li v Rossii modenizatsiya?”, Pro et Contra 12, 5-​6: 33–​47. Murrell, P. (1992), “Conservative Political Philosophy and the Strategy of Economic Transition”, East European Politics and Societies 6, 1: 3–​16. Radygin, A. (2004), “Rossiya v 2000–​2004 godakh: na puti k gosudarstvennomu kapitalizmu”, Voprosy ekonomiki 4: 42–​65. Robinson, N. (1999), “The Global Economy, Reform and Crisis in Russia”, Review of International Political Economy 6, 4: 531–​64. Robinson, N. (2011), “Russian Patrimonial Capitalism and the International Financial Crisis”, Journal of Communist Studies and Transitional Politics 27, 3-​4: 434–​55. Robinson, N. (2012), “The Contexts of Russia’s Political Economy: Soviet Legacies and Post-​Soviet Policies”, in N. Robinson (ed.), The Political Economy of Russia (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield). Robinson, N. (2013a), “Economic and Political Hybridity: Patrimonial Capitalism in the Post-​Soviet Sphere”, Journal of Eurasian Studies 4, 2: 136–​45. Robinson, N. (2013b), “Russia’s Response to Crisis: The Paradoxes of Success”, Europe-​Asia Studies 65, 3: 450–​72. Rueschemeyer, D., E.H. Stephens and J. Stephens (1992), Capitalist Development and Democracy (Cambridge: Polity). Rutland, P. (2001), “The August 1998 Crash: Causes and Consequences”, in P. Rutland (ed.), Business and the State in Contemporary Russia (Boulder: Westview). Sakwa, R. (2009), The Quality of Freedom. Khodorkovsky, Putin, and the Yukos Affair (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Schlumberger, O. (2008), “Structural Reform, Economic Order, and Development: Patrimonial Capitalism”, Review of International Political Economy 15, 4: 622–​49. Schulze, G., B.S. Sjahrir and N. Zakharov (2016), “Corruption in Russia”, The Journal of Law and Economics 59, 1: 135–​71. Treisman, D. (1998), “Fighting Inflation in a Transitional Regime: Russia’s Anomalous Stabilization”, World Politics 50, 4: 235–​65. Treisman, D. (1999), “After Yeltsin Comes … Yeltsin”, Foreign Policy 117: 74–​86. Viktorov, I. (2019), “Russia’s Network State and Reiderstvo Practices: The Roots to Weak Property Rights Protection After the Post-​Communist Transition”, in B. Magyar (ed.), Stubborn Structures. Reconceptualizing Post-​Communist Regimes (Budapest: Central European University Press). Wolnicki, M. (2010), “The Day After Neoliberal Triumphalism”, International Journal of Social Economics 37, 7: 476–​87. Woodruff, D. (1999), Money Unmade. Barter and the Fate of Russian Capitalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press).

262

263

23 CRONY CAPITALISM IN CONTEMPORARY RUSSIA AND WHAT GLOBALISATION HAS TO DO WITH IT Gulnaz Sharafutdinova

The ideal capitalist economy driven by competition and free enterprise might hardly come by in the real world, where social and political imperatives co-​exist with economic interests. Nonetheless, the degree to which state institutions and business practices enable economic and political access, widely seen as fundamental for growth and prosperity, is variable across different countries. In 2016, The Economist used a “crony capitalism index” to compare countries around the world on the extent of graft in their economies. The index measured billionaire wealth as a percentage of GDP and ranked countries by how much of that wealth came from the “crony sector”: telecoms, oil and gas, real estate, and so on. Russia topped the chart (The Economist 2016). The share of extreme wealth is staggering in Russia as is the corresponding extreme inequality level. The Credit Suisse Research Institute’s 2019 Global Wealth Report has suggested that Russia is the world’s most unequal country, with 83 percent of its wealth controlled by 10 percent of its richest individuals (Credit Suisse Research Institute 2019). The net worth of Russia’s ultra-​r ich billionaires has increased in 2021 according to Forbes, and even the sharp stock market drop and ruble depreciation in 2022 resulting from the military build-​up on Ukraine’s borders is not likely to significantly change the patterns of wealth and inequality in the country (Peterson-​Withorn 2021). The economic pain is experienced most acutely at the lower levels of society, while the elites secure their fortunes abroad, purchasing new homes and residence permits outside Russia. Much of Russian capital lands abroad. Russian nationals are disproportionately represented in the recent Pandora Papers –​a massive document leak published by the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists in October 2021. The earlier leaks from Mossack Fonseca, a Panama law firm, allegedly connect billions of dollars in offshore deals and loans to Russia’s elites. This ever-​g rowing chain of revelations regarding Russian cronyism draws attention to crony capitalism “Russian-​style”. The Kremlin’s confrontational foreign policy added further negative attention to the system that is often referred to as Russia’s “kleptocracy” (Dawisha 2014). Such a system is not unique to Russia. Many of its features are shared by other post-​Soviet states such as Kazakhstan, Belarus and a pre-​war Ukraine. Some elements are quite generic across other emerging economies with weak institutions. Whichever terms observers use to DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-26

263

264

Gulnaz Sharafutdinova

refer to crony capitalist systems, they share the following features: (1) close links between political and economic elites and reliance on informal connections; (2) insecure property rights and weak rule of law; and (3) high levels of corruption. Crony systems could be more or less competitive in political terms. However, I argue below that there is often a strong trend away from pluralism and competition both in the economy and political spheres motivated by the central defining features of crony capitalism. The scholarship on Russian crony capitalism has evolved over the last three decades. Below, I review the key concepts and theories that various scholars have advanced to make sense of Russia’s evolving political-​economic system and institutions. A very productive debate on this subject revolved first around the issue of state-​business relations and their effects on domestic institutions and property rights. An important shift occurred in the last decade, when scholars breaking out of a methodologically nationalist paradigm highlighted domestic-​international linkages and interdependencies. Russian crony capitalism and authoritarianism cannot be understood without considering the role of globalisation and, particularly, the global financial system in which Russian capital is well integrated.

State-​business relations and property rights The results of Russia’s institutional evolution in the 1990s –​the period of liberal economic reforms –​was best captured using the terms “oligarchs” and “state capture”. The “spontaneous” or tunnel privatisation of the late 1980s privileged the managers of state-​owned enterprises and laid the early foundations of asset-​stripping and private wealth creation. As economic and political hierarchies crumbled, the economic elites got swept up in the pursuit of property, in effect “stealing the state” (Kotkin 2008; Solnick 1998). The most conspicuous case of power-​wealth dependence that defined the Russia of the 1990s was the “loans-​for-​shares” privatisation project that resulted in the rise of oligarchs (Hoffman 2011; Freeland 2000; Klebnikov 2001; Guriev and Rachinsky 2005). World Bank analysts introduced the term “state capture” to highlight their outsized role in forming the government and defining government policies in transition economies (Hellman et al 2003). The early winners of reforms, entrepreneurs such as Boris Berezovsky, Vladimir Gusinsky and other private actors, imposed their vision on the process of reforms and institution-​building in Russia, stalling the economy in partial reform equilibrium (Hellman 1998). The line of scholarship that operated with concepts of state capture and oligarchy focused on the evolution of domestic institutions and specifically on institutions ensuring secure property rights. Insecure property rights in Russia were viewed as one of the fundamental problems of the country’s political economy. Incidentally, many scholars (and policymakers) expected that property rights would emerge spontaneously because the new property owners would be interested in protecting their holdings. It took additional academic attention and theorising to make sense of the unexpected equilibrium in which the rich did not lobby for stronger institutions. The answers to this puzzle included (1) big businesses’ access to means of private protection (Sonin 2003); (2) the suboptimal resolution of a dynamic situation between the dictator and oligarchs, resulting in oligarchic preference for a weak dictator (to avoid expropriation); (3) investing in business associations and other stakeholders as a protection strategy (Duvanova 2013; Markus 2015) or (4) in “good works” to improve the legitimacy of ill-​gotten wealth (Frye 2006); and (5) relying on global institutional arbitrage that enables asset-​holders to secure their rights abroad (Logvinenko 2021; Sharafutdinova and Dawisha 2017). Russia’s political evolution from the 1990s to the 2000s enabled further theoretical and conceptual advances. Besides enquiring into property rights institutions, scholars theorised 264

265

Crony capitalism in contemporary Russia

about the specificity of the state in such a system where access to political and administrative power allows for access to material benefits and economic assets. Johan Engvall (2015) analysed the post-​Soviet state as a kind of “investment market” because public employees start increasingly to treat their state offices as venues for private enrichment. They thereby turn the state into a profitable enterprise “where access to rent-​seeking opportunities is auctioned off” and individuals invest in civil service positions because of the administrative rights associated with office holding and the opportunity to turn these rights into pecuniary benefits. The higher the office and the greater the rights, the bigger the benefits. Engvall (2015: 29) suggests that such “marketisation” of the state is an inverse “state capture” because it is carried out from within the state: “[P]‌ublic officials instead of private firms have created a private market in goods and services under the state’s jurisdiction”. The centrality of state-​building processes to Russia’s capitalist transformation was highlighted by David Woodruff’s study of Russia’s monetary centralisation and Vadim Volkov’s research into the phenomenon of private rackets and violent entrepreneurship (Woodruff 1999; Volkov 2002). They revealed that, in the 1990s, the Russian state lacked the necessary means of control over national currency and the use of violence. Such consolidation occurred only in the 2000s. These studies were an important reminder that many of the policymakers’ expectations at the time of Russia’s early reforms wrongly assumed the existence of effective state institutions. States disintegrate institutionally, as Stephen Solnick convincingly demonstrated in his research (1998). Much of the political agenda in the 2000s was therefore motivated by the rebuilding of the state. The results of Russian state consolidation were questionable. Reflecting on the shifting balance between the private and state actors during the 2000s, many scholars observed a shift from state to business capture or a variety of exchange relationships (Frye 2002; Yakovlev 2006; Gans-​Morse 2012). This scholarship was then superseded by observations of the rise of a more centralised corruption as the incidents of raiding conflicts subsided after 2009 (Rochlitz et al 2020). The idea of such centralised corruption was also central to Karen Dawisha’s book on Russia’s kleptocracy. Dawisha documented the astronomic rise and enrichment of individuals from Ozero (The Lake), a housing cooperative set up in 1996 by a small group of friends and associates that included Vladimir Putin to manage their dachas (summer houses). The members of this group saw their fortunes rise dramatically, both politically and economically, once Putin became president (Dawisha 2014). In a related work, Alena Ledeneva (2013), a British sociologist, also focused on informal networks that she claimed made up the essence of governance under Putin. Anders Åslund (2019) used a very similar approach to describe Russia’s transition from a market economy to Putin’s kleptocracy during the 2000s. These works highlighted the personalist nature of Russia’s political economy and the central role played in it by Russia’s leader and a group of his close associates.

The dynamics of Russia’s crony capitalism in historical perspective While a growing trend could be observed towards a very personalised view of Russia’s political economy, crony capitalism is neither uniquely Russian nor a uniquely post-​communist phenomenon. It permeates politics and economics in various countries and regions. Douglass North et al (2009) conceptualised such systems using the term “limited-​access orders”, which they defined as institutional orders where citizens do not have free access to political and economic activities and where selected groups control the rules of the game and access to economic rents. Limited-​access orders were, in fact, the norm, according to these authors, in the majority of countries, and only a selected few were able to transition to a differently organised, 265

266

Gulnaz Sharafutdinova

open-​access order that allowed freer access to politics (democracy) and greater competitiveness in the economic sphere. This distinction between limited-​access and open-​access orders is extremely useful for capturing the institutional differences in capitalist economies in terms of rent-​seeking patterns as well as economic and political competition (Yakovlev 2021). However, spanning the whole course of human history, it brushes over the historically contingent domestic and international structures that might be responsible for propping up or undermining the particular institutional arrangements and practices associated with open-​and limited-​access orders in different historical epochs and the potential interlinkages that might be sustaining their existence. The historical legacy of the communist economy and political system is the first important structural factor that helps explain the specificity of Russian crony capitalism. In an analysis of post-​communist state-​building, Venelin Ganev highlighted the ramifications of the disintegration of the state-​owned economy as the most important aspect of the structural legacy of communism (Ganev 2007; see also Gaddy and Ickes 2005). Ganev suggested that this legacy should be understood in three distinct ways: (1) it made “inevitable the rise of a qualitatively new dominant elite project most aptly described as ‘extraction from the state’ ”; (2) because the elites could manipulate “flows of resources within the existing institutional edifice of the state, they have no incentive to develop strong state structures”; and (3) predatory elites are not likely to encounter popular resistance because “this form of predatory behavior does not pit elites against large groups of title-​holders” (since private property is non-​existent in the communist economy to start with) (Ganev 2005: 435). In essence, Ganev advanced an explanation for the institutional weakness of the post-​communist state as arising from a set of powerful incentives making predation easy and unopposed. Although his empirical research focused on Bulgaria, his analytical framework is applicable to Russia as well as other post-​communist countries. The corrupt privatisation of the 1990s, the raiding conflicts of the 1990s and 2000s, and the continuing pillaging of state resources today –​known in Russia by the term raspil and exposed by Aleksei Navalny’s anti-​corruption foundation FBK (now banned)1 –​are a testament to the notoriously weak state institutions in Russia that seem to have worsened over time. More recently, Vladimir Gel’man (2022) turned Ganev’s structural argument upside-​down, highlighting the agency-​driven aspects of rent-​seeking in Russia and focussing on unaccountable and unconstrained elites with short-​time horizons.

Political centralisation The power-​wealth nexus creates a powerful centralising tendency within the political system because open inter-​elite conflicts destabilise the system. Henry Hale’s concept of “patronal politics” captures well the internal dynamics of such systems where presidents enjoy the confluence of formal and informal powers (2014). The centralising dynamic was evident in Russia’s political transformation after the Soviet collapse. While the 1990s were characterised by pluralism and open contestation, from the early 2000s the system turned towards a more hybrid system that combined authoritarianism with elections but gradually removed any real chance for political contestation (Petrov et al 2014). I have argued earlier that such transformation occurs because political competition in the context of crony capitalism results in public displays of inter-​elite rivalries through negative campaign and black PR strategies that delegitimise democratic institutions and elites themselves (Sharafutdinova 2010). The stakes in electoral results in crony systems of governance are much higher than in systems with strong institutions and secure property rights. These stakes involve not only political control of the office but also control over major economic assets and financial flows that comes with such political control.2 266

267

Crony capitalism in contemporary Russia

Political transitions –​such as the one that occurred in Moscow in 2010 (when Mayor Luzhkov left his office) or in Kazakhstan in 2022 –​result in the redistribution of property and economic resources. Not surprisingly, those in office, who have established the system to benefit themselves and their network, have very strong incentives to ensure their stay in power. The stakes of losing power are just too high. This was clearly understood by Russia’s oligarchs in the 1990s. In 1995, when President Yeltsin’s popularity took a nosedive, they invested their resources and efforts into his re-​election campaign. Taking advantage of his support later, they benefited from a rigged privatisation of Russia’s economic assets through the “loans-​for-​shares” scheme and some of them joined the government. With a weak civil society and the population trying to simply get through the worst-​ever economic and social crisis, a well-​organised small group of financiers was thereby successful in turning political and economic outcomes in their favour and defeating the challenge associated with the revived Communist Party. To avoid the 1990s scenario, President Putin focused on constructing a fully managed political system that left no space for political competition. Some analysts have referred to an “overmanaged” democracy in Russia, emphasising the importance of manual control (i.e. Putin’s personal decision-​making on the most delicate issues of the day) and the growing devaluation of political institutions (Petrov et al 2010). Constructing the vertical of power involved getting control over the State Duma, integrating regional political machines into the centralised national system of power and purging those oligarchs that appeared too autonomous and independent from the government (Golosov 2014). Control over the media, including the main TV channels, proved essential for setting the agenda and achieving control over informational space (Sharafutdinova 2020). In the aftermath of protests in 2011–​12, the Kremlin’s new political strategy that combined symbolic politics and a focus on traditional values with an opportunistic foreign policy relied on media propaganda even more intensely than in the first decade of the twenty-​first century.

Economic concentration Economic concentration and monopolisation represent another major corollary of crony capitalism “Russian-​style”. The system that operates based on a close proximity of political and economic actors results in the rise of preferred economic agents that benefit from their connections, get undue economic advantages (“rents”), and inhibit the entry of other economic actors that might challenge their standing by offering superior goods and services. In Russia such a move towards economic concentration has indeed been evident over the last two decades. Economists Sergei Guriev and Andrey Rachinsky found that by 2004 a small number of oligarchs controlled a substantial share of the economy. Their calculations reveal that the top ten conglomerates associated with Russia’s main oligarchs controlled over 60 percent of Russia’s stock markets in 2003 (for the rest of Europe this number was 30–​35 percent, depending on the size of the country) (Guriev and Rachinsky 2005: 139). Economic concentration and the monopolisation of access to financial resources can also be demonstrated by more recent data on access to government contracts in Russia. In 2015, for example, the top five “kings” included Arkady Rotenberg, who benefited from $7.8bn in contracts; Gennady Timchenko ($2.1bn); Kirill Shamalov ($1.9bn); and Igor Rotenberg ($1.4bn) –​all members of Putin’s personal network (Schrek 2016). Economic concentration in Russia has been accompanied by de-​privatisation trends, particularly in the energy sector. The 2016 report on the Russian economy prepared by the Institute of Modern Russia (Institute of Modern Russia 2016) noted, for example, that 267

268

Gulnaz Sharafutdinova

63 percent of the country’s oil production was controlled by the state (compared to only 7 percent in 1995). State corporations such as Gazprom, Rosneft and Transneft, as well as Rosatom, Rostec, Rostelekom, Roskosmos and Rosnano created in the 2000s –​all enjoy privileged access to state contracts and cheap credits. Planned to be the champions of the Russian economy and protected from competition and bankruptcy, they turned into hotbeds of corruption and platforms for directing state funds into private pockets. Meanwhile, the share of small and medium-​size businesses has been dwindling over the last decades. In 2021 their share in corporate turnover hit a record low since 2008 and amounted to 11.5 percent of corporate revenue in the country (The Moscow Times 2021).

Energy rents Russia is the most resource-​r ich country in the world, which is an important source of pride for its people. Its reliance on natural resources, specifically oil and gas, adds an additional raison d’etre for the persistence of its deficient institutional environment and the observed trends towards economic and political concentration. The oil and gas sector contribute over 50 percent of federal budget revenues and over 70 percent of Russia’s exports. This means that much of the wealth to be had in Russia is centred on the extraction and sales of energy resources. The economic, social and political implications of such resource riches have been analysed with reference to the “resource curse”, and a rich scholarship on this topic has pointed to a variety of problems associated with overdependence on oil and gas production (Haber and Menaldo 2011; Frankel 2010; Ross 1999; Chaudhry 1997). In the Russian case, reliance on energy resources has undoubtedly influenced the contours of the system by helping to shape the elite pact as well as the social contract –​in accordance with the more paternalistic political culture –​allowing the government to promote social and developmental programmes (Cerami 2009). Energy resources have structured opportunities that influence inter-​elite conflicts and dispositions in such a way that, at the time of Russia’s first political transition from Yeltsin to Putin, the first and most important changes in ownership occurred in the energy sector (Poussenkova 2010). Although scholars disagree over whether resource dependence is necessarily a curse, it is hard to dispute that the rising prices for oil and gas in the 2000s propped up Russia’s political system, from both the popular and elite-​level perspective (Luong and Weinthal 2010; Gustafson 2012; Fish 2005; Ahrend 2005). With regards to creating public support for the regime, energy revenues were used to finance “national priority” programmes for education, healthcare, housing, agriculture, and the development of a “maternity capital” programme for addressing Russia’s demographic problem.3 From the elite’s perspective, the energy-​driven 2000s resulted in an expansive system of rent redistribution that integrated elites into a centralised patronage system with both nominally private and state-​controlled firms inhibiting any attempts at institutional reforms (Vatansever 2021; Guriev and Tsyvinsky 2010; Gaddy and Ickes 2005). It should be noted that Russian-​style crony capitalism is different from, say, Zaire-​style personalist kleptocracy, in which the rulers appropriated practically all the rents and even foreign aid for personal consumption (Acemoglu et al 2004). Many commentators agree that Putin’s reforms of the early 2000s were beneficial for the economy (Ahrend 2006). The national priority programmes initiated in 2006, utilising at least part of the energy revenues, underscored the government’s attempt to address at least some social problems. Albeit personalist, the regime associated with Putin appears less predatory than some of the notable kleptocracies in Africa and Asia. Nonetheless, its developmental trajectory has been alarming. It is evident that predation-​oriented elite attitudes have been stabilised and normalised in the last two decades, turning the corrupt governance system into a self-​reinforcing state of equilibrium. Elites have 268

269

Crony capitalism in contemporary Russia

become increasingly used to rents and see their fortunes tied to their personal connections to state officials and the current regime. Combined with a confrontational foreign policy that has culminated in war against Ukraine –​motivated by domestic political imperatives –​such a rent-​based system produces an inflexible economy that cannot allow for growth and adjust to financial crises (Yakovlev 2021). Set on a path of gradual stagnation, the regime can only rely on symbolic politics and escalatory foreign policy to legitimise the system, combined with an increasing repression against those who oppose the regime. This has been happening since 2013, when the Kremlin turned to new symbolic politics emphasising traditional values and Russia’s civilisational identity. When the post-​Crimea euphoria evaporated and the potency of symbolic politics diminished, Russia’s political system took a clear turn towards increasing repression, indicating the growing insecurity of a regime that had to quash political dissent (Yusupova 2021; Rogov 2018; Gel’man 2015; see also Lipman and Petrov 2016; and on Putin’s symbolic politics, see Sharafutdinova 2016). The February 2022 military invasion of Ukraine has caused a radical escalation of the conflict with the West, plunging Russia into isolation and an increasing uncertainty.

Global-​local interdependencies: Institutions and global arbitrage Many liberal reformers expected that, as economic assets found their new owners, these asset-​ holders would be interested in strong state institutions. To protect newly acquired wealth, businessmen need strong and secure property rights. These never emerged in Russia and big businesses never turned into principled lobbyists for strong state institutions. While s­ eventeenth-​ century English landowners went to civil war to fight for a limited government that can credibly commit to protecting property rights, such a struggle never happened in the post-​Soviet space. Weak institutions co-​existed, with wealth acquisition never producing the expected institutional and political dynamic. Even further, the increasing integration of the Russian economy into the global financial and economic system did not work to discipline Russian elites and rebuild Russian domestic institutions. Financial internationalisation has only propped up the autocratic and oligarchic structures in Russia (Logvinenko 2021). Vladislav Surkov, the deputy chief of the Presidential Administration and Putin’s political demiurge in the first decade of the 2000s, once noted that Russia’s main problem is the absence of nationally minded elites. He argued that the contemporary Russian ruling elite is more of an “offshore aristocracy” that deems Russia a “free hunting zone”. The members of this social group live abroad, educate their children abroad, and treat Russia as a place where they can extract profits, while their minds and lives are not really there (Surkov 2006). This idea, voiced in 2006, has had even more meaning and relevance over the last few years, as a series of documents leaked and known as the Panama, Paradise and Pandora Papers revealed confidential information about the use of offshore companies and accounts by the global rich (for example, see The New York Times 2016). These revelations have highlighted that the countries undergoing institutional transformation at the turn of the twenty-​first century face an environment that is qualitatively different from any other historical epoch. Their transformational challenges, therefore, also have distinct elements. The effects of globally available economic and financial institutions of the developed world on the evolution of domestic institutions in the emerging economies and transforming polities is one such challenge that has not yet been carefully explored in the literature. The notion of institutional arbitrage might be a key to the puzzle of why the predatory elite project continues even after the key economic assets are privatised and the elites could be expected to demand institutions to protect their property rights. Oligarchs do not want to 269

270

Gulnaz Sharafutdinova

engage in costly collective action because they have a less costly exit strategy, whereby they can protect their assets abroad using foreign financial and legal institutions. Why face the risks of opposing the regime and losing everything when you can safely use institutions elsewhere while continuing to benefit from weak institutions at home? Albert Hirschman’s classic “exit, voice and loyalty” framework applies very well to the dilemmas of institution-​building in the context of a highly integrated global economy (Hirschman 1970).4 As domestic financial systems become integrated into global financial markets and institutions, economic actors face expanding opportunities to exit unfavourable domestic institutional constraints in favour of improved conditions abroad. A dense institutional infrastructure underpinning the global economy and, more particularly, the global financial sector –​with international banks, offshore financial zones and foreign legal institutions –​plays a role in providing an exit strategy for businesses concerned with conditions at home. By the time Russia set out on the path of integration into the global economy in the early 1990s, the global financial institutional framework had already been established. Russia’s new capitalists made quick use of it. Joseph Stiglitz and Karla Hoff (2004: 755) reiterated the widely held conclusion about the transition in Russia that “the transfer of state property to private hands was accompanied by the stripping of Russia’s assets”. What is even more devastating is that most of these stripped assets ended up abroad. According to some estimates, capital flight in the 1990s amounted to $150bn (Kotkin 2008: 139). These tendencies have only increased in the 2000s, with capital flight peaking in 2014 at over $150bn in that year alone (Serebryakov 2015). Use of foreign jurisdictions and new legal opportunities was at the core of the Russian capitalists’ “securitization” strategy. Reliance on foreign institutions intensified with time, as asset-​holders discovered they could rely on foreign courts for dispute resolution and secure their future abroad, investing in real estate, foreign education for their children and global lifestyles. Many Russia observers tend to enquire about protest sentiments in Russia and lament about the people who do not want to go to the streets to defend their freedoms in the face of increasing authoritarianism. But the main dilemma of Russia’s state and society today is, in fact, the lack of collective action by the elite to transform the institutional environment in such a way as to facilitate national prosperity. Russian elites carry greater responsibility given their resources.

Conclusion Russian-​style crony capitalism is a historically contingent institutional order. Its features are both comparable to problems experienced by many weakly institutionalised states around the world and distinct in their structural preconditions and developmental trajectory. It is comparable to other countries in the way cronyism is expressed –​in close connections between the political and economic elites, with detrimental economic and political ramifications. Economically, the selectively created system of rent distribution in Russia’s natural resources-​dependent economy stifles competition, modernisation, and small and medium-​size business development. Russia has become a place for extracting profits through vertically integrated energy companies and stashing them in foreign jurisdictions. Politically, the only way to maintain such a system is through erecting a centralised and authoritarian system of governance. This system originated in the Soviet collapse, as state elites turned towards predation as their main mode of activity, treating state offices as vehicles for personal enrichment rather than public goods provision. These predatory tendencies only solidified with an improving economic outlook due to rising oil prices in the first decade of the 2000s. The expected demand for good governance by those who acquired big assets was mitigated by the availability of foreign institutions that could be used to secure property rights that appeared vulnerable in the Russian 270

271

Crony capitalism in contemporary Russia

institutional environment. A lack of public mobilisation against this corrupt system has been ensured through the clever manipulation of public opinion using weak spots in the national psyche, chiefly an aggressive foreign policy responding to the trauma of the Soviet collapse and Russia’s loss of status as a great power. Such a historically grounded understanding of Russian crony capitalism focused on the quality of institutions eschews ahistorical and culturally based judgements about “well-​governed” Western countries and poorly governed “others”. It also reveals the domestic and global structures that enable the system, thereby providing ideas about the potential for change. The scholarship on Russian crony capitalism has evolved from being focused predominantly on domestic actors and institutions to the more recent recognition of global links and dependencies between Russia’s domestic institutions and practices and the global economic, legal and financial institutions. This avenue of research, which is still at its inception, is arguably most promising in terms of enabling a new understanding of the possibilities and limits of institutional transformation in the era of globally mobile capital.

Notes 1 Navalny created the Foundation Against Corruption in 2011. Its offices were closed in 2021 after it was determined to be an extremist organisation by the government. See https://​fbk.info/​. 2 This was powerfully demonstrated in the events of early 2022 in Kazakhstan, too. 3 The “maternity capital” policy that came into effect in 2007 entitled families in Russia to receive state support for bearing (or adopting) a second or a third child. The size of financial support has fluctuated with inflation and ruble devaluation from 250,000 rubles (ca. $10,000) to 453,026 rubles in 2016 (ca. $7,000). The funds were to be used for the child’s education or improving housing conditions. 4 Hirschman advanced his analytical framework for analysing the behaviour of firms’ employees and owners in the context of inadequate organisational performance. He found that some members might exercise the exit option by leaving the organisation, while others would voice their concerns to the management (Hirschman 1970).

References Acemoglu, D., T. Verdier and J.A. Robinson (2004), “Kleptocracy and Divide-​and-​Rule: A Model of Personal Rule”, Journal of the European Economic Association 2, 2-​3: 162–​92. Ahrend, R. (2005), “Can Russia Break the ‘Resource Curse’?”, Eurasian Geography and Economics 46, 8: 584–​609. Ahrend, R. (2006), “Russia’s Post-​Crisis Growth: Its Sources and Prospects for Continuation”, Europe-​ Asia Studies 58, 1: 1–​24. Åslund, A. (2019), Russia’s Crony Capitalism. The Path from Market to Kleptocracy (New Haven: Yale University Press). Cerami, A. (2009), “Welfare State Developments in the Russian Federation: Oil-​Led Social Policy and ‘The Russian Miracle’”, Social Policy and Administration 43, 2: 105–​20. Chaudhry, K.A. (1997), The Price of Wealth: Economies and Institutions in the Middle East (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Credit Suisse Research Institute (2019), Global Wealth Report 2019, www.cre​dit-​sui​sse.com/​media/​ass​ets/​ corpor​ate/​docs/​about-​us/​resea​rch/​publi​cati​ons/​glo​bal-​wea​lth-​rep​ort-​2019-​en.pdf. Dawisha, K. (2014), Putin’s Kleptocracy. Who Owns Russia? (New York: Simon & Schuster). Duvanova, D. (2013), Building Business in Post-​Communist Russia, Eastern Europe, and Eurasia: Collective Goods, Selective Incentives, and Predatory States (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Engvall, J. (2015), “The State as Investment Market: A Framework for Interpreting the Post-​Soviet State in Eurasia”, Governance 28, 1: 25–​40. Fish, M.S. (2005), Democracy Derailed in Russia (New York: Cambridge University Press). Frankel, J.A. (2010), The Natural Resource Curse: A Survey (No. w15836) (Cambridge [Mass]: National Bureau of Economic Research).

271

272

Gulnaz Sharafutdinova Freeland, C. (2000), Sale of the Century: The Inside Story of the Second Russian Revolution (London: Little Brown). Frye, T. (2002), “Capture or Exchange? Business Lobbying in Russia”, Europe-​Asia Studies 54, 7: 1017–​36. Frye, T. (2006), “Original Sin, Good Works, and Property Rights in Russia”, World Politics 58, 4: 479–​504. Gaddy, C. and B. Ickes (2005), “Resource Rents and the Russian Economy”, Eurasian Geography and Economics 46, 8: 559–​83. Ganev, V. (2005), “Post-​Communism as an Episode of State Building: A Reversed Tillyan Perspective”, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies 38, 4: 425–​45. Ganev, V. (2007), Preying on the State: The Transformation of Bulgaria After 1989 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Gans-​Morse, J. (2012), “Threats to Property Rights in Russia: From Private Coercion to State Aggression”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 28, 3: 263–​95. Gel’man, V. (2015), “The Politics of Fear: How the Russian Regime Confronts Its Opponents”, Russian Politics & Law 53, 5-​6: 6–​26. Gel’man, V. (2022), The Politics of Bad Governance in Contemporary Russia (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press). Golosov, G.V. (2014), “The Territorial Genealogies of Russia’s Political Parties and the Transferability of Political Machines”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 30, 6: 464–​80. Guriev, S. and A. Rachinsky (2005), “The Role of Oligarchs in Russian Capitalism”, Journal of Economic Perspectives 19, 1: 131–​50. Guriev, S. and A. Tsyvinski (2010), “Challenges Facing the Russian Economy After the Crisis”, in A. Åslund, S. Guriev and A. Kuchins (eds.), Russia after the Global Economic Crisis (Washington DC and Moscow: Peterson Institute for International Economics and Higher School for Economics): 9–​38. Gustafson, T. (2012), Wheel of Fortune: The Battle for Oil and Power in Russia (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press). Haber, S. and V. Menaldo (2011), “Do Natural Resources Fuel Authoritarianism? A Reappraisal of the Resource Curse”, American Political Science Review 105, 1: 1–​26. Hale, H.E. (2014), Patronal Politics. Eurasian Regime Dynamics in Comparative Perspective (New York: Cambridge University Press). Hellman, J.S. (1998), “Winners Take All: The Politics of Partial Reform in Postcommunist Transitions”, World Politics 50, 2: 203–​34. Hellman, J.S., G. Jones and D. Kaufmann (2003), “Seize the State, Seize the Day: State Capture and Influence in Transition Economies”, Journal of Comparative Economics 31, 4: 751–​73. Hirschman, A. (1970), Exit, Voice and Loyalty: Responses to Decline in Firms, Organizations and States (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press). Hoffman, D.E. (2011), The Oligarchs: Wealth and Power in the New Russia (New York: Public Affairs). Institute of Modern Russia (2016), “Demonopolization of the Economy as an Axis of Russia’s Future Reforms”, https://​imrus​sia.org/​ima​ges/​stor ​ies/​Repo​r ts/​Demon​opol​izat​ion/​IMR_​d​emon​opol​izat​ ion-russ​ian-​econom​y_​fi​nal-​web. Klebnikov, P. (2001), Godfather of the Kremlin: The Decline of Russia in the Age of Gangster Capitalism (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt). Kotkin, S. (2008), Armageddon Averted: The Soviet Collapse, 1970–​2000 (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Ledeneva, A. (2013), Can Russia Modernise?: Sistema, Power Networks and Informal Governance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Lipman, M. and N Petrov (2016), “2015: Zavershenie perekhoda ot ‘myagkogo avtoritarizma’ k bolee zhestkomu”, Kontrapunkt, 4 June. Logvinenko, I.O. (2021), Global Finance, Local Control: Corruption and Wealth in Contemporary Russia (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Luong, P.J. and E. Weinthal (2010), Oil is Not a Curse: Ownership Structure and Institutions in Soviet Successor States (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Markus, S. (2015), Property, Predation, and Protection (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). North, D.C., J.J. Wallis and B.R. Weingast (2009), Violence and Social Orders: A Conceptual Framework for Interpreting Recorded Human History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Peterson-​Withorn, C. (2021), “The Ten Richest Russian Billionaires 2021”, Forbes, April 6, www.for​ bes.com. Petrov, N., M. Lipman and H.E. Hale (2010), “Overmanaged Democracy in Russia: Governance Implications of Hybrid Regimes”, (Washington DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace).

272

273

Crony capitalism in contemporary Russia Petrov, N., M. Lipman and H.E. Hale (2014), “Three Dilemmas of Hybrid Regime Governance: Russia from Putin to Putin”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 30, 1: 1–​26. Poussenkova, N. (2010), “The Global Expansion of Russia’s Energy Giants”, Journal of International Affairs 63, 2: 103–​24. Rochlitz, M., A. Kazun and A. Yakovlev (2020), “Property Rights in Russia after 2009: From Business Capture to Centralized Corruption?”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 36, 5-​6: 434–​50. Rogov, K. (2018), “The Art of Coercion: Repressions and Repressiveness in Putin’s Russia”, Russian Politics 3, 2: 151–​74. Ross, M. (1999), “The Political Economy of the Resource Curse”, World Politics 51, 2: 297–​322. Schrek, C. (2016), “ ‘Five Kings’: Putin Insiders Reign in Government Contract Ranking”, Radio Free Europe, 29 February 2016, www.rferl.org/​. Serebryakov, D. (2015), “Russia’s Capital Flight More Than Doubled in 2014 to $151 bn”, BusinessInsider. com, 19 January. Sharafutdinova, G. (2010), Political Consequences of Crony Capitalism inside Russia. (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press). Sharafutdinova, G. (2016), “Managing National Ressentiment: Morality Politics in Putin’s Russia”, in A. Makarychev and A. Yatsyk (eds.), Vocabularies of International Relations after the Crisis in Ukraine (Farnham: Ashgate). Sharafutdinova, G. (2020), The Red Mirror: Putin’s Leadership and Russia’s Insecure Identity (New York: Oxford University Press). Sharafutdinova, G. and K. Dawisha (2017), “The Escape from Institution-​Building in a Globalized World: Lessons from Russia”, Perspectives on Politics 15, 2: 361–​78. Solnick, S. (1998), Stealing the State: Control and Collapse in Soviet Institutions (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press). Sonin, K. (2003), “Why the Rich May Favor Poor Protection of Property Rights”, Journal of Comparative Economics 31, 4: 715–​31. Stiglitz, J. and K. Hoff (2004), “After the Big Bang? Obstacles to the Emergence of the Rule of Law in Post-​Communist Russia”, American Economic Review 94, 3: 753–​63. Surkov, V. (2006), “Suverenitet eto politicheskii sinonim konkurentosposobnosti”, speech at meeting of United Russia party school, 7 February, www.pol​itna​uka.org/​libr​ary/​pub​lic/​sur​kov.php. The Economist (2016), “Comparing Crony Capitalism around the World”, 5 May, www.econom​ist.com/​ grap​hic-​det​ail/​2016/​05/​05/​compar​ing-​crony-​cap​ital​ism-​aro​und-​the-​world. The Moscow Times (2021), “Russia’s Small Business Share Hits Record Low”, 15 November, www.the​ mosc​owti​mes.com/​2021/​11/​15/​russ​ias-​small-​busin​ess-​share-​hits-​rec​ord-​low-​a75​559. The New York Times (2016), “The Panama Papers: Here’s What We Know”, 4 April, www.nyti​mes.com/​ 2016/​04/​05/​world/​pan​ama-​pap​ers-​explai​ner.html?_​r=​3. Vatansever, A. (2021), Oil in Putin’s Russia: The Contests Over Rents and Economic Policy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press). Volkov, V. (2002), Violent Entrepreneurs. The Use of Force in the Making of Russian Capitalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Woodruff, D. (1999), Money Unmade. Barter and the Fate of Russian Capitalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Yakovlev, A. (2006), “The Evolution of Business–​State Interaction in Russia: From State Capture to Business Capture?”, Europe-​Asia Studies 58, 7: 1033–​56. Yakovlev, A. (2021), “Composition of the Ruling Elite, Incentives for Productive Usage of Rents, and Prospects for Russia’s Limited Access Order”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 37, 5: 417–​34. Yusupova, G. (2021), “How Does the Politics of Fear in Russia Work? The Case of Social Mobilisation in Support of Minority Languages”, Europe-​Asia Studies: 1–​22, https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​09668​ 136.20231.1965​094.

273

274

24 THE RUSSIAN CORPORATION Between neoliberalism and the security state Peter Rutland

“There is no Russia today if there is no Putin.” Vyacheslav Volodin, deputy chief of staff, Valdai Club, 23 October 2014 The main challenge facing any scholar of Russia is the Putin problem. The larger-​than-​life figure of Vladimir Vladimirovich leads everyone to assume that Putin calls all the shots, that Putin and Russia are virtually synonymous. This impression is of course actively stoked by the Kremlin propaganda machine. And it is fed by the extra-​systemic opposition, with their startling exposés of the obscene wealth accumulated by Putin’s inner circle. It is also consonant with widely circulating images of Russian history: the centuries of Tsarist rule and the extraordinary levels of state repression under Stalinism. In reality, of course, there is some scope for agency of individuals and corporate entities in contemporary Russia. But the reassertion of state control over the economy under Putin, and his capacity to intervene in economic decision-​making, is far from illusory. Unscrambling the scope for independent entrepreneurship in these circumstances is tricky. The other salient fact to bear in mind is the incredible speed of transition in Russia. Forty years ago you could have been jailed for selling a pair of jeans –​the crime of speculation. Today, Russia has over 100 dollar billionaires, and the top one percent earn 20 percent of the national income and own 40 percent of the nation’s wealth –​the highest level of concentration of wealth in any of the countries in the World Inequality Survey (Piketty et al 2018). This chapter offers some general observations about the dynamics of state-​business relations in Russia, with a focus on firms with foreign connections: the oil and gas industry, and those impacted by sanctions. This focus reflects the author’s own work over the years, and it reflects the fact that internationally active corporations represent the most important and dynamic segment of Russian business. The shift to a highly open economy (with trade accounting for over half of Russian GDP) reflects the weakness of Russia’s domestic economic institutions. In effect, Russian businesses have been outsourcing their need for market institutions, everything from market-​based relative prices to reliable contracts and judicial arbitration. The Russian state has tolerated this process, since they recognise it has been key to Russia’s economic recovery and to projecting Russia’s power on the global stage. But the state still jealously guards its ability to set the parameters for Russian business operations at home.

274

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-27

275

The Russian corporation

The Soviet legacy The Soviet economy was built around a network of giant corporations controlled by a hierarchy of central planners and political overseers. Central planning did not eliminate competition, but it channelled it into certain spheres (such as political lobbying and informal trading) while constraining others (such as innovation, or market-​type price competition). The pervasiveness of blat (connections) and tolkachi (fixers) meant that there was an entire parallel economy fused with the official economy, and the latter cannot be understood without the former (Kordonski 2000; Naishul’ 1985; Ledeneva 1998). This was not a new idea: classic texts on the Soviet economy from the 1950s and 1960s by scholars such as Joseph Berliner, Alec Nove and Michael Kaser had all drawn attention to this phenomenon. These quasi-​market attributes led some scholars to advance the “convergence hypothesis” (Hough 1969): the argument that the spread of large bureaucratic institutions (such as an expanding welfare state and huge multinational corporations) in the developed capitalist economies meant that they were coming to resemble centrally planned economies. This was challenged by Rutland (1992), who argued that ideology still played a prominent role in the promotion of Communist Party cadres, and that politically motivated interventions led to costly distortions in the Soviet economy. The Soviet enterprise was in many respects a much stronger entity than its capitalist counterpart. Protected from market competition and the “creative destruction” of capitalist innovation, there was no mechanism equivalent to bankruptcy that could eliminate Soviet enterprises that were less efficient than their rivals. The spatial character of Soviet planning led to the creation of hundreds of “monograds” that were heavily dependent on a single enterprise (Gaddy and Hill 2003). Many of the benefits of the socialist welfare state were channelled through the firm: hospitals, kindergartens, housing and even social security (administered by trade unions). This led to a very powerful synergy between the enterprise and the surrounding community. In some respects, however, Soviet firms were weaker than their Western counterparts. With a full employment economy, it was hard to fire inefficient workers, and shopfloor discipline was a constant struggle. Long term, they did not serve as engines of capitalist accumulation and technological innovation.

The character of the Putin regime The Russian political system is weakly institutionalised compared to other advanced industrial societies. Formally, there is a constitution and institutions of democratic rule, but in practice the Kremlin violates those norms when it chooses to do so and has been at pains to strip the electoral system of genuine competition. The legal system is in place, but for politically connected people it can be short-​circuited (“telephone law”). Property rights are thus conditional on remaining on good terms with the Kremlin. Over his 19 years as president, Vladimir Putin has consolidated power in his own hands to an extraordinary degree and restored the capacity of the Russian state both at home and abroad. Analysts disagree, however, over the extent to which Putin is a personal dictator, capable of getting what he wants over each and every issue, or more of a broker, balancing competing factions in and around the Kremlin. Russia is a large and complex society with an ethnically diverse mix of 145 million people spread over 11 time zones. It has an advanced, diversified and internationally integrated economy. Although oil and gas account for 20 percent of GDP and 50 percent of government

275

276

Peter Rutland

revenue, unlike a typical petrostate Russia has extensive manufacturing and agricultural sectors and produces a wide range of minerals beyond oil and gas. It is beyond the capacity of a single dictator to rule such a vast and diverse country like a personal fiefdom. We are looking, therefore, at an oligopoly: a ruling elite of 100–​200 individuals (Rutland 2017). The two key groups that form the backbone of the Russian elite are the people running the security agencies (the siloviki) and the new capitalist class, the oligarchs. In the 1990s a group of private businessmen arose who were strong enough to ignore most of the orders coming out of Boris Yeltsin’s Kremlin –​as were the governors who ran Russia’s then-​89 regions. After his accession to the presidency in 2000, Putin used the siloviki to rein in the autonomy of the regional leaders and to push the oligarchs out from political power. At the same time, in addition to the institutional bureaucracies of the siloviki, Putin relied heavily on an inner circle of trusted aides, who have personal connections to him going back to the 1990s, when Putin was working in the St Petersburg mayor’s office (Dawisha 2014). From 2004 on, once the Putin regime had been consolidated, the siloviki and the inner circle were able to expand their own personal control over economic assets, expropriating or buying out existing owners. Putin’s rule relies on building a network of personal relationships with individual members of these elite factions (as tracked by Minchenko Consulting 2014). The system is based on informal, unwritten norms and personal relationships, rather than formal, transparent institutions. These norms –​what Brian Taylor (2018) calls “the Putin code” –​are referred to as “ponyatie” or “understandings” (Ledeneva 2013). They are often forged in personal, face-​to-​ face meetings between Putin (or a trusted aide) and members of Russia’s economic and political elite. They are transactional and reciprocal –​each person offers something to their interlocutor. These informal norms are also rooted in socialisation practices such as participation in sports (martial arts are very popular) and joint vacations. Even some foreign businesspeople and political leaders have been drawn into this network of personal leaders (such as Gerhardt Schroeder, a member of the Gazprom board). Increasingly, these personal ties are being cemented through the hiring of offspring and even marriages between sons and daughters of the elite (Maternovsky 2005). These children tend not to go directly into politics or government service; rather, they are given senior positions (at a very young age) in state-​related banks and corporations. Although many of them are educated abroad or otherwise spend time overseas, a majority of them are based in Russia. One can hypothesise that this is because their personal networks and political capital have much less value outside of the Russian Federation. This trend has increased with the deepening political confrontation with the West since 2011, with the government taking some steps to “nationalise” the elite by limiting state officials’ assets and ties abroad. These relationships are embedded in a cultural outlook, involving respect for “the Boss,” loyalty and trust for “ours” (nashi), and suspicion of outsiders (chuzhie) who are not part of the circle. There is harsh punishment for “traitors” who betray their loyalty. The cultural norm of personal loyalty is nested in a broader ideological commitment to patriotism and restoring Russia as a great power. There is also a social dimension –​firms are expected to respond to requests for help from national or regional governmental authorities. Performative displays of Putin’s ability to hold corporate leaders accountable are a perennial feature of Kremlin public relations, making up the bulk of his biannual “Direct line” phone-​in broadcasts where he fields questions from the general public. A salient example was the June 2009 televised meeting in Pikalevo, when Putin “forced” aluminium oligarch Oleg Derispaka to sign a pledge to keep the ailing town’s concrete plant open. Thus we see contradictory tendencies in Russia’s political economy: some signs of improved institutionalisation alongside persistent examples of arbitrary and personalistic rule. 276

277

The Russian corporation

The evolution of Russia’s economic elite In the 1990s, the collapse of the centrally planned economy and the turbulent privatisation of state-​owned assets led to the emergence of a new set of economic elites. The nation’s industrial assets were privatised through a combination of state auctions and worker buy-​outs (Rutland 2013). Foreigners were excluded from the process, and domestic investors were limited to those who had managed to accumulate a few million dollars since private enterprise was partially legalised in 1987. Some of the victors in this process were industry insiders, sometimes called “Red Directors,” who used their professional expertise and their contacts with state officials to secure a controlling stake in the now privately owned corporations. Others were outsiders, people who had no background in the industry in question, but who parlayed their entrepreneurial energy and limited financial assets to win control of firms and turn them into viable, profit-​making ventures (Fortescue 2006; Sim 2008). Competition was intense, the risks were great, but the rewards were high. The rule of law was weak, organised crime played a crucial role in contract enforcement, and the political regime was competitive and unstable. The oligarchs who succeeded in the process of boot-​strapping a market economy in Russia in the 1990s arguably owed their success more to their own skill and determination than to Kremlin connections. Many of the first wave of oligarchs lost their fortunes in the 1998 financial crash, and many of those that survived had to be bailed out by the state. After 1999 the economy started to grow, due to macro-​economic stabilisation at home and a boom in the global oil price. According to Forbes magazine (2015), the number of dollar billionaires in Russia went from zero in 2000 to 17 in 2003 and 117 in 2013. Putin’s accession to the presidency in 2000 led to a stabilisation of the political situation and the emergence of a new, more stable set of “rules of the game.” Putin did not roll back the privatisations of the 1990s: the oligarchs were allowed to keep their assets, provided they stayed out of politics –​which meant handing over control of their television and press outlets to Kremlin-​friendly companies and being less aggressive in their lobbying of State Duma deputies. Having consolidated political control, Putin also introduced measures to strengthen state influence over the economy. His first step was to restore state control over the oil and gas sector. In 2003 Roman Abramovich agreed to sell Sibneft to the state-​controlled Gazprom for $13bn, then moved to London. But Mikhail Khodorkovsky refused to cooperate and sought a US buyer for Yukos. In 2003 he was arrested and sentenced to 10 years in jail, and his company was seized and merged with state-​owned Rosneft. Rosneft also acquired TNK-​BP, Russia’s third-​largest oil producer, for $55bn in 2013. Bashneft, Russia’s sixth-​largest oil producer, was renationalised in 2014. Putin also created a network of state corporations to consolidate the military-​industry complex, which were headed by his political allies. These state corporations (such as Rostec, Rosnano, and Rosatom) increasingly encroached on Russia’s thriving high tech sector. Take, for example, the case of Pavel Durov, who founded the social media site VKontakte in 2006 and captured the largest share of the Russian market. Under pressure to cooperate with the state security agencies, he sold to the Kremlin-​friendly Mail.ru in 2012 and left the country in 2014. Similarly, Evgeny Chichvarkin, who founded the cell phone operator Yevroset in 1997, found himself the target of corporate raiding in 2005–​6 and eventually sold his company and fled to London in 2009. At the same time, it became clear that a shadowy group of Putin’s long-​time associates were suddenly becoming very wealthy. They included banker Yurii Kovalchuk and Vladimir Yakunin, the head of Russian Railways. Putin, Kovalchuk, Yakunin and five other friends had 277

278

Peter Rutland

formed the Ozero dacha cooperative in St Petersburg in the early 1990s (Dawisha 2014). As the 2000s unfolded, the corporations these men controlled ate up a widening circle of assets. Some other people with a silovik background became wealthy business leaders –​such as Igor Sechin, who became head of the Rosneft oil company. Putin’s childhood friend Arkady Rotenberg was appointed to head the state vodka company in 2000, in 2001 he founded SMP bank, and in 2007 he took over Gazprom’s construction subsidiaries. By 2015 he had a net worth of $1.4bn. When Italy seized his assets as part of the Crimea sanctions, the State Duma passed a law authorising sanctioned businessmen to be compensated from the state budget. Several insiders have bolted abroad and have provided stunning revelations about how Putin acquired wealth through offshore companies and pay-​offs by favoured oligarchs (Reuters 2015).

The nature of business-​state relations Surveying the record of the past 19 years, we see a set of features that are frequently found in members of Putin’s inner circle. They include: • • • • •

A personal relationship with Putin (in most cases preceding his rise to the presidency); Frequent social interactions with the president –​joint vacations, sports clubs, social events; Ownership or control of assets of strategic importance to the state; Past or present association with security forces; Hiring of offspring/​relatives into government service or management positions in prominent corporations; • Appointment to positions in government or quasi-​governmental bodies. Outside this inner circle, there are concentric circles of business elites who have varying degrees of interaction with national and regional government officials. For members of these outer circles, the rules of doing business in Russia include: • No public criticism of President Putin and his government; • Public service philanthropy, sometimes spontaneous, sometimes at the Kremlin’s behest; • Businesspeople are occasionally expected to mobilise support for certain policies and values, at home and abroad. At any given time, the businesspeople in the outer rings might find themselves the targets of the Kremlin’s wrath –​they may be blamed for some failure of public policy (such as high utility prices) or their assets might be coveted by members of the inner circle. In such cases, it is unlikely that Russian courts, or the press, will be able to protect them. On the contrary, the politically protected actors who covet their assets will use the courts and press to raise allegations of corruption, tax fraud, environmental degradation and so forth to pressure the owner to sell and to lower the price of their assets. This scenario plays out frequently with businesses large and small –​at both regional and national level.

The impact of sanctions The imposition of sanctions on Russia in response to the 2014 annexation of Crimea has changed once again the dynamic between the state and business in that country. The US relies heavily on sanctions as a tool of foreign policy, and in recent years that tool has been unleashed on Russia. Sanctions are a blunt instrument that only succeed one third to one half of the 278

279

The Russian corporation

time. They can also have unfortunate side effects, such as damaging US commercial interests or turning a foreign population against the US. Cognizant of these issues, the US has turned to “smart” sanctions that impact individual persons and entities in the target country. The first smart sanctions on Russia were introduced by the 2012 Magnitsky Act, aimed at bringing to justice the persecutors of William Browder’s lawyer Sergei Magnitsky and recouping the money stolen from Hermitage Capital. The sanctions were widened in 2014 in response to Russia’s annexation of Crimea and subsequent actions in east Ukraine and Syria and its US election interference. US strategy has been to target individuals who are (a) directly involved in reprehensible actions and/​or (b) have some influence over Putin’s decision-​making. They have targeted the banking sector, oil and gas technology suppliers, defence industry firms and (in 2018) the aluminium giant Rusal. The sanctions coincided with a slump in the global oil price, so it is hard to disaggregate the former from the latter. But it is clear that the sanctions, cumulatively affecting over 200 individuals and corporate entities, have had a serious impact on the Russian economy, shutting down some joint ventures in the energy sector and increasing the cost of borrowing for all Russian firms. However, Samuel Greene (2018) argues that “sanctions very usefully bind the Russian economic elite to the Kremlin, forcing them to run their financing requirements through the Finance Ministry and/​or the Central Bank, giving Putin more leverage over the titans of industry than he has ever enjoyed.” Take, for example, the case of Viktor Vekselberg, co-​owner of the aluminium giant SUAL (which merged with Oleg Deripaska’s Rusal) and the oil joint venture TNK-​BP (sold to Rosneft in 2013). Vekselberg prided himself on being an international businessman and tried to maintain an arms-​length relationship with the Kremlin, but he was nevertheless included in the list of sanctioned officials issued by the US treasury in April 2018 (Farchy 2016). While Vekselberg had left political dealing to his partners in TNK oil company, Mikhail Fridman and Petr Aven, he did prove his patriotism through conspicuous acts of philanthropy, such as buying nine Fabergé eggs made for the Russian imperial family for $100m and returning them to Russia in 2004. He had a slightly more politically visible position during the presidency of Dmitry Medvedev (2008–​12): in March 2010, Vekselberg led the first Russian business delegation to Washington after President Obama launched the “reset.” The same month, Vekselberg was appointed to head the Skolkovo Innovation Centre Project, whose goal was to promote Russia’s high-​tech R&D. Tracking Vekselberg’s interactions with the Kremlin shows, for example, a March 2017 meeting with Putin at which he was thanked for Renova’s work rebuilding the Rostov airport in connection with the upcoming World Cup. Renova’s interest in regional airports preceded the awarding of the World Cup to Russia: later that month Vekselberg reportedly wrote to Putin asking for VAT breaks to stimulate direct routes between regional airports (Kuznetsova 2017). Vekselberg’s interest in T-​Plus, which accounts for 7 percent of the power generating capacity in Russia, inevitably involved political intervention over rate hikes and security of supply. For example, in 2011 Putin “ordered KES to sell the local utility to Rusal to help the company [Bogoslovak aluminium smelter] lower energy costs at the smelter” (Gorst 2011). It was these energy connections that led to Vekselberg being slapped with sanctions in 2018, forcing him to apply for financial assistance from the Russian state (Diatel’ et al 2018).

The peculiarities of the Russian petrostate The energy sector dominates the Russian economic landscape, accounting for 20–​25 percent of GDP and 50 percent of federal government revenue. Russia has many of the characteristics 279

280

Peter Rutland

of a “petrostate” –​sluggish growth in non-​energy sectors due to an over-​valued currency (the “Dutch Disease”); vulnerability to fluctuations in the global oil price; centralisation of political power; institutionalised corruption; and a propensity to engage in wars. There is a long-​standing debate over the role of energy in Russia’s foreign policy. Some argue that Russian policy is driven by strategic concerns, with Moscow trying to use energy as a weapon to advance its political agenda (Stulberg 2008). Robert Larsson (2006) identified 55 instances between 1992 and 2006 when Russia either cut off, or threatened to cut off, energy supplies to foreign clients. Others contend that Gazprom and the oil companies are merely seeking to maximise profits (subject to political constraints) like any other international commercial corporation (Abdelal 2012). Thus it was price disputes and unpaid arrears with Ukraine and Belarus that caused temporary shutdowns of gas supplies in January 2006 and 2007. There is also a third argument –​that specific decisions over energy issues, such as whether to build new export pipelines, are made by a narrow circle of individuals with close ties to Putin, who seek to maximise the flow of rents into their personal offshore bank accounts and are driven neither by national interest nor returns to shareholders (Balmaceda 2015). In the Soviet economy, oil and gas enterprises were organised on a regional basis and were subordinated to ministries for oil, gas, and oil and gas machinery headquartered in Moscow. Central planning seemed to work fairly well in the energy sector (in contrast to, say, consumer goods or agriculture) because it involved massive engineering projects with decade-​long paybacks. Soviet oil and gas output steadily expanded and became an important source of foreign currency. However, central planning did have some negative consequences for Soviet energy. Because economic activity was planned through physical targets without reliance on the price mechanism, there was scant regard for efficiency and economy. Developers focused on pumping out “easy oil”, and much oil was left in the ground. There was no incentive to economise or invest in energy conservation. Buildings were heated from block heating plants, and individual apartments were not even metered. The focus on output targets and hyper-​ centralised bureaucracy was a barrier to technological innovation. The Soviet Union invested heavily in R&D, and Soviet engineers came up with some important inventions. For example, in the 1950s they invented turbo-​drilling (hydraulic drill heads that enable horizontal drilling) –​ the core technology of modern fracking (Gustafson 2012: 159). But these innovations did not make it into mass production. The Soviets missed out on the 3G and 4G revolutions in seismology, key to the shale revolution in the US. Finally, there was scant attention paid to the environmental impact of Stalinist industrialisation. Most oil-​exporting countries have a single national company that owns and controls the oil industry. Russia is an exception –​which is ironic given its pre-​1991 history as a state-​ controlled economy. In the 1990s Yeltsin split the oil industry into more than a dozen private companies, and industry bureaucrats fought with various outsiders for control of these firms (Gustafson 2012; Fortescue 2006). When the dust had settled, two-​thirds of the industry was in private hands, with each firm controlled by a handful of individuals. Some of the oil companies remained under regional elites (such as Tatarstan and Bashkortostan) or Kremlin-​loyal industrialists (such as Lukoil and Surgutneftegaz). Others were sold off under the notorious 1995 “loans-​for-​shares” scheme, in which Kremlin-​favoured bankers won control in closed auctions with minimal bids (and using money lent to them by the state bank). The 32-​year-​old Mikhail Khodorkovsky, for example, acquired Yukos, the third-​largest producer, for $309m. The oil pipeline network remained in the hands of the state-​owned monopoly Transneft. In contrast to the “wild privatisation” of the oil industry, the former Ministry of Natural Gas was preserved as a majority state-​owned corporation, Gazprom, which retained monopoly ownership of the gas producers and the pipeline network. This was largely thanks to former gas 280

281

The Russian corporation

minister Viktor Chernomyrdin, who served as prime minister from 1992 to 1998. Gazprom is more or less immune to public oversight and democratic accountability and, like the privatised oil companies, it uses off-​shore banks and trading intermediaries to hide some of its export earnings. After 2000, as oil output rose back towards the 1990 level, Putin re-​established control over the industry. The state-​owned Rosneft took over the assets of Yukos after the arrest of its founder, Mikhail Khodorkovsky, in 2003. Khodorkovsky partnered with the Schlumberger international oil service firm to upgrade Yukos’s technology, propelling the company to the #1 slot amongst Russian producers by 2002. Its shares were valued at $40bn. But, like most of the oil companies, Yukos was also hiding revenues abroad through the use of opaque trading intermediates and exploiting legal loopholes to minimise its tax liabilities. Yukos and other companies paid off State Duma deputies to keep these laws in place. Putin was determined to end these practices and restore the federal state’s ability to capture the lion’s share of the oil rents. The final straw for Putin was Khodorkovsky’s plan to sell his company to a foreign buyer (probably ChevronTexaco) (Leonard 2016). The Yukos assets were sold to state-​owned Rosneft, a company led by Putin’s close ally, Igor Sechin. Roman Abramovich sold Sibneft, the third-​largest oil company, to Gazprom for $16bn (and moved to London). The foreign trade activities of Yukos were transferred to Gunvor, a trading company founded by Gennady Timchenko, a friend of Putin since the 1990s (Belton and Buckley 2008). This made Gunvor the world’s largest oil trader, only five years after its creation in 1999, and, by 2007, Forbes (2015) was estimating Timchenko’s wealth at $2.5bn. Within a few years, therefore, Putin had restored state control over 70 percent of Russia’s oil industry. At the same time, he did allow one of the top private companies, TNK, to forge an alliance with BP. However, the Russian owners (Alfa-​Access-​Renova) fell into a dispute with BP, among other things over BP’s plans to partner with Rosneft. In 2011 Rosneft signed a deal with ExxonMobil for Artic exploration, and in 2013 it bought TNK. BP was paid $16bn and 19.75 percent of Rosneft shares in compensation, while AAR was paid $28bn cash. Rosneft became the largest oil company in the world. The state also consolidated its grip over Gazprom (Panyushkin and Zygar’ 2008). In 2005 the state bought 10.7 percent of Gazprom’s shares, raising the state’s holding to 50.002 percent. Gazprom faces competition from rising independent producers such as Novatek, but it still accounts for over 70 percent of gas production. (In 2013 Gazprom lost its monopoly over LNG exports.) Although the new system seemed designed to better protect Russia’s national interests than the free-​for-​all of the 1990s, in practice a small group of insiders with close ties to Putin continued to exert inordinate influence over the sector, and the wealth of these and other energy barons continued to accumulate. In contrast to the 1990s, Putin was taxing the oil industry to subsidise pensions and military spending, bringing stability to Russia. But this left the industry unable to invest in its own development and facing flat or declining output. Sixty percent of Russian oil still comes from the “legacy assets” developed during the Soviet era (Gustafson 2012: 413). Russia has run out of cheap oil. The new fields in Eastern Siberia are much more expensive to develop not just because of distance and climate, but also because of the complex geology of the Siberia plateau (Gustafson 2012: 466). Russia may not have reached peak oil, but it has certainly hit an oil plateau. New supplies –​deep underground or offshore –​can only be brought onstream so long as world prices stay above $50 a barrel. Foreign oil companies were barred from a significant ownership stake in the 1990s privatisation, with the exception of a couple of offshore projects in the Russian Far East for which Russian companies lacked the technological expertise. ExxonMobil signed a production sharing agreement (PSA) for Sakhalin 1 in 1996, along with partners Sodeco, Rosneft, and 281

282

Peter Rutland

India’s Videsh. Production started in 2005. The Sakhalin 2 oil and gas project came on stream in 1999 under a PSA that guaranteed Shell (and partners Mitsui and Mitsubishi) a 17.5 percent rate of return. Shell was forced to sell its majority stake to Gazprom in 2006 for a modest $7.5bn, in the face of rising costs and accusations of environmental damage. The project has continued, opening an LNG export facility, the first in Russia, in 2009. Oil producers have pressed the government to cut extraction taxes for the new, more expensive fields. The new flat minerals extraction tax introduced by Putin made no allowance for production costs, so differential rates were introduced in 2006. But Russia has fallen behind in seismology, turbines, refining technology, and offshore drilling and needs to bring in foreign partners to find and develop new fields –​yet that access is barred by the Crimean sanctions. They also need foreign capital to finance these projects. China is willing to provide the capital –​in return for equity stakes –​but cannot as yet provide the technology. There are also problems with corporate governance in Russian energy. The effective re-​nationalisation of the oil sector since the start of the 2000s has meant that the future of Russian development is now in the hands of state-​owned oil and gas corporations controlled by Kremlin officials who sit on their boards of directors. The political masters of these state corporations may focus their efforts on rewarding insider cronies and maintaining populist price subsidies. They are less likely to make a priority of efficiency and rational investment planning. Gazprom is a case in point. It has been a state-​owned corporation since its creation in 1992 and its export revenues have been used to subsidise domestic customers, leaving little incentive or opportunity for the company to invest in developing new fields. As a result, gas output has been flat since the late 1990s. Half of Gazprom’s output goes to generate electricity. The electricity monopoly RAO EES was finally privatised in July 2008. This was unfortunate timing: the 2008 global financial crisis led to a slump in oil and gas prices and made it unprofitable for Western companies to invest in more efficient power-​generating plants in Russia. Most of the generating companies in European Russia are now owned by Gazprom, while those in Siberia were bought by their major customers, such as the aluminium giant Rusal (Wengle 2015). While oil is sold domestically at a price roughly equivalent to what it fetches on international markets, Russian gas consumers pay only a fraction of what European customers pay. In 2008, for example, Gazprom was charging Russian households $50 for 1,000 cubic metres of gas, while the export price was $370. A decade of efforts to raise the domestic price has closed the gap, but as of 2019 the domestic price was still only $3.8 per cubic metre, less than half the $9.2 that European customers were paying (Astrasheuskaya 2019). Gazprom is able to subsidise Russian customers thanks to its export earnings. In 2010 Gazprom sold a total of 480 bcm of gas, of which 262 bcm went to Russia, 70 bcm to former Soviet states, and 148 bcm to the “far abroad.” However, revenue from those customers was $20bn, $15bn, and $36bn respectively. The Russian government has been trying to move towards market pricing for domestic consumers. In the late 1990s they started installing electricity meters in private homes. But each tariff hike brings strong protests (the most widespread being those in January 2005), and it is politically unacceptable to cut off households for unpaid utility bills. Utility prices are the main conduit through which abstractions about Russia’s energy wealth translate into pocketbook issues for ordinary Russians.

Conclusion National interests, personal profiteering and corporate development form a contentious and uneasy triangle in contemporary Russia, governed by three distinct logics –​at times 282

283

The Russian corporation

complementary, at times in competition. Looking mainly at the oil, gas and metals sectors, we see a certain dynamic synergy between the three groups, forged out of an unholy alliance of personal networks inside the country and vast revenue streams generated by the sale of Russia’s resources outside the country. The unintended consequence of US sanctions has been to push the corporate sector –​the best hope, in the long run, for a pluralist and Western-​friendly Russia –​into the arms of the Kremlin.

References Abdelal, R. (2012), “The Profits of Power: Commerce and Realpolitik in Eurasia”, Review of International Political Economy 20, 3: 421–​56. Astrasheuskaya, N. (2019), “Gazprom Takes on Chechnya”, Financial Times, 11 February. Balmaceda, M. (2015), The Politics of Energy Dependency. Ukraine, Belarus and Lithuania Between Domestic Oligarchs and Russian Pressure (Toronto: University of Toronto Press). Belton, C. and N. Buckley (2008), “On the Offensive: How Gunvor Rose to the Top of Russian Oil Trading”, Financial Times, 14 May. Dawisha, K. (2014), Putin’s Kleptocracy: Who Owns Russia? (New York: Simon and Schuster). Diatel’ T., Dzhumailo, A., Kuznetsova, E., Kostyrev, A. and Dementieva, K. (2018), “Kompaniya s gossochuvstviem”, Kommersant, 3 May, www.kom​mers​ant.ru/​doc/​3619​266. Farchy, J. (2016), “Russian Telecoms Chief Quits”, Financial Times, 6 September, www.ft.com/​cont​ent/​ cdd65​dc0-​7440-​11e6-​bf48-​b372c​db10​43a. Forbes (2015), “The World’s Billionaires: 2015 Ranking”, 15 March, www.for​bes.com/​billi​onai​res/​list/​. Fortescue, S. (2006), Russia’s Oil Barons and Metal Magnates. Oligarchs and the State in Transition (Basingstoke: Palgrave). Gaddy, C. and F. Hill (2003), The Siberian Curse. How Communist Planners Left Russia Out in the Cold (Washington DC: Brookings Institution). Gorst, I. (2011), “Putin Leans on Aluminium Oligarchs”, Financial Times, 9 December, www.ft.com/​cont​ ent/​57993​529-​4e90-​30e5-​8b16-​29c66​7e4a​bae. Greene, S. (2018), “What is To Be Done?” Moscow-​on-​the-​Thames, 21 August, https://​mos​cowo​ntha​mes. wordpr​ess.com/​2018/​08/​21/​what-​is-​to-​be-​done/​. Gustafson, T. (2012), Wheel of Fortune: The Battle for Oil and Power in Russia (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press). Hough, J. (1969), The Soviet Prefects. Local Party Organs in Industrial Decision Making (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press). Kordonski, S. (2000), Rynki vlasti: administrativnye rynki SSSR i Rossii (Moscow: OGI). Kuznetsova, E. (2017), “Regional’nye reisy v federal’nyi byudzhet”, Kommersant, 27 March, www.kom​ mers​ant.ru/​doc/​3253​985. Larsson, R.L. (2006), Russia’s Energy Policy: Security Dimensions and Russia’s Reliability as an Energy Supplier (Stockholm: Swedish Defence Research Agency). Ledeneva, A. (1998), Russia’s Economy of Favours: Blat, Networking and Informal Exchange (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Ledeneva, A. (2013), Can Russia Modernise? Sistema, Power Networks and Informal Governance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Leonard, R. (2016), “Khodorkovsky, Putin, Yukos”, Problems of Post-​Communism 63, 2: 121–​36. Maternovsky, D. (2005), “Top Jobs for Children of the Elite”, The Moscow Times, 29 April. Minchenko Consulting (2014), “Vladimir Putin’s Big Government and the Politburo 2.0”, http://​minche​ nko.ru/​netca​t_​fi​les/​File/​Big%20Gov​ernm​ent%20and%20the%20Po​litb​uro%202_​0.pdf. Naishul’, V. (1985), Drugaya zhizn’ (Moscow, no publisher), www.e-​read​ing.club/​boo​krea​der.php/​ 40881/​Naiis​hul%27_​-​_​Dr​ugay​a_​zh​izn%27.html. Panyushkin, V. and M. Zygar’ (2008), Gazprom. Novoe russkoe oruzhie (Moscow: Zakharov). Piketty, T., F. Novokmet and G. Zucman (2018), “From Soviets to Oligarchs: Inequality and Property in Russia 1905–​2016”, The Journal of Economic Inequality 16, 2: 189–​223. Reuters (2015). “Comrade Capitalism”, Special report, www.reut​ers.com/​inves​tiga​tes/​spec​ial-​rep​ort/​ comr​ade-​cap​ital​ism-​piece-​of-​the-​act​ion/​. Rutland, P. (1992), The Politics of Economic Stagnation in the Soviet Union (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).

283

284

Peter Rutland Rutland, P. (2013), “Neoliberalism in Russia”, Review of International Political Economy 20, 2: 332–​62. Rutland, P. (2017), “Post-​Soviet Elites”, in H. Best and J. Higley (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Political Elites (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan): 273–​94. Sim, L.C. (2008), The Rise and Fall of Privatization in the Russian Oil Industry (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). Stulberg, A. (2008), Well Oiled Diplomacy. Strategic Manipulation and Russia’s Statecraft in Eurasia (Albany: SUNY Press). Taylor, B.D. (2018), The Code of Putinism (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Wengle, S. (2015), Post-​Soviet Power. State-​Led Development and Russia’s Marketization. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).

284

285

25 RUSSIAN INTERNATIONAL ECONOMIC POLICY Purposes and performance Steven Rosefielde

Russian international economic policy and performance: Consumer utility and geostrategic power Adam Smith believed foreign trade could serve as an engine of prosperity and that policymakers had a duty to maximise consumer welfare by eliminating barriers to competition and direct foreign investment. Good foreign trade policy enhanced competitiveness. Bad policy obstructed it. Smith also appreciated that foreign trade might affect national security. Sometimes trade and security were complements; sometimes they were substitutes. During the twentieth century, Keynesians added macroeconomic stability to these criteria. Virtuous international trade policy supported full employment, equilibrium exchange rates, price stability, sound finance and robust economic growth. Post-​Soviet Russia with the World Bank’s guidance became an imperfectly competitive, open market economy marred by rent-​ granting and kleptocracy in the new millennium (Dawisha 2014). Despite these impediments, the Kremlin encouraged direct foreign investment and technology transfer inflows. Russia conducted its trade on a profit-​seeking basis (comparative advantage) and prudently accumulated ample foreign reserves by generating balance of payments surpluses. It might seem to follow that Vladimir Putin and his Western frenemies ceteris paribus should have cooperated for their mutual benefit to bolster global competitiveness and macroeconomic stability under the banner of “globalisation”. They did at first, and both benefited subject to sundry anti-​competitive institutionally imposed constraints until Russia annexed Crimea in 2014. Thereafter, both sides subordinated consumer utility maximising to geostrategic jousting. Politics, not prosperity-​seeking, took command. The success of Putin’s international economic initiatives before and after Crimea’s annexation is a matter of net political-​economic benefit, weighing changes in the correlation of forces (Reach et al 2020) and consumer gains and losses against “deadweight” inefficiencies as various actors judge them (Case and Fair 1999).1 Unanimity among actors is improbable. Policymakers, partisan rivals and consumers are apt to disagree about the wisdom of policymakers’ judgements. Putin’s supporters have strong grounds for claiming that Russia managed its international DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-28

285

286

Steven Rosefielde

economic policy wisely both before and after 2014, and Western detractors can plausibly brush their assessments aside. This paper surveys facts. Readers are encouraged to draw their own conclusions.

Policy environment 2014–​22 It is best to start with the fundamentals underpinning the contemporary problematic to appreciate Putin’s assessment of the correlation of forces and Kremlin opportunities. The Soviet Union was a superpower. Its strategic nuclear arsenal and conventional warfighting capabilities greatly surpassed those of NATO (Rosefielde 1982, 2005). Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton encouraged Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin to switch from Marxist-​Leninist-​Stalinist communism to democratic free enterprise and promised technical and financial assistance (the “Grand Bargain”) (Allison and Blackwill 1991a, 1991b; Blackwill and Zelikow 2021).2 They accepted the Kool-​Aid for diverse internal reasons with predicable catastrophic results (Rosefielde 2017).3 The Soviet Union dissolved and dismembered itself. The economy collapsed. Defence spending plummeted 90 percent and Russia’s arsenal became obsolete. Vladimir Putin assumed Russia’s presidency in 2000 determined to resurrect the Kremlin’s great power (Rosefielde 2017). He restored the “power vertical” (Bremmer and Charap 2007: 83–​92), liberalised aspects of Russia’s markets (including the foreign trade sector) and immediately instituted an ambitious defence modernisation programme signed by Prime Minister Mikhail Kasyanov in 2001.4 Putin never wavered on managed markets and national security. The petroleum price spike occasioned by 9/​11 funded defence modernisation 2001–​8 and a surge of direct foreign investment. The 2008 global financial crisis halted the momentum, but the Kremlin succeeded in modernising more than half of its formidable arsenal with state-​ of-​the-​art, fifth generation weapons technology by 2015 (Rosefielde and Mills 2021), despite economic hardship. This is the backstory to Russia’s annexation of Crimea and the East-​West trade policy reversal it precipitated. The restoration of the Kremlin’s superpower did not obligate Putin to annex Crimea, but it changed the state of play. It provided a cudgel to complement international economic policies and other soft power initiatives aimed at expanding Moscow’s spheres of influence, strengthening Putin’s presumption that the prospective geostrategic benefits of expanded spheres of influence were worth foregone consumer utility gains from sanction-​free East-​West trade. The game was on. Putin wagered that under the rules of the West’s sanctions game domestic political pressures associated with sanctions would not compel him to reverse course. Western leaders decided that the sanctions package they chose was best for their political purposes, leaving themselves the option to change their minds later with or without Kremlin concessions. The West responded to Crimea’s annexation by imposing and then steadily ratcheting up economic sanctions, without improving allied military capabilities (Rosefielde and Mills 2021). Putin retaliated with counter-​economic sanctions, hybrid aggression and sedulous arms modernisation (Rosefielde 2021b; Kuboniwa 2021; Blank 2021; Lalu 2021; Persson 2021). Both sides claim they expect to win a zero-​sum “Cold Peace” game (rivalry without covert paramilitary and conspiratorial operations supporting “colour revolutions”)5 and are indifferent to the mutual gain possibilities of partnership. They are blasé about the dangers of “Cold War” (rivalry abetted with covert regime change-​seeking) and hot war. Contemporary Russian international economic policy assumes the resumption of the Cold War 1947–​87 while pretending to operate under the rules of Cold Peace. 286

287

Russian international economic policy: Purposes and performance

This reflects historical realities. Western political and international economic relations with the Kremlin have been volatile since 1917. America did not recognise Soviet sovereignty until 16 November 1933, and East-​West trade was insignificant until America provided the USSR with Lend-​Lease assistance during WWII. The war-​time amity did not last. The West embargoed a wide range of strategic goods to Russia and its CMEA allies during the first Cold War.6 The Jackson–​Vanik Amendment imposed additional punitive economic sanctions on the Kremlin 1974–​2012.7 Trade between the West and Russia has been sanction-​free only ten percent of the time during the century following the Bolshevik Revolution. The latest round of punitive sanctions imposed by President Barack Obama in 2014 resumed the “old” norm just two years after the termination of Jackson–​Vanik sanctions against Moscow. Today’s sanctions differ from their predecessors in one important way: prior sanctions sought to contain Kremlin geopolitical ambitions, while the Obama-​Biden trade sanctions seek to pressure Putin into de-​annexing Crimea.

International economic sanctions International economic sanctions are peacetime punitive measures less bellicose than economic war involving the destruction of productive assets and naval blockades (Bidwell 1942) and military coercion. They punish specific misdeeds to tutor rather than vanquish opponents and constrain foreign threats. Policymakers use international economic sanctions to deny rogue actors access to natural resources, productive facilities, labour, goods, technology and finance. Tariffs, subsidies, quotas, export and import bans, financial restrictions, asset sequestration, blacklisting, preclusive purchases of strategic goods and embargoes are all standard countermeasures.8 Economic sanctions are cudgels for penalising political, social and ethical misconduct when reasoning, pleadings, economic enticements and soft power fail. They complement diplomacy and are substitutes for armed force. Their purpose is to persuade offenders to mend their ways, not to seek economic advantage or conquer them. Policymakers can combine economic sanctions and economic war but seldom do because economic sanctions in contemporary parlance are synonymous with defending the free trade order, while economic war is anti-​ competitive and punitive. American international economic sanctions imposed on Russia are righteous in Washington’s eyes; economic war benighted because reprisals that seek to vanquish opponents evoke the spectre of the Hawley-​Smoot tariffs and the “beggar-​thy-​neighbour” policies alleged to have been the principal cause of the Great Depression. International economic sanctions are an attractive tool for foreign policymakers because they allow them to seize the moral high ground, eschewing material self-​interest and avoiding violence while holding out hope that economic pain will discipline foes at tolerable domestic cost. They work best when weak rivals believe that expected asymmetric losses make resistance futile. Most progressives, liberals and conservatives suppose that they can subdue Russia (and China, North Korea, Iran and Cuba) with trade sanctions because the West is stronger than the authoritarian East. They expect to prevail for the public record, presuming that America and the European Union can dish out more pain than the Kremlin can endure. This judgement is plausible given prevailing economic asymmetries, but things are not as simple as they seem (Rosefielde 2021a). Vladimir Putin is not playing a utilitarian quality of existence game where his personal and/​or the Russians’ pain is decisive. Putin is affluent. His living standard is secure and Russians have demonstrated their willingness to endure material adversity attributable to foreign aggression. Economic sanctions that slap wrists rather than seriously reduce the level of aggregate trade activity cannot reduce Russian consumption enough to make Putin wince (Åslund 2018a, 2018b; Åslund and Snegovaya 2021). 287

288

Steven Rosefielde

International economic sanctions could constrain Putin’s room for manoeuvre by jeopardising his legitimacy and national goals. If they reduce national living standards or anger key regime supporters, Putin’s grip on power might crumble. If economic sanctions significantly reduce direct foreign investment, flagging GDP growth might de-​legitimise his regime. If he cannot acquire advanced technologies, Russia’s economic competitiveness might be impaired. If economic sanctions thwart military modernisation and increase the risks of defeat in armed conflicts, Putin may temporarily relent to advance his ambitions later. Punitive threats that jeopardise imperial aspirations and power may strike Putin as burdensome, but they are not decisive because he can shift blame by claiming that the motherland is under attack; that external enemies are to blame for hardships, transforming a political negative into a plus. Instead of capitulating, Russia may become more defiant and dangerous. The effectiveness of strategic technology embargoes and selective credit restrictions on living standards is also easily exaggerated. The Kremlin can cut its losses by importing close substitutes from friendly sources (Corbin 2018) and circumventing restrictions with various ruses. If Putin perceives an advantage in retaining Crimea, economic sanctions alone will not deter him. Thus, while there is a place for trade sanctions as a tool for getting Moscow’s attention, the confidence that Washington and Brussels profess about the efficacy of sanctions is exaggerated.

The West’s sanctions package America, the EU, non-​EU European NATO members and Japan in the aftermath of the Kremlin’s annexation of Crimea on 21 March 2014 imposed economic sanctions on Russia,9 some of which replicated Jackson–​Vanik controls rescinded by the Obama-​Biden administration as a soft power reward to Moscow less than two years earlier on 20 December 2012 (Psaki 2014). Neither scolding nor narrowly targeted sanctions induced the Kremlin to relent. The economic sanctions covered the export of technologies and services regulated under the US Munitions List. This blocked the property of 13 defence companies and individuals in Putin’s inner circle. Financial restrictions were placed on six of Russia’s largest banks and four energy companies, prohibiting the supply, export or re-​export of goods, services or technology in support of exploration or production for deep water, Arctic offshore, or shale projects. Plummeting petroleum prices, the voluntary withdrawal of Western business from Russia’s market, and a 31 percent export drop in the first quarter of 2015 made it more difficult for Putin to absorb Crimea and Sevastopol, but he persevered, buoyed by the knowledge that Crimean voters themselves favoured their annexation by Russia. The West also had difficulties forging a consensus in favour of military intervention, diplomatic retaliation, or summit-​level Yalta II negotiations. Instead, leaders gradually escalated their rhetoric and added fresh economic sanctions without compelling Moscow to yield. Russia’s imperviousness to economic sanctions mirrors the Soviet record. During the Cold War era, the USSR managed to grow, develop and modernise despite stringent Western economic sanctions (Kramer 2015). The legal basis for the West’s economic sanctions imposed against Russia in 2014 rests on the United Nations General Assembly Resolution 68/​262 on Ukraine’s territorial integrity, condemning the legislature of the Autonomous Republic of Crimea and the local government of Sevastopol (both subdivisions of Ukraine) for declaring their independence from Ukraine and their subsequent referenda on annexation. The UN ruled that Crimea and Sevastopol’s secessions and referenda and Russia’s subsequent annexation of these territories was illegal because Ukraine did not consent. It ordered Russia to rescind these annexations, returning the territories to Ukraine’s sovereign control. The West began imposing economic sanctions 288

289

Russian international economic policy: Purposes and performance

to coerce Putin into de-​annexing Crimea and Sevastopol because Russia refused to comply. Economic sanctions were enacted immediately thereafter in fits and starts (Oxenstierna 2021).

US trade sanctions against Russia The foundation stones for America’s economic sanctions against Russia are four Presidential Executive Orders. President Barack Obama signed Executive Order 13660 on 6 March 2014, followed by Executive Orders 13661 and 13662 in March 2014, and Executive Order 13665 on 9 December. Each successive executive order upped the ante, granting the president the discretion to sanction any company involved in the construction of Russia’s hydrocarbon export pipelines. President Trump extended all these executive orders for one year on 2 March 2018. US sanctions include: • Asset freezes against selected individuals –​in particular, close associates of Vladimir Putin. Americans cannot legally engage in financial transactions with them; • Asset freezes against selected businesses, particularly state-​owned banks, and energy companies and arms producers; • Restrictions on financial transactions with Russian firms in finance, energy and defence; • Restrictions on exports of oil-​related technology; • Restrictions on exports of dual-​use technology. These sanctions apply to six banks: Gazprombank, VEB, Bank of Moscow, Rosselkhozbank, VTB Bank and Sberbank; seven energy firms: Novatek, Rosneft, Gazprom Neft, Transneft, Lukoil, Surgutneftegas and Rosneft; and 13 arms firms: Federal State Unitary Enterprise State Research and Production Enterprise Bazalt, JSC Concern Sozvezdie, JSC MIC NPO Mashinostroenia, Kalashnikov Concern, KBP Instrument Design Bureau, Radio-​Electronic Technologies, Uralvagonzavod, United Shipbuilding Corporation, Dolgoprudny Research Production Enterprise, Mytishchinski Mashinostroitelny Zavod, Kalinin Machine Plant JSC, Almaz-​Antey GSKB and JSC NIIP. The assets of these banks, energy companies and weapons manufacturers in the US are frozen, and transactions with these entities prohibited. The European Union imposed complementary sanctions against individuals, businesses and the Russian government (Oxenstierna 2021).

Key features of EU and American sanctions EU and American economic sanctions imposed against Russia are broadly similar and do not provide loopholes that permit the Kremlin to play one side against the other. EU members applied the sanctions uniformly even though some countries were reluctant to comply. However, problems with intra-​EU discipline and trans-​Atlantic coordination, including Norway and Canada, do not explain Putin’s unwillingness to rescind Crimea’s annexation. Moreover, the scope of EU and American economic sanctions did not provide grounds for Putin digging in his heels. EU and American economic sanctions were not tantamount to a declaration of economic war. They do not prohibit EU and American business with Russia or impose tariffs and quotas on most goods and services. They are narrow cast to achieve the single purpose of returning Crimea and Sevastopol to Ukraine by threatening to turn the correlation of forces in the West’s favour. The idea is to frighten Russia with the spectre of diminished long-​term economic growth and military potential by constraining foreign-​ financed investment and the stream of expected future petroleum revenues, restricting Kremlin 289

290

Steven Rosefielde

access to advanced military and dual-​purpose technologies and annoying Putin’s cronies. The pain implied stems from thwarting Kremlin ambitions, not immediately pressuring the living standard of the Russian people or fostering prompt regime change (Oxenstierna 2021). The hope was that Putin would return Crimea and Sevastopol to Ukraine to further his other ambitions. Policymakers wagered that the benefits of gaining reliable access to foreign financed investment, an expanded stream of expected future petroleum revenues and access to advanced military and dual-​purpose technologies would sway Putin’s resolve. The West’s economic sanctions package was designed in this way to capitalise on Putin’s time preference (winning big later as opposed to retaining Crimea and Sevastopol now), leaving open the larger problem of containment. Apparently, EU and American leaders decided that from their perspective a bird in the hand (the de-​annexation of Crimea and Sevastopol) was worth two in the bush (achieving permanent containment). The wisdom of the strategy is moot, but this does not matter in the larger picture because, regardless of the rationale, Putin has not budged.10 Russia remains in firm control of Crimea and Sevastopol eight years after their annexation and has extended its reach by dominating the Sea of Azov.

Effects on the Russian economy EU and American economic sanctions hit Russia when its economy was swooning. The global financial crisis of 2008 reduced Russia’s GDP by nearly 8 percent before the imposition of economic sanctions, and recovery up to 2014 was sluggish. Plummeting petroleum prices in 2015 took a heavy toll because national income and the state budget are dependent on oil revenues. Capital flight aggravated matters. It more than doubled in 2014 to $152 billion from $61 billion in 2013. The ruble depreciated by more than 50 percent against the dollar. The combined impact of these shocks culminated in a sharp 3.7 percent contraction in Russia’s GDP in 2015. Plummeting petroleum prices inflicted immense macroeconomic hardship dwarfing any additional pain attributable to the financial component of America’s and the European Union’s economic sanctions. Embargoes on petroleum equipment, restrictions on advanced military and dual-​purpose technologies and annoying Putin’s cronies are primarily microeconomic penalties with negligible short-​term macroeconomic ramifications. The West’s financial sanctions hit Russia’s banking sector hardest. Gazprombank, VEB, Bank of Moscow, Rosselkhozbank, VTB Bank and Sberbank found it difficult to substitute foreign funding for state projects postponed due to falling petroleum revenues (Gorshkov 2017: 193–​ 212). The resulting decline in aggregate effective demand via the multiplier effect in all likelihood exacerbated the decline in GDP triggered by plunging petroleum prices and capital flight. Putin tried to mitigate these negatives by announcing an amnesty to entice Russians holding assets abroad to repatriate them. He has supported massive money-​laundering operations to circumvent sanctions (Gricius 2018), expanded economic relations with other nations and established an import substitution programme necessitated at the time by declining state reserves and Russia’s retaliatory restrictions on EU, American and Ukrainian consumer goods (Åslund 2018a, 2018b; Åslund and Snegovaya 2021). It is econometrically difficult to disentangle the effects of EU and American financial sanctions reliably from other negative factors 2014–​20. Some have tried, even though Western authorities contend tongue-​in-​cheek that financial sanctions are not supposed to harm Russian living standards. The IMF estimated in 2015 that US and EU Ukraine-​ related sanctions together with Russia’s retaliatory ban on agricultural imports reduced GDP by 1–​1.5 percent in the short-​term. It predicted the loss to be 9 percent in the medium term (Nelson 2017). Evsei Gurvich and Ilya Prilepskiy (2015) estimated that the effect would be 2.4 percent 2014–​17.11 290

291

Russian international economic policy: Purposes and performance

They looked at both direct effects, restrictions on foreign borrowings, and indirect effects. Both estimates exaggerate the long-​term effect of EU and American financial sanctions because, with rising petroleum prices, the Kremlin acquired the state revenues it needed to fund its programmes without recourse to foreign borrowing. Putin’s economic advisors are aware of these and other estimates of the penalty Russia is paying for refusing to rescind the Kremlin’s annexation of Crimea and Sevastopol, and he understands the strategic significance of petroleum prices. He also doubtlessly is aware that the West’s economic sanctions must reduce Russia’s long-​term economic and military potential. He may care, but obviously not enough to alter course. Nor is he apt to change his mind soon for economic reasons even if Biden bans investors purchasing Russia’s sovereign debt, because Russian GDP growth resumed its upward trajectory in 2017. The IMF consistently predicted better times thereafter, until Covid-​19 wreaked havoc on the global economy. The World Bank now estimates that Russia’s GDP declined 3 percent in 2020 (American GDP fell 3.5 percent) but soon will resume its upward course (World Bank 2021). Much will depend on petroleum prices, which rose to 83 dollars per barrel in 2018 before plummeting to 9 dollars after the supply control agreement that Moscow negotiated with Saudi Arabia in 2016 collapsed in March 2020. A new supply control deal reached the next month pushed the Brent crude price back into the $45 per barrel range by December 2020. The price catapulted to $86 per barrel on 21 October 2021, just above the 2018 high.

Effects on Russian defence Putin is cognisant that economic sanctions are apt to hamper the Kremlin’s military aspirations. Although Russia’s defence industry does not rely heavily on imports from the West, it is dependent on foreign electronic components. Tomas Malmlöf, an FOI expert, reports that as much as 90 percent of electronic components in Russian armaments are of Western origin and that it would take at least six years for Russia to manufacture domestic substitutes (Malmlöf 2016). The dependence is particularly high for rocket, unmanned vehicle, civilian aircraft and space equipment components (Faltsman 2015). These obstacles are serious but not decisive in Putin’s rational choice calculus.

Restraining effects of economic sanctions Nothing, including economic sanctions, has persuaded Putin to rescind Russia’s annexation of Crimea and Sevastopol. Economic growth has been impaired but not stopped. The volume of international trade has grown more slowly than it would have but did not deplete foreign hard currency reserves. Putin is strengthening Russian naval power in the Sea of Azov. Western leaders, however, are not disheartened. They had to do something and can always claim that success awaits them just around the corner, that their economic sanctions deterred Putin from taking other offensive actions. These sorts of consolations may be comforting but have little merit. The fact that Putin could have conquered and annexed all of Novorossiya but did not attempt it does not prove that Western economic sanctions deterred him. He may have been prudently biding his time.

Russian international economic performance 2014–​22 Russian foreign trade activities and policies (sanctions aside) were “normal” 2000–​14 for post-​Soviet transition economies given various peculiarities including substantial government 291

292

Steven Rosefielde

ownership of the means of production (especially defence-​related activities), low trade participation rates due to the country’s size, low global supply chain integration and the natural resource and munitions intensity of its exports (petro-​munitions economy). Putin sought to enhance consumer utility and government projects by exporting and importing on the principle of comparative advantage. He encouraged direct foreign investment and technology transfer inflows. Russia repaid its foreign debt, ran balance of payment surpluses and accumulated hundreds of billions of dollars in foreign reserves. It was adversely affected by the 2008 global financial crisis but was a victim, not the culprit. The Kremlin’s foreign trade sector contributed to the nation’s economic vitality 2000–​8, despite its anti-​competitive and institutional shortcomings, and cushioned the 2008 global financial shock. Its performance was comparable to many moderately developed former socialist transition economies, but conspicuously inferior to China. Russian foreign trade activities also performed adequately after the Kremlin annexed Crimea and the West punished it with economic sanctions. They retarded export and import growth but did not prevent Russia from making significant advances on the economic front. Russia performed surprisingly well 2014–​22 given the challenges posed by Western trade sanctions, natural resource price volatility, global growth retardation and Covid-​19. Russian macroeconomic management is difficult even in the best of times. The Kremlin’s banking system is weak, hampered further by Western economic sanctions that bar Russia’s access to medium-​and long-​ term international credit. State revenues are heavily dependent on volatile natural resource prices. Soaring oil prices swell Moscow’s coffers, flood the country with foreign direct investment and stimulate aggregate economic activity. Plunging natural resource prices reverse the process, causing recessions and depressions. When the sun shines, Russian macroeconomic policymakers should avoid overspending, creating reserves for rainy days. The Kremlin has been prudent in this regard. Russia’s debt to GDP ratio is only 13.5 percent, a small fraction of the American figure. Russia’s macroeconomic performance more broadly has been good given the adversities besetting it since 2008 (World Bank 2018). Its pre-​Covid-​19 4.8 percent unemployment rate was close to what World Bank economists consider full non-​transitory employment,12 and the inflation rate was 3.4 percent. GDP growth was dyspeptic at 1.8 percent per annum but still faster than the European Union, and real wages including pensions were growing. Russia ran a $35.4 billion current account trade balance surplus in 2017 and holds relatively high levels of international reserves as of September 2021 ($618 billion). It has low external debt levels (about 29 percent of GDP) and comfortable import cover (15.9 months) that enable the Federation to readily absorb external shocks (World Bank 2018). The Kremlin’s primary foreign trade vulnerability lies in Russian dependence on natural resource exports to pay for the country’s imports. Export diversification has been limited. Since 2014, Russia’s non-​energy export volume has outpaced energy growth, contributing to export diversification. Yet Russia’s progress in export diversification is modest. The share of oil/​gas exports in 2017 was still a high 59 percent, accounting for 25 percent of fiscal revenue, with diversification mainly driven by established product lines. There is little doubt that Russian macroeconomic performance in all these regards would be substantially better, especially its GDP growth rate, if the country were more competitive and the West lifted economic sanctions. Nonetheless, Kremlin macroeconomic policymakers have done a credible job.

Welfare Russia’s international economic vulnerabilities, moreover, have not adversely affected social welfare trends. Russian per capita income in 2017 was 46.7 percent of America’s.13 Its society is inegalitarian, however, less so than the United States. Russia’s Gini coefficient is a high 41.2; 292

293

Russian international economic policy: Purposes and performance 5.0 4.5 4.3 4.0

3.7

Percent

2.8

2.5 2.0 1.5

1.9

4.7

3.1

3.0

2.9

2.2

2.0

3.7

3.5 3.0 2.8

4.7

4.5

4.3

3.1 2.4 2.3

2.3 1.7

1.7

1.0 0.5 0.0 2014

2015 World

2016

2017

2018f

Advanced economies

2019f

2020f

EMDEs

Figure 25.1  Global growth is broadly stable (%). Source: World Bank.

America’s is 45. Russia’s poverty rate is 13.2 percent, a figure the Kremlin predicts will halve over the next six years driven by rebounding real income growth.14 America’s poverty rate by comparison was 12.3 percent in 2017 (Fontenot et al 2018). This is better than Russia for the moment, but it is unlikely to remain so if poverty in the Federation plummets as authorities forecast. Covid-​19 has temporarily reversed the positive trend in Russia’s social welfare (World Bank 2021).

Performance, potential and prospects Russia’s economic future viewed through the prism of World Bank global statistics is satisfactory in the short term, better during the remainder of Putin’s presidential tenure, and superior for decades thereafter under a more liberal regime. Its data show that Russia’s economic performance in recent years has lagged EMDEs (Emerging Markets and Developing Economies; that is, low-​tiered advanced nations including Brazil, India, China and South Africa) but paced the West (see Figure 25.1) despite a severe petroleum price shock and strong economic sanctions imposed by America and the European Union, behaviour that accords with the World Bank’s priors. Russia as a low-​tier advanced nation (not an EMDE as the BRICS classification suggests) should have grown less rapidly than emerging nations and should have only slightly outperformed higher-​tier advanced nations due to the “catch up” effect. This is more or less how Russia’s economy behaved. The World Bank’s forecasts for Russia’s growth in 2021–​2 are 3.2 in 2021 and 3.2 in 2022. These rates are modestly below the global average (World Bank 2021). The key factors governing the World Bank’s projections are a Covid-​19 rebound, dyspeptic global environment, a declining labour force and slowing total factor productivity (TFP) growth.

Conclusion Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014 radically transformed its international trade policy, prompting Putin to shift from a joint consumer utility and national security enhancing objective 293

294

Steven Rosefielde

to one prioritising spheres of influence at the expense of foregone per capita GDP. Both sides are acting as if they expect to prevail in a protracted Cold Peace or Cold War framework. Consumers East and West are worse off because politics prevents gains from expanded free trade. Microeconomic losses nonetheless have been tolerable and the Kremlin’s macroeconomic management has succeeded better than expected. This will encourage Putin to stay his international economic course whether the West holds fast or appeases him.

Postscript The Biden administration decided to have a showdown with Putin on 10 November 2021 instead of holding fast or appeasing him when it signed the Ukraine Charter on Strategic Partnership and began accelerating delivery of lethal and non-​lethal aid to Kyiv to facilitate Ukraine retaking Luhansk and Donetsk, and perhaps Crimea (Rosefielde 2023). This was the backstory to media reports about Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov’s effort to dissuade Washington from pressing Ukraine’s NATO accession. Putin made a straight forward expected net benefit assessment, weighing the stream of consequences from temporizing or launching a “special military operation”. He opted to strike on 24 February 2022 hoping for victory but prepared to improvise as circumstances dictated. The Biden administration knew that Putin might retaliate for the Ukraine Charter on Strategic Partnership and accelerated deliveries of lethal and non-​lethal aid to Kyiv. It made its own net benefit assessment, weighing the stream of consequences from acquiescing to Lavrov’s pleas or gambling to restore Ukraine’s territorial integrity from before the Maidan events of March 2014. The ensuing Russo-​ Ukrainian war will make consumers everywhere worse off by diminishing free trade, destabilising the global macro-​economy and inflicting needless pain and suffering. The harm caused by the Ukraine Charter on Strategic Partnership and accelerated delivery of lethal military assistance to Kyiv to support Ukraine retaking Luhansk, Donetsk and Crimea will be enduring unless leaders end Cold War II and revive global partnership.

Notes 1 Deadweight loss is a measure of lost economic efficiency when the socially optimal quantity of a good or a service is under produced. The correlation of forces is a Soviet concept defined as the military balance between two opponents at the global, regional and local levels. 2 Robert Blackwill was a career diplomat. He served as special assistant to the president for National Security Affairs and as senior director for European and Soviet Affairs under President George W. Bush beginning 13 March 1989. He is currently promoting a “grand bargain” for Taiwan and China. 3 The phrase “drinking the Kool-​Aid” references the suicide of 900 members of the People’s Temple in Jonestown, Guyana, on 18 November 1978. 4 Unpublished, private communication, 2002. Kasyanov was Prime Minister from 17 May 2000 to 24 February 2004. Subsequent updates are available in the public domain. 5 The term “colour revolution” refers to Western-​facilitated political operations in the former Soviet political sphere promoting regime change. The concept now applies more generally to any foreign-​ abetted conspiracy to topple rival regimes. A zero-​sum game is one in which one person or group can win something only by causing another person or group to lose it. Competitive international trade is mutually beneficial until equilibrium is reached at a zero-​sum point. 6 The control list of embargoed goods continues to be enforced under the Wassenaar Arrangement. 7 The Jackson–​Vanik amendment is a 1974 provision in United States federal law intended to affect US trade relations with countries with non-​market economies (originally, countries of the Communist bloc) that restrict freedom of emigration and other human rights.

294

295

Russian international economic policy: Purposes and performance 8 Beggar-​thy-​neighbour policies fixing import quotas and subsidising exports are protectionist measures, not sanctions, because they are intended to help domestic constituencies rather than punish foreign governments for their perceived misconduct. 9 The non-​EU European NATO members were Albania, Canada, Iceland, Norway and Turkey. Japan’s sanctions were symbolic. 10 Also, it is worth noting that the strategy chosen may have been the European Union and America’s only viable option because various EU member states were averse to stronger punitive measures. 11 For additional econometric evidence, see Korhonen 2019 and 2021. 12 Most of the unemployment is still long-​term: 30 percent of the unemployed had been looking for a job for over a year. The number of part-​time employees increased slightly in the first half of 2018 but remained far below the levels of the 2009 crisis period. 13 Russia per capita GDP computed in purchasing power parity dollars in 2017 was $27,900. The counterpart American figure was $59,000. 14 Other Russian sources put the figure higher. The Russian Presidential Academy of the National Economy and Public Administration says that 22 percent of Russians fall into the “poverty zone,” meaning they are unable to buy anything beyond basic staples needed for subsistence.

References Allison, G. and R. Blackwill (1991a), “On with the Grand Bargain”, Harvard Kennedy School, Belfer Center, www.belfe​rcen​ter.org/​publ​icat​ion/​grand-​barg​ain. Allison, G. and R. Blackwill (1991b), “America’s Stake in the Soviet Future”, Foreign Affairs 70, 3: 77–​97. Åslund, A. (2018a), “Making Sense of Russia’s New Draconian Sanctions on Ukraine”, Atlantic Council, www.atla​ntic​coun​cil.org/​blogs/​ukrai​neal​ert/​mak​ing-​sense-​of-​rus​sia-​s-​new-​dracon​ian-​sancti​ons-​on-​ ukra​ine. Åslund, A. (2018b), “Want to Hit Putin Where It Hurts? Target His Friends”, The Hill, 2 September, https://​theh​ill.com/​opin​ion/​intern​atio​nal/​404​524-​want-​to-​hit-​putin-​where-​it-​hurts-​tar​get-​his-​ frie​nds. Åslund, A. and M. Snegovaya (2021), “The Impact of Western Sanctions on Russia and How They Can Be Made Even More Effective”, Atlantic Council, www.atla​ntic​coun​cil.org/​in-​depth-​resea​rch-​repo​ rts/​rep​ort/​the-​imp​act-​of-​west​ern-​sancti​ons-​on-​rus​sia/​. Bidwell, P. (1942), “Our Economic Warfare”, Foreign Affairs 20, 3: 421–​37. Blackwill, R. and P. Zelikow (2021), “The United States, China, and Taiwan: A Strategy to Prevent War”, Council Special Report No. 90, Council on Foreign Relations, https://​cdn.cfr.org/​sites/​defa​ult/​files/​ rep​ort_​pdf/​the-​uni​ted-​sta​tes-​china-​and-​tai​wan-​a-​strat​egy-​to-​prev​ent-​war.pdf. Blank, S. (2021), “Can Russia Sustain Its Defence Buildup?”, in Rosefielde (2021c): 263–​88. Bremmer, I. and S. Charap (2007), “The Siloviki in Putin’s Russia: Who They Are and What They Want”, Washington Quarterly 30, 1: 83–​92. Case, K. and R. Fair (1999), Principles of Economics (New: York: Prentice-​Hall). Corbin, M. (2018), “Kennan Cable No. 33: A Russian Pivot to Asia? Russian Trade with Asia from 2006 to 2016”, Kennan Institute, 18 May, www.wilso​ncen​ter.org/​publ​icat​ion/​ken​nan-​cable-​no-​33-​russ​ian-​ pivot-​to-​asia-​russ​ian-​trade-​asia-​2006-​to 2016?mkt_​tok=​eyJpIjoiT0dZd1lqWTVZakJpTURJMyIsIn QiOiJhcllkXC9MM3RnZ0RNaW4wOWwxN2I0dFZVSzIwbzhaV2NcLzM3UlwvTWJ0YUJrRU x4S0VCdHJhZGV4WCtOZm44N25GOXFYeUlQYzR5bTJLMkw0UXNIaEVUcFpxOVlCWmV CWFdwUUczend3cjJmNWJ5XC9UZXo5bmhFNXNUeTljODhhcXoifQ%3D%3D. Dawisha, K. (2014), Putin’s Kleptocracy: Who Owns Russia? (New York: Simon and Schuster). Faltsman, V. (2015), “Importozameshchenie v TEK i OPK”, Voprosy ekonomiki: 116–​24. Fontenot, K., J. Semega and M. Kollar (2018), Income and Poverty in the United States: 2017 (US Census Bureau, Report Number P60–​263), 12 September 2018, www.cen​sus.gov/​libr​ary/​publi​cati​ons/​2018/​ demo/​p60-​263.html. Gorshkov, V. (2017), “Finance”, in S. Rosefielde, M. Kuboniwa, S. Mizobata and K. Haba (eds.), The Unwinding of the Globalist Dream: EU, Russia and China (Singapore: World Scientific Publishers): 193–​211. Gricius, G. (2018), “The Danske Bank Scandal Is the Tip of the Iceberg”, Foreign Policy (October), https://​foreig​npol​icy.com/​2018/​10/​08/​the-​dan​ske-​bank-​scan​dal-​is-​the-​tip-​of-​the-​iceb​erg-​money-​ lau​nder​ing-​esto​nia-​denm​ark-​reg​ulat​ion-​financ​ial-​crime/​.

295

296

Steven Rosefielde Gurvich, E. and I. Prilepskiy (2015), “The Impact of Financial Sanctions on the Russian Economy”, Russian Journal of Economics 1, 4: 1–​27. Korhonen, I. (2019), “Sanctions and Counter-​Sanctions –​What Are Their Economic Effects in Russia and Elsewhere?”, Bofit Policy Brief No.2. Korhonen I. (2021), “Economic Sanctions on Russia and their Effects, Part II”, NYU Jordan Center, 29 October 2021, https://​jor​danr​ussi​acen​ter.org/​news/​econo​mic-​sancti​ons-​on-​rus​sia-​and-​their-​effec​ tgs-​part-​ii/​#.YYp​uxwp​CK8. Kramer, M. (2015), “Exclusive: Sanctions and Regime Survival”, Ponars Eurasia (March), www.ponars​ eura​sia.org/​arti​cle/​sancti​ons-​and-​reg​ime-​survi​val. Kuboniwa, M. (2021), “Military Potential Revisited”, in Rosefielde (2021c): 255–​61. Lalu, P. (2021), “The Fighting Power of Russia’s Armed Forces”, in Rosefielde (2021c): 289–​345. Malmlöf, T. (2016), “A Case Study of Russo-​ Ukrainian Defense Industrial Cooperation: Russian Dilemmas”, Journal of Slavic Military Studies 29, 1: 1–​22. Nelson, R. (2017), “U.S. Sanctions and Russia’s Economy”, Congressional Research Service (February). Oxenstierna, S. (2021), “The Western Sanctions Against Russia. How Do They Work?”, in Rosefielde (2021c): 433–​52. Persson, G. (2021), “On War and Peace: Russian Security Policy”, in Rosefielde (2021c): 347–​77. Psaki, J. (2014), “United States Expands Export Restrictions on Russia”, US State Department, 28 April, www.state.gov/​r/​pa/​prs/​ps/​2014/​04/​225​241.htm. Reach, C., V. Kilambi and M. Cozad (2020), Russian Assessments and Applications of the Correlation of Forces and Means (Santa Monica: RAND Corporation), www.rand.org/​pubs/​resea​rch_​repo​rts/​RR4​ 235.htm. Rosefielde, S. (1982), False Science: Underestimating the Soviet Arms Buildup (expanded second edition 1987) (Rutgers: Transaction). Rosefielde, S. (2005), Russia in the 21st Century: The Prodigal Superpower (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Rosefielde, S. (2017), Kremlin Strikes Back: Russia and the West after Crimea’s Annexation (New York: Cambridge University Press). Rosefielde, S. (ed.) (2021a), Putin’s Russia: Economic, Political and Military Foundations (Singapore: World Scientific Publishers). Rosefielde, S. (2021b), “Russian Defence: Economic Constraints and Potential”, in Rosefielde (2021c): 201–​53. Rosefielde, S. (ed.) (2021c), Putin’s Russia: Economy, Defence and Foreign Policy (Singapore: World Scientific). Rosefielde, S. (2023), Russo-​Ukrainian War: Implications for the Asia Pacific (Singapore: World Scientific). Rosefielde, S. and Q. Mills (2021), Beleaguered Superpower: America Adrift (Singapore: World Scientific Publishers). World Bank (2018), Russia’s Economy: Preserving Stability, Doubling Growth, Halving Poverty –​How, 4 December. World Bank (2021), Russia Economic Report, No. 45, 26 May.

296

297

PART 4

Society

298

299

26 RUSSIAN POPULATION DYNAMICS IN THE PUTIN ERA Leslie Root

Overview Russia’s population dynamics since the collapse of the Soviet Union have often been referred to, both within Russia and in the West, as a crisis (Eberstadt 2010; Gessen 2014; Putin 2006; Zivert et al 2011). However, over the past two decades, they have also been characterised by recovery –​albeit uneven and halting –​from the major disruptions to normal demographic processes brought about by the social and economic turmoil of the 1990s. As Russian society has emerged from the tumult of transition, basic indicators of population health have trended upwards. Nonetheless, Russia still lags behind most of its European neighbours, and behind many other post-​Soviet states, on key measures of health such as life expectancy.

Data sources The latest available full-​count census data is from the 2010 Census; the 2020 Census was delayed by the COVID-​19 pandemic until autumn 2021, and preliminary data will likely be available in spring 2022 (Vedomosti 2022).1 However, the Federal State Statistics Service (Rosstat) produces annual and monthly population estimates based on vital records data produced locally by district statistics offices (ZAGS) and centralised through regional bureaus to Rosstat, as well as migration data produced both by federal subjects and at the national level. The completeness and accuracy of contemporary Russian vital statistics data is generally assessed to be good, with some exceptions: first, infant mortality data is not comparable to most other countries due to a local definition of live birth that results in at-​r isk infants who are born alive but at high risk of death –​until 2012, those born before 28 weeks’ gestation or weighing under 1000 grams (2.2 lbs.), and, since 2012, those born before 22 weeks or weighing under 500 grams –​being coded as stillborn, while they are considered live births according to the World Health Organisation definition, which does not restrict by gestational age or birthweight (Rosstat 2021a). Second, specialists at the Human Mortality Database note data quality issues pertaining to the old-​age population in years 2015 and later, which may make fine-​ grained work with this data, such as counting deaths by single year of age above 85, inadvisable (Shkolnikov and Jdanov 2017).

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-30

299

300

Leslie Root

80

1.3%

70

0.6%

2.8%

65

1.5%

3.6%

60 Five-year age group

1%

2.9%

75

2.2%

4.1%

55

3%

3.7%

50

3% 2.8%

3.2%

45

3.6%

40

3.3%

3.8%

35

4.2%

30

4.2%

25

3.6% 4.1% 4.3%

2.9%

20

3%

2.3%

15

2.4% 2.5%

2.4%

10

2.8%

5

2.9%

3.2%

0

3.4%

2.7% 3.75

2.5

2.8%

1.25 0 1.25 Percent of population

2.5

3.75

Sex F M

Figure 26.1  Population in 2021 by age and sex in five-​year age groups. The last age group includes those aged 80 and above. Source: Rosstat 2021a.

Population size, structure, and growth According to Rosstat, Russia’s population size on 1 January 2021 was 146,171,015 (Rosstat 2021a): 18.7 percent of the population was below working age (aged 0 to 15), 56.0 percent was working age (aged 16 to 57), and 25.2 percent was above working age (aged 58 or older). The overall sex ratio was 86.6 males to 100 females, which is significantly lower than the global average of 101 males to 100 females. This is partly because the Russian population is older than average; older populations skew female, as males generally experience higher mortality across the life course than do females. The 1990s and early 2000s in Russia saw unusually strong differential mortality by sex, amplifying this effect. In the 2021 population, females begin to outnumber males in the 35-​to-​39 age group, and by the oldest ages they outnumber them by more than two to one, as shown in Figure 26.1.

Natural increase and population growth Russia experienced a negative rate of natural increase –​that is, more deaths than births –​every year from 1992 until 2012. The amount of natural population loss during this period varied substantially. In 2000, the year with the largest difference between mortality and fertility, deaths 300

301

Russian population dynamics in the Putin era

outnumbered births by about 950,000, but the discrepancy narrowed in almost every subsequent year, until births overtook deaths from 2013 to 2015. Natural increase has turned negative again since then, and in 2020, which saw sluggish birth rates and high mortality from the COVID-​19 pandemic, it was approximately -​700,000 –​the greatest excess of deaths over births since 2005. Over the period beginning in 2000, despite experiencing only three years of positive natural increase, the population grew year-​on-​year from 2010 to 2018 due to positive net migration outweighing negative natural increase (Rosstat 2021b).2 All told, despite the turbulent forces of mortality and fertility that the country has experienced over the past 30 years, Russia’s population today is about 99 percent the size it was in 1990, and 99.5 percent the size it was in 2000. However, the current population figure includes the population of the annexed Republic of Crimea and Federal City of Sevastopol –​without these territories, the 2021 population would be 1.65% smaller (Rosstat 2021b).

Fertility Period total fertility rates have changed dramatically over the past thirty-​five years. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, the Soviet government implemented a pronatalist campaign that led to earlier average childbearing and a total fertility rate (TFR) that rose to a high of 2.23 children per woman in 1987 (Zakharov 2008). The TFR fell dramatically beginning in 1987, during the economic turmoil of perestroika. The fall worsened as the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, and the TFR continued to decrease nearly every year in the turbulent 1990s, bottoming out at 1.15 children per woman in 1999, the year after a major Russian financial crisis and government debt default. While small gains began to be observed in 2000, period rates stayed near or under 1.3 children per woman –​considered “lowest-​low” fertility by demographers –​until 2006 (see Figure 26.2). In that year, the Putin administration announced a suite of new pronatalist measures, including improvements in maternity leave and child benefits, a demographic plan with targets through the year 2025, and the capstone “maternity capital” programme, which grants a one-​time, limited-​use gift of approximately $11,000 to mothers of two or more children. Fertility rose quickly from 2006 on, peaked at 1.79 children per woman in 2016, and has fallen again since, to 1.5 in both 2019 and 2020 (Russian Fertility and Mortality Database 2021). The effect of Putin’s pronatalist policies on the birth rate and on the experience of childbearing and rearing in Russia are a subject of scholarly debate. Tomas Frejka and Sergei Zakharov (2013) take a pessimistic view: while the 2007 policy package was correlated with lower ages at birth and a shortening of intervals between births –​that is, people began to have births earlier in the life course and sooner after their previous births –​this does not indicate that it caused people to have more births. They argue that it will not be until the cohorts that were affected by the 2007 package have completed childbearing that we will be able to assess the true effect of the policy. Fabian Slonimczyk and Anna Yurko (2014) take a different approach, using methodologies from economics to model the effect of maternity capital and other associated pronatalist policies on individual childbearing decisions. They find that the policy does have a modest effect on fertility rates, showing an increase in the total fertility rate of one-​quarter of a child (equivalent to one in four women having an extra birth due to the policy change) and an increase of 10 percent in families with two or more children. Elena Borozdina et al (2016), interviewing users of maternity capital, found that, while few respondents considered it a decisive factor in their childbearing, women supported the policy and statist welfare policies towards families more broadly. In practical terms, they found 301

302

Leslie Root

2.00

Total fertility rate

1.75

1.50

1.25

1.00 2000

2002

2004

2006

2008

2010

2012

2014

2016

2018

2020

Figure 26.2  Period total fertility rate, 2000–​20.

maternity capital to align best with the needs and skills of the middle class, possibly limiting its effect on fertility rates. Poorer women, they found, were less likely to be able to successfully navigate the bureaucracy required to access the money and often lacked the supplemental funds necessary to leverage maternity capital in the way they wished to –​for instance, to combine private savings and maternity capital to purchase better housing, a common use of the funds. In any case, in the period 2005–​15, second births increased four times as much as first births, and third births increased seven times as much (Root 2020). This increase in higher-​order births is held up by Russian policy-​makers as evidence that maternity capital –​which, again, specifically provides benefits for second and later births –​was a success, but, in reality, it is likely due to a complex interaction between population structure, broader economic conditions, and policy. Late Soviet and early post-​Soviet women generally placed a high priority on having at least one child, often at a young age (Perelli-​Harris 2005). Therefore, even the years of lowest fertility in Russia were not driven by an increase in childlessness, but rather by large reductions in second and third births. This tendency towards early first births and delaying or forgoing second births during the 1990s and early 2000s meant that, when the maternity capital policy was introduced, a large share of the population of reproductive age –​37 percent in 2007 –​had only one child and were thus candidates for a second birth (Root 2020). This pent-​up “demand” for second children combined with an improving economy and the pronatalist policy package to produce an increase in second and third births that lasted for several years. The subsequent fall in fertility is likely connected to the economic contraction that Russia experienced in 2015–​16, after sanctions were imposed due to the 2014 Ukraine conflict and the annexation of Crimea. This economic contraction was short lived, but its fertility effects appear to have remained –​much as fertility in the United States did not rebound after the economy recovered from the 2008 recession. As has been the case in peer countries, Russian fertility will likely fall further during the COVID-​19 pandemic as well, and sanctions imposed in response to the war on Ukraine are also likely to have a negative effect. 302

303

Russian population dynamics in the Putin era

Sexual and reproductive health Russia is known for its “abortion culture.” The Soviet Union, and later Russia, was long famous for its status as the world leader in rates of induced abortion (Nakachi 2016; Philipov et al. 2004). This was a result of the fact that abortion, legal in the Soviet era with the exception of 1935–​55, was often the only family planning choice Soviet women had, as contraceptives were of poor quality and often unavailable (Nakachi 2016). In the 1990s, a flood of Western NGOs, donor agencies and multilateral organisations such as the UN and the World Health Organisation brought to Russia the concept of –​and the funding for –​family planning and modern contraception (Rivkin-​Fish 2005). Uptake of modern contraception has been slow –​ not least because of a lukewarm response to this flood of outside interest in managing Russia’s population, which has been seen by some as suspect, especially given prevailing narratives of demographic crisis within Russia (Rivkin-​Fish 2005) –​but nonetheless, the number of abortions in Russia has fallen steadily, from 113.9 per 1000 women of reproductive age in 1990 to 26.0 per 1000 women of reproductive age in 2014 (Sedgh et al 2016). Its rate remains high among countries with relatively reliable statistics, though it is estimated that many countries in the developing world now have higher rates (Denisov et al 2012; Sakevich 2016; Sedgh et al 2016). One type of abortion that appears relatively uncommon in Russia is sex-​selective abortion. Sex-​selective abortion has become common in the post-​Soviet era in Russia’s neighbours in the South Caucasus, as prenatal sex identification has become common and family size has shrunk, leaving parents with fewer chances to have a son (Duthé et al 2012; Hohmann et al 2014). However, Russia’s sex ratio at birth is approximately 105 males to 100 females, which indicates little to no sex-​selective abortion at the population level. Data on contraceptive use in Russia is sparse, though it is generally accepted that use of modern contraceptives remains lower than in most of Europe. Rosstat estimates that the unmet need for modern contraception is as high as 17 percent (cited in Agadjanian and Yoo 2018). In a study comparing contraceptive behaviour in Russia, Belarus, and Ukraine, which attempted to explain Russia’s higher abortion rate compared to its two near neighbours, Boris Denisov et al (2012) found little difference in contraceptive prevalence, but they did find discrepancies in contraceptive knowledge and practices that may contribute to a higher contraceptive failure rate in Russia. They attribute these differences in part to policy differences among the three countries, citing the influence of the Russian Orthodox Church on policy-​making and the persistent belief that family planning is contrary to, and even specifically designed to sabotage, Russia’s goal of a growing population (Denisov et al 2012). In line with this “highly traditional” orientation towards family planning as a whole, the abortion policy environment has become increasingly restrictive over the course of the Putin era, as an aggressively anti-​abortion stance has become the norm for both the state and the politically powerful Russian Orthodox Church. Abortion before 12 weeks of gestation is still fully legal and covered by the mandatory state medical insurance programme, but the process of getting an abortion has become more difficult, as new restrictions have been levelled at both patients and providers. The list of “social indicators” (such as poverty, incarceration of the woman or her partner) that grant the right to an abortion between 12 and 22 weeks of gestation has been reduced twice, in 2003 (from 13 to five items) and 2012 (from five items to just one: pregnancy as a result of a criminal act) (Root 2020). A waiting period of two to seven days before abortion, depending on gestational age, was introduced in 2012, as was the right of doctors to refuse to provide abortion care. The Ministry of Health has issued formal recommendations to clinics to provide women with psychological counselling before 303

304

Leslie Root

abortions; to show them the pregnancy on an ultrasound; and to ensure that they hear the fetal heartbeat before making their decision. Advertising abortion was made illegal in 2013. Finally, in 2016, a law was passed requiring clinics to obtain special licensure to provide abortion care (Root 2020).

Mortality The crisis of Russian mortality in the 1990s is well known, but mortality conditions were poor for most of the late Soviet period as well. From the middle of the 1960s through the early 1980s, Russian male life expectancy gradually fell, due in large part to excess male deaths during early adulthood and middle age (Shkolnikov et al 1996). Women’s life expectancy remained relatively stable over this period, rather than improving as it was in Western Europe and North America. This increase and plateau in male and female mortality, respectively, was reversed in the mid-​1980s, due in large part to a policy limiting alcohol sales and consumption in force from 1985 to 1987. These gains quickly vanished in the tumultuous early years of the post-​Soviet transition. Life expectancy at birth fell from 63.8 to 57.6 years for men and 74.4 to 71.0 years for women between 1990 and 1994 (Leon et al 1997). In countries facing economic turmoil, mortality often increases most for those who are already at greatest risk of dying –​that is, infants and the elderly –​but this was not the case during the Russian mortality crisis. Men aged 25 to 54 had the highest increases in mortality, with a peak at ages 35 to 44; while the increase was not as sharp for women, it had the same age pattern. Forty-​two percent of the male mortality increase was attributable to cardiovascular disease (Leon et al 1997). Second in importance were external causes, such as accidents, poisoning (including by alcohol), homicide, and suicide. This group of causes accounted for one-​fifth of the increase in mortality for women and one-​third for men (Leon et al 1997). Lincoln Chen et al (1996) describe contemporary popular explanations for the mortality crisis, which include ecological disaster, the collapse of the medical system, and the failures of economic shock therapy. Neither ecological disaster nor the collapse of the medical system –​ while both substantial problems in post-​Soviet Russia –​are sufficient to account for the pattern of deaths observed, either in terms of age, cause, or geography. Sociological and anthropological work has focused on the role of economic “shock therapy” and the alienation, despair, and breakdown of social systems that economic, pension, and labour system collapse brought with it (Kennedy et al 1998; Parsons 2014), but the general demographic and public health consensus is that alcohol consumption was the direct, crucial determinant of this crisis (Grigoriev et al 2014). The Putin era has seen dramatic improvements in GDP and standard of living, and, since 2003, improvement in mortality as well. The proportion of Russians living below the poverty line halved between 1995 and 2013 (Grigoriev et al 2014). Poverty increased somewhat after 2014, but it is still far below levels seen in the early 2000s. However, mortality improvement has been slow. By 2010, both-​sex life expectancy still had not recovered to 1990 levels, and men’s life expectancy was, at 63 years, still lower than the level achieved in 1965 (Eberstadt 2010). The gender gap in life expectancy remained at nearly 12 years –​one of the greatest gender disparities in mortality ever recorded. This seemed to align with the interpretation that the crisis of the 1990s was a shock situated within a broader long-​term pattern of decline in life expectancy in Russia, which could not be disrupted until a systemic change –​in medical care, public health, and/​or socioeconomic circumstance –​intervened (Shkolnikov et al 1998, 2004). 304

305

Russian population dynamics in the Putin era

As life expectancy has continued to increase since 2010, recent work on mortality improvement is more optimistic now that such change has begun to take place. There are two broad areas that are cause for optimism: population-​level health behaviours and the public health policies that support them, and improvements to health care and medicine. Vladimir Shkolnikov et al (2013) find that deaths from external causes and circulatory diseases were the main drivers of the increase in life expectancy beginning in 2003, and connect the increase in life expectancy with reduced alcohol consumption, and especially the reduced consumption of non-​beverage alcohols after a 2006 campaign that limited and controlled the legal alcohol supply and took steps to make non-​beverage alcohols less available and less palatable. Maria Neufeld et al (2020) find tight correlation between reductions in all-​cause mortality and two periods of intensive alcohol-​control policy action, 2004–​7 and 2010–​13. They conclude unequivocally that Russian alcohol policy has saved lives. In addition to reducing overall consumption, these policies have helped to increase the share of alcohol consumed in the form of beer rather than hard liquor, particularly among younger adults. This change has reduced the negative outcomes of harmful binge drinking (Razvodovsky 2015). Smoking behaviour has also changed; Shkolnikov et al (2020) estimate a reduction of about 48,000 deaths from cardiovascular disease among men between 2008 and 2016, or about a 1.6 percent reduction, due to reductions in smoking. The observed improvements in cardiovascular mortality, combined with drops in preventable causes such as tuberculosis and diabetes, also indicate improvement of the health care system, connected with a major Russia-​wide campaign called “Zdorov’e” (“Health”) launched in 2006 (Shkolnikov et al 2013). The campaign aimed to improve primary care, pay general practitioners more, strengthen the emergency care infrastructure, and promote high-​technology medical care. Grigoriev et al (2014) note the role of specific changes, including increased preventive interventions such as blood pressure-​regulating drugs, as well as access to and use of high-​tech medical and surgical interventions. Finally, recent work finds that life expectancy in Russia improved rapidly in the mid-​2000s even as the pace of decline in the prevalence of harmful drinking slowed. Especially at older ages, reduced mortality from causes unrelated to drinking now plays an increasing role in life expectancy improvements (Danilova et al 2020). This is a further indication that Russia is making population health improvements in areas beyond alcohol. The gender gap in life expectancy has diminished further since 2010 but still hovers near 10 years. Other disparities are also relevant. Socioeconomic status is difficult to measure in mortality research, but one proxy for it is education level. As inequality rose in post-​collapse Russia, mortality disparities by education level widened considerably (Shkolnikov et al 2001). For several years, education information was not collected at the time of death. After the reintroduction of this information on death certificates in 2011, initial studies indicated that they may have widened further from 2000–​15, with a large portion of the increase in Russian life expectancy, among both men and women, attributable to changes in the population’s education structure –​that is, an increase in the share of the population of both sexes with higher education (Kharkova et al 2017). However, more recent work finds that this is not the case; while disparities by education level remain wide, there is no evidence that they have appreciably widened, suggesting that mortality has indeed improved for Russians of all education levels (Shkolnikov et al 2021). Despite the development of its own COVID-​19 vaccine, Sputnik, Russia’s overall COVID-​ 19 response was slow and tepid and vaccination rates remain low, so the pandemic has hit the country hard. Recent work finds that, in 2020, life expectancy declined in Russia by 1.68 years for men to 66.7 years, and by 1.80 years for women to 76.6 years. Out of 30 countries included 305

306

Leslie Root

80.0 77.5

Life expectancy at birth

75.0 72.5 70.0 67.5 65.0

12.9

12.6 12.4

11.9 11.8

11.6 11.3

10.8 11.2 11.2

10.6

9.9 10.1 10.1 9.9

sex female male

13.2 13.2 13.2 13.3 13.4 13.6

62.5 60.0 57.5 55.0 2000

2002

2004

2006

2008

2010

2012

2014

2016

2018

2020

Figure 26.3  Life expectancy at birth by sex, 2000–​20. The number displayed in each year indicates the difference between male and female life expectancy, in years. Source: Rosstat 2021b.

in this study, Russia had the largest life expectancy losses among females, while losses among males were third largest, behind the US and Lithuania (Aburto et al 2021). Life expectancy over time, as well as the difference between male and female life expectancy, is shown in Figure 26.3.

International migration As discussed above, Russia has had consistently positive net migration over the entire course of the Putin era, including during the COVID-​19 pandemic in 2020 (data for 2021 are not yet available). Labour migration is an important component of these flows; Russia admits an estimated 4 million labour migrants each year, chiefly from Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgyzstan (Lipman 2019). Labour migrants play an important role in the Russian economy; as the population ages, the share of the population that is of working age shrinks, and workers must be imported in order to keep the economy the same size. For this reason, and because of unfavourable economic conditions at home, Russia remains an attractive destination for Central Asian labour migrants even when its overall economic growth is sluggish. A good deal of media and scholarly attention has been given to the phenomenon of “brain drain,” or the exodus of those with high educational and socioeconomic status from Russia over the course of the Putin era. A 2019 Atlantic Council report suggests that emigres from this Putin-​era wave are highly educated, politically liberal, and, especially among those leaving in 2012 and after, are motivated to leave by “push factors” –​dissatisfaction with Russia’s political and economic climate –​rather than “pull factors” such as professional and educational opportunities abroad (Herbst and Erofeev 2019). The importance of push factors is supported by recent qualitative work by Ekaterina Demintseva (2021), who finds in interviews with emigres

306

307

Russian population dynamics in the Putin era

that a common theme in their decision to leave is a sense of inability to change their personal situation, tied to a lack of hope for change within the country as a whole. A recent study of academic migration, using researchers’ affiliation addresses, questions the conventional wisdom on the scope of Russian brain drain (Subbotin and Aref 2021). This study found that, while the 1990s and early 2000s were indeed characterised by Russian academics leaving the country, in recent years, the net migration of academics is close to zero or even slightly positive. A large portion of the flow of academics into Russia has come from Ukraine. Although the migration of business elites, highly skilled workers, and the educated creative class is highly visible, it accounts for only a small part of the story of Russian emigration. The Atlantic Council report cited above drew on a survey of 400 emigres in specific settings –​ Berlin, London, New York, and the San Francisco Bay Area –​and cannot be used to draw conclusions about population-​level migration trends. Rosstat reports total outmigration of 3.87 million from 2000 to 2020 and observes a similar time trend to that reported by the Atlantic Council: high levels in the early 2000s, bottoming out to only around 32,000 outmigrants in 2009, with rising rates after 2012 and especially 2014 (Rosstat 2021b) (see Figure 26.4.) However, in the 2012–​20 period, over 80 percent of migrants each year have left for other CIS countries. This is driven in part, no doubt, by large flows of temporary and circular labour migrants from these countries periodically returning home –​a phenomenon that swamps elite emigration and has significantly larger immediate effects on the Russian economy and society. Rosstat also reports on select destinations for the 400,000 Russians who emigrated to non-​ CIS countries over this period; among those listed, top destinations include China (62,000), Germany (31,000), India (30,000), Georgia (29,000), and Vietnam (25,000).

500000

488k

441k 416k

400000

377k

Total Emigration

353k

300000

200000

308k

313k

2014

2016

186k 146k 123k

121k 107k

100000

94k

80k

70k 54k

47k

40k

32k

34k

37k

0 2000

2002

2004

2006

2008

Figure 26.4  Total emigration from Russia, 2000–​20.

307

2010

2012

2018

2020

308

Leslie Root

Early reports suggest that the 2022 war in Ukraine has accelerated the migration of highly educated Russians. In early March, Georgian and Armenian officials stated that 25,000 and 80,000 Russians, respectively, had arrived in their countries; many Russians are also leaving via flights to Turkey and overland to the Baltic states (The Economist 2022; Berdy 2022; Demytrie 2022). Official data on the educational and socioeconomic background of those fleeing Russia is, of course, not yet available, but reports suggest that those who leave are likely to be highly educated and working in industries such as technology that allow them to work remotely (The Economist 2022). The scale and permanency of this new wave of migration will likely not be clear for some time yet.

Conclusion The last two decades have seen gradually improving population health in Russia, as mortality has fallen, progress has been made on problematic smoking and drinking, and the disruptions to childbearing that characterised the 1990s have been recouped. Russia’s historically high abortion rates have fallen as other methods of family planning have become available. The combination of lower mortality, higher fertility, and positive net migration has allowed Russia in 2021 to reach a population size that is similar to what it was in 2000 and 1990. However, the outlook is not entirely rosy. Life expectancy dropped during the COVID-​19 pandemic. Below-​replacement fertility –​not a problem per se from the perspective of population health –​has consistently been positioned as a political problem, reflected in the government’s persistent pronatalist contraceptive policy and increase in restrictions on abortion access. The 2022 invasion of Ukraine has already invited sanctions that are harsher and farther-​reaching than those imposed in the aftermath of the annexation of Crimea in 2014, and the effect of this economic devastation on population health, fertility, and migration is unlikely to be positive. Although the country is in a much better position than it was at the beginning of the Putin era, its demographic future and the wellbeing of its people are again under question.

Notes 1 A census was conducted in the Republic of Crimea and Federal City of Sevastopol in the autumn of 2014, shortly after the annexation of these territories. 2 Rosstat statistics show a population increase of 2.6 million people from 2014 to 2015 due to the annexation of Crimea and Sevastopol. Rosstat does not report natural increase or net migration for this year.

References Aburto, J.M., J. Schöley, I. Kashnitsky and R. Kashyap (2021), “Life Expectancy Declines in Russia during the COVID-​19 Pandemic in 2020”, International Journal of Epidemiology, preprint available at https://​ osf.io/​7cuvy/​. Agadjanian, V. and S.H. Yoo (2018), “Migration, Legality, and Fertility Regulation: Abortion and Contraception among Migrants and Natives in Russia”, Demographic Research 38: 1277–​302. Berdy, M.A. (2022), “ ‘The Dots Were All There. We Just Couldn’t Connect Them’ ”, POLITICO, www. polit​ico.com/​news/​magaz​ine/​2022/​03/​27/​fled-​mos​cow-​ameri​can-​jou​r nal​ist-​putin-​00020​470. Borozdina, E., A. Rotkirch, A. Temkina and E. Zdravomyslova (2016), “Using Maternity Capital: Citizen Distrust of Russian Family Policy”, European Journal of Women’s Studies 23, 1: 60–​75. Chen, L.C., F. Wittgenstein and E. McKeon (1996), “The Upsurge of Mortality in Russia: Causes and Policy Implications”, Population and Development Review 22, 3: 517–​30. Danilova, I., V.M. Shkolnikov, E. Andreev and D.A. Leon (2020), “The Changing Relation between Alcohol and Life Expectancy in Russia in 1965–​2017”, Drug and Alcohol Review 39, 7: 790–​96.

308

309

Russian population dynamics in the Putin era Demintseva, E. (2021), “Understanding Russia’s Brain Drain in the 2010s”, Problems of Post-​Communism 68, 6: 521–​30. Demytrie, R. (2022), “Russia Faces Brain Drain as Thousands Flee Abroad”, BBC News, 13 March, www.bbc.com/​news/​world-​eur​ope-​60697​763. Denisov, B.P., V.I. Sakevich and A. Jasilioniene (2012), “Divergent Trends in Abortion and Birth Control Practices in Belarus, Russia and Ukraine”, PLOS ONE 7, 11: e49986. Duthé, G., F. Meslé, J. Vallin, I. Badurashvili and K. Kuyumjyan (2012), “High Sex Ratios at Birth in the Caucasus: Modern Technology to Satisfy Old Desires”, Population and Development Review 38, 3: 487–​501. Eberstadt, N. (2010), Russia’s Peacetime Demographic Crisis: Dimensions, Causes, Implications (Washington: National Bureau of Asian Research). Frejka, T. and S. Zakharov (2013), “The Apparent Failure of Russia’s Pronatalist Family Policies”, Population and Development Review 39, 4: 635–​47. Gessen, M. (2014), “The Dying Russians”, The New York Review of Books, www.nybo​oks.com/​daily/​ 2014/​09/​02/​dying-​russi​ans/​. Grigoriev, P., F. Meslé, V.M. Shkolnikov, E. Andreev, A. Fihel, M. Pechholdova and J. Vallin (2014), “The Recent Mortality Decline in Russia: Beginning of the Cardiovascular Revolution?”, Population and Development Review 40, 1: 107–​29. Herbst, J. and S. Erofeev. (2019), The Putin Exodus: The New Russian Brain Drain (Washington: Atlantic Council Eurasia Center). Hohmann, S.A., C.A. Lefèvre and M.L. Garenne (2014), “A Framework for Analyzing Sex-​Selective Abortion: The Example of Changing Sex Ratios in Southern Caucasus”, International Journal of Women’s Health 6: 889–​97. Kennedy, B.P., I. Kawachi and E. Brainerd (1998), “The Role of Social Capital in the Russian Mortality Crisis”, World Development 26, 11: 2029–​43. Kharkova, T., S.Yu. Nikitina and E.M. Andreev (2017), “Zavisimost’ prodolzhitel’nosti zhizni ot urovnya obrazovaniya v Rossii”, Voprosy statistiki 20, 8: 61–​9. Leon, D.A., L. Chenet, V.M. Shkolnikov, S. Zakharov, J. Shapiro, G. Rakhmanova, S. Vassin and M. McKee (1997), “Huge Variation in Russian Mortality Rates 1984–​94: Artefact, Alcohol, or What?”, The Lancet 350, 9075: 383–​8. Lipman, M. (2019), “Labor Migration in Russia”, PONARS Eurasia, www.ponars​eura​sia.org/​labor-​ migrat​ion-​in-​rus​sia/​. Nakachi, M. (2016), “Liberation without Contraception? The Rise of the Abortion Empire and Pronatalism in Socialist and Postsocialist Russia”, in R. Solinger and M. Nakachi (eds.), Reproductive States: Global Perspectives on the Invention and Implementation of Population Policy (Oxford: Oxford University Press): 291–​319. Neufeld, M., C. Ferreira-​Borges, A. Gil, J. Manthey and J. Rehm (2020), “Alcohol Policy Has Saved Lives in the Russian Federation”, International Journal of Drug Policy 80: Article 102636. Parsons, M.A. (2014), Dying Unneeded: The Cultural Context of the Russian Mortality Crisis (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press). Perelli-​Harris, B. (2005), “The Path to Lowest-​Low Fertility in Ukraine”, Population Studies 59, 1: 55–​70. Philipov, D., E. Andreev, T. Kharkova and V. Shkolnikov (2004), “Induced Abortion in Russia: Recent Trends and Underreporting in Surveys”, European Journal of Population /​Revue Européenne de Démographie 20, 2: 95–​117. Putin, V.V. (2006), “Vladimir Putin on Raising Russia’s Birth Rate”, Population and Development Review 32, 2: 385–​9. Razvodovsky, Y. (2015), “Was the Alcohol Psychoses Decline in Russia Attributable to Alcohol Control Policy?”, European Psychiatry 30: 467. Rivkin-​Fish, M. (2005), Women’s Health in Post-​Soviet Russia (Bloomington: Indiana University Press). Century Russia, Unpublished doctoral dissertation Root, L. (2020), Fertility in Transition in 21st-​ (Berkeley: University of California). Rosstat (2021a), Chislennost’ naseleniya Rossiiskoi Federatsii po munitsipal’nym obrazovaniyam na 1 yanvarya 2021 goda (Moscow: Rosstat). Rosstat (2021b), The Demographic Yearbook of Russia 2021 (Moscow: Rosstat). Russian Fertility and Mortality Database (2021), Center for Demographic Research, Moscow, http://​dem​ ogr.nes.ru/​index.php/​ru/​dem​ogr_​indi​cat/​data.

309

310

Leslie Root Sakevich, V.I. (2016), “Uroven’ abortov v Rossii po-​prezhnemu vysshe, chem v drugikh razvitykh stranakh”, Demoscope Weekly, 5 June. Sedgh, G., J. Bearak, S. Singh, A. Bankole, A. Popinchalk, B. Ganatra, C. Rossier, C. Gerdts, Ö. Tunçalp, B. Ronald Johnson, H. Bart Johnston and L. Alkema (2016), “Abortion Incidence between 1990 and 2014: Global, Regional, and Subregional Levels and Trends”, The Lancet 388, 10041: 258–​67. Shkolnikov, V., E.M. Andreev and D. Jasilionis (2021), “Changes in Mortality Disparities by Education in Russia from 1998 to 2017: Evidence from Indirect Estimation”, European Journal of Public Health 32, 1: 21–​3. Shkolnikov, V., E. Andreev, D. Leon, M. McKee, F. Meslé and J. Vallin (2004), “Mortality Reversal in Russia: The Story so Far”, Hygiea Internationalis: An Interdisciplinary Journal for the History of Public Health 4: 29–​80. Shkolnikov, V., E.M. Andreev, M. McKee and D.A. Leon (2013), “Components and Possible Determinants of Decrease in Russian Mortality in 2004–​2010”, Demographic Research 28, 32: 917–​50. Shkolnikov, V., E. Churilova, D.A. Jdanov, S.A. Shalnova, O. Nilssen, A. Kudryavtsev, S. Cook, S. Malyutina, M. McKee and D.A. Leon (2020), “Time Trends in Smoking in Russia in the Light of Recent Tobacco Control Measures: Synthesis of Evidence from Multiple Sources”, BMC Public Health 20, 1: 378. Shkolnikov, V., G.A. Cornia, D.A. Leon and F. Meslé (1998), “Causes of the Russian Mortality Crisis: Evidence and Interpretations”, World Development 26, 11: 1995–​2011. Shkolnikov, V., M.G. Field and E.M. Andreev (2001), “Russia: Socioeconomic Dimensions of the Gender Gap in Mortality”, in T. Evans, M. Whitehead, F. Diderichsen, A. Bhuiya and M. Wirth (eds.), Challenging Inequities in Health. From Ethics to Action (New York: Oxford University Press): 139–​55. Shkolnikov, V. and D.A. Jdanov (2017), “About Mortality Data for Russia”, Human Mortality Database, https://​mortal​ity.org/​File/​GetD​ocum​ent/​hmd.v6/​RUS/​Pub​lic/​Inpu​tDB/​RUS​com.pdf. Shkolnikov, V., F. Mesle and J. Vallin (1996), “Health Crisis in Russia. I. Recent Trends in Life Expectancy and Causes of Death from 1970 to 1993”, Population. English Selection 8: 123–​54. Slonimczyk, F. and A. Yurko (2014), “Assessing the Impact of the Maternity Capital Policy in Russia”, Labour Economics 30: 265–​81. Subbotin, A. and S. Aref (2021), “Brain Drain and Brain Gain in Russia: Analyzing International Migration of Researchers by Discipline Using Scopus Bibliometric Data 1996–​2020”, Scientometrics 126, 9: 7875–​900. The Economist (2022), “How the War in Ukraine Is Accelerating Russia’s Brain Drain”, 25 March, www. econom​ist.com/​the-​econom​ist-​expla​ins/​2022/​03/​25/​how-​the-​war-​in-​ukra​ine-​is-​accel​erat​ing-​r uss ​ ias-​brain-​drain. Vedomosti (2022), “Glava Rosstata nazval srok publikatsii pervykh itogov perepisi naseleniya”, 15 January, www.vedomo​sti.ru/​soci​ety/​news/​2022/​01/​17/​905​151-​glava-​rosst​ata-​naz​val-​srok-​publ​ikat​sii-​per​vih-​ ito​gov. Zakharov, S. (2008), “Russian Federation: From the First to Second Demographic Transition”, Demographic Research 19, 24: 907–​72. Zivert, Sh., S. Zakharov and R. Klingkhol’ts (2011), “Spad rozhdaemosti posle raspada SSSR”, Demoscope Weekly, 28 August.

310

311

27 INEQUALITY IN RUSSIA Svetlana Mareeva

The last three decades have seen major changes in the economic and social life of Russian society. Not only has the population’s income level and its distribution changed, but there has also been, in a broader sense, a significant transformation of the general configuration of the social structure, as well as the size and the “social portraits” of the different groups within it. The comparative roles of various factors determining the position in society held by individuals and households have also altered. Inequality is one of the key problems facing Russian society today. Although the challenge of inequality is universal for countries around the world, understanding it and the possibilities for responding to it may vary depending on factors such as the stage of a society’s socio-​economic development, the norms and values shared by the population, the specifics of the social contract between the population and the state and so on. Thus, fighting inequality can mean reducing poverty, maintaining a minimum living standard for the entire population, or reducing the concentration of income in the hands of a very small elite. Moreover, the challenge of inequality might be not about incomes but about opportunities, in which case the focus should be on creating equal access to channels of mobility or equal opportunities for people in different spheres of life. A separate issue might be the relative importance of factors of income inequality, with a need to reduce the role of ascribed factors among them. For example, in Russia the significant role played in income inequality by region and type of settlement is well documented. In Russia, the answer to the question of what kind of inequality should be primarily addressed (and how it can be addressed) has not yet been provided. In discussions about inequality, the key tone is usually set by economists, who focus primarily on income inequality and its drivers. In the political agenda, the problem of inequality usually goes together with that of poverty, though it cannot simply be reduced to it. In Russian sociological discourse, questions are raised about how the social structure of modern society can be characterised, in particular whether it is a class structure and, if so, what are the main classes and their specifics and what prospects might they have in the future. In this regard, there is as yet no consensus among researchers. In this chapter, we turn first to the issues of monetary inequality in modern Russia, its dynamics in recent years and the current structure of Russian society in terms of income. Then we will move on to an expanded, sociological understanding of inequality, based on life chances and risks. Finally, we will address the question of the subjective perception of inequality by the population. DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-31

311

312

Svetlana Mareeva

Income and wealth inequality in modern Russia: Between west and east? When measured by traditional indicators, income inequality among the whole population is noticeably higher in Russia than in Western Europe. However, among BRICS countries (Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa), Russia does not have the greatest degree of income inequality. According to the World Bank, the Gini coefficient for Russia was 37.5 in 2018, and the shares of income in the lower and upper deciles were 2.9 percent and 29.9 percent respectively (World Bank n.d.). The use of equivalence scales that are designed to account for economies of scale in larger households noticeably decreases the assessment of income inequality in Russia. Thus, according to the Luxembourg Income Study (LIS; www.lisdat​acen​ter.org), the Gini coefficient in Russia using an equivalence scale amounted to 32.3 percent in 2019, placing it in line with other European countries. However, the adequacy of traditional equivalence scales for measuring income inequality in Russia is an issue for discussion, since a large proportion of the Russian population’s expenses might not be subject to the economy of scale (this primarily relates to expenses on basic needs, such as nutrition and clothes). The results of empirical studies show that at the microlevel, the region of residence and the presence of children in the household are among the most significant factors in income inequality (Ovcharova et al 2016). The importance of meritocratic factors, such as education and type of employment, increases during periods of economic growth but decreases in other periods (Ovcharova et al 2016). The situation of relatively high-​income inequality among the mass population has been typical for Russia throughout the entire post-​reform period. The Gini coefficient has been around 40 all this time, without showing any significant decline (according to World Bank data, its lowest value was 36.8 in 2016 and its highest was 41.3 in 2007; according to Russian official statistics, which implies certain reassessments of the data, it varied from 38.7 in 1995 to 42.2 in 2007). The distribution of monetary income showed a decrease in the share of income attributable to the lowest two quintiles from the 1990s to the mid-​2000s, after which the situation stabilised. The share of the fifth quintile rose sharply in the early 1990s and remains at a high level today –​its representatives account for more than 45 percent of the population’s entire monetary income. However, the fifth quintile is extremely heterogeneous –​it unites representatives both of the mass well-​off population, whose level of wellbeing is quite modest, and of the very top, which consists of people with a completely different scale of income. Though a great divide between 99 percent of the population and the top 1 percent has been well documented in many countries, in Russia the contrast seems to be even sharper (this issue is addressed below). Configuration of the income stratification model, constructed on the basis of income ratios to the country’s median income,1 shows that the income of most Russians is close to the median income of the country as a whole. Moreover, during the last two decades there has been an equalising tendency in relation to incomes. This tendency is even more noticeable when equivalence scales are applied. The ongoing process of the “averaging” of mass incomes has led to an increase in the share of groups with median incomes (from 0.75 to 1.25 medians) and the “middle class” in its economic definition (with incomes from 1.25 to 2 medians). Today, these groups are the largest in the income structure of modern Russian society. However, the lower group (the median income group) outnumbers the “middle class” (Mareeva and Lezhnina 2019). This makes the country similar to European countries, where the configuration of monetary inequality among the mass population has the same shape, although the absolute levels of median and mean incomes are higher (Tikhonova 2018b). However, the increase in the 312

313

Inequality in Russia

number of middle groups in the income distribution in recent years has occurred not only due to the increase in income of a part of the low-​income population, but also the “averaging” of the income level of the more prosperous mass strata, which basically means a decrease in the scale of the mass wellbeing zone. If monetary inequality in different parts of the income distribution is assessed separately, it shows a different nature and even different dynamics. If we consider inequality at the bottom of the income distribution, the incomes of the low-​income population have grown faster since 2008 (or, during periods of crisis, have declined more slowly) than the incomes of Russians in general. Faster income growth (or a slower pace of income decline) among the bottom 40 percent of the population reduced inequality in the lower part of the income distribution (World Bank 2016). Such income dynamics have contributed to a several-​fold decrease in the poverty rate in post-​reform Russia. This is confirmed both by Russian national statistics and international comparisons. According to the international poverty lines used by the World Bank, poverty associated with the problem of physical survival has been almost completely eradicated in Russia (World Bank 2016), in contrast to other BRICS countries; thus, the share of the population living on the poverty level of 5 USD PPP per day amounted to 3.7 percent in Russia, compared to 24.0 percent in China and 19.6 percent in Brazil. Official data on poverty (before 2021, poverty in Russia was defined by absolute criteria –​those with income lower than the minimum subsistence level, defined for each region separately and accounting for the composition of the household, were considered to be poor) confirms this trend: the official level of poverty has dropped from 33.5 percent in 1992 to 12.3 percent in 2019. Research on Russian poverty has come to a number of conclusions that provide a better understanding of the specifics of income inequality in the lower part of the income distribution. For example, key factors of absolute poverty include both demographics (the presence of children and non-​working adults in the household) and those related to people’s position in the labour market and the characteristics of their job. Among the latter are “bad” jobs that are outside the scope of official regulation, as well as low levels of human capital, which disqualify people from jobs of a different type (Slobodenyuk and Anikin 2018). It is also important to note that the socio-​economic portrait of poverty has changed significantly over the past few decades. During the period of reforms, educated and qualified Russians found themselves in poverty just as often as those with lower education and qualification levels, which led to the concept of the “new poor”. However, they were subsequently able to get out of poverty, while those who stayed behind formed a clearer portrait of the poor, differing from other sections of the population not only in the level of income, but also in the characteristics of education and qualifications (Tikhonova and Mareeva 2016). If inequality is assessed from another point of view –​that is, in terms of income concentration at the “top” –​the situation in Russia looks quite different. In terms of income concentration (and, even more so, concentration of wealth), Russia finds itself among the world leaders. The top 1 percent hold 20–​22 percent of all income and 43–​56 percent of total wealth, and the situation is showing no signs of improvement; on the contrary, the gap between “the top” and the mass of the population keeps growing (Novokmet et al 2018; Credit Suisse 2019). According to Forbes, the combined wealth of Russian billionaires amounted to 25–​40 percent of the national wealth in 2000–​15, which is significantly higher than in Western countries. Judging by initial estimates, the coronavirus pandemic and the economic crisis caused by it did not lead to a decrease in this concentration –​quite the opposite, in fact, as the number of Russian billionaires rose from 102 in 2020 to 123 in 2021 (Forbes 2021). The results of an interesting study by Daniel Treisman (2016) show that Russian society is characterised by a higher number of billionaires than might be expected when other economic indicators in the 313

314

Svetlana Mareeva

country, such as population size, income level, integration into the world economy, degree of market capitalisation, and institutional protection of property rights, are taken into account. The “top” income/​wealth group in Russia is a difficult subject for research in terms of available information, although some studies have been carried out. Several publications were devoted to the specifics of Russian oligarchs in the early 2000s. Most of the oligarchs at that time were young (which has changed by now) and were either representatives of the Soviet nomenklatura who transformed their control over enterprises into ownership during privatisation or built businesses from scratch in the late 1980s after receiving sufficient financial capital to enable them to participate profitably in privatisation (Guriev and Rachinsky 2005). At that time, oligarchs mostly dominated the largest industries, which were characterised by a high market concentration, but their management of the companies turned out to be more efficient than that of other owners. Interesting conclusions were obtained regarding the heterogeneity of this group: for example, in one study, representatives of the first wave of the post-​communist business elite were divided into “insiders”, who joined this group from the privileged nomenklatura, and “outsiders”, who did not have such a solid background but successfully took advantage of the new market opportunities. Representatives of the second group were more often from Moscow, generally younger and better educated, and their success stories were more often associated with new opportunities that opened up during the transition to a market economy, particularly in the finance, services and consumer goods sectors. Thus, initially, they represented a potential basis for the formation of a new class of effective, high-​level, managers-​ entrepreneurs. However, with the further development of both the country and their own career paths, they have formed a special relationship with the state, largely smoothing out the initial differences between themselves and the “insiders”. Therefore, they did not change the rules of the game but were themselves changed by these rules (Braguinsky 2009). Other studies note that new norms and attitudes among the super-​r ich evolved in the 2000s, which makes it possible to see the process of oligarchs transforming from “new Russians” into the “Russian bourgeoisie”, who are developing common class interests and becoming more united, while the competition between them decreases (Schimpfössl 2018). Thus, the nature and dynamics of income inequality in the lower part of the distribution, in the mass strata and in the upper part of the distribution position the country in different ways against the world background, in some respects making it similar to Western European countries (low level of poverty associated with physical survival, high share of middle income groups) and in others differentiating it (low level of median income in absolute terms, rather high Gini coefficient –​see Chapter 5 by Tiffen in this volume), with Russia occupying a leading position globally in terms of the concentration of income and wealth. While in the lower part of income distribution inequality has decreased in the post-​Soviet years of development, in the upper part the gap between the top and the rest of the population continues to grow. The group of Russians at the top in terms of income and wealth itself is heterogeneous and competitive, although in recent years a gradual process of its formation as a class with shared interests and strategies to legitimise its position has been observed.

Non-​monetary inequalities in Russian society We have talked above about the configuration of income inequality in Russia. Another approach to describing the inequality in society is the stratification model based on life chances. This model uses non-​monetary foundations: life chances and risks that Russians face in their everyday life (the model was proposed by a team of Russian researchers –​see Anikin et al 2017). Four major spheres of life were identified as the main “axes (scales) of social coordinates” of 314

315

Inequality in Russia

the multidimensional space of life chances and risks that characterise the life of the Russian population: economic security (economic conditions of life); employment (situation at work); education and health (investment in human capital); and consumption and leisure. These areas of life are of key importance in the eyes of most Russians and the most significant for the self-​ assessment of their social status. For each of the four spheres, indicators of life chances and risks were identified. The calculation of an integral index made it possible to construct a general model for the stratification of the mass strata of Russian society that demonstrates the configuration of non-​monetary inequality in Russian society today. The model clearly demonstrated the concentration of Russians primarily in the zero zone and adjacent positions (e.g. with low life chances, offset by low risks), with small proportions of the population characterised by multiple life chances or risks in different spheres. It was found that the Russian population can currently be divided into three main strata –​an upper stratum (about 15 percent), whose position and wellbeing are qualitatively different from the rest of Russians, and middle (55 percent) and lower (30 percent) strata that are relatively close to each other. This stratification model is quite stable –​even throughout the various stages of the economic cycle that characterised the country’s economic development in the last decade, its configuration remained basically unchanged, with the exception of a slight decrease in the share of the lower stratum and a slight increase in the share of the middle stratum. The structure of life chances and risks in the three strata also remained quite stable. The upper stratum is characterised by a concentration of life chances in various areas, such as economic security, employment and leisure. Its representatives have mostly received a higher education, as did, in most cases, their parents. They are mainly professionals, managers and entrepreneurs, and the specifics of their jobs demonstrate their favourable position in the system of employment relations. The lower stratum, in contrast, is characterised by the impossibility of maintaining the typical standard of living, and in this respect corresponds to the traditional understanding of deprivational poverty. All kinds of risks can be found in the life of its representatives, and the range of their life chances is very limited. However, the deprivation of the overwhelming majority of the lower stratum’s representatives is not very deep. An essential difference between the lower and middle strata, which includes the majority of Russians, is the much higher concentration of workers (primarily unskilled) in the former. The absence of other qualitative differences between the representatives of the lower and middle strata demonstrates their relative closeness, which means that a person’s position in the stratification system at each separate moment is associated with different kinds of individual life circumstances and can easily change under the influence of many factors. The three strata have vivid features of identities, social wellbeing, attitudes, normative-​value systems and attitudes towards what is happening in the country today. Again, the middle and lower strata are closer to each other than the middle and upper strata in this respect, although, in some positions (in particular, life goals that they would like to achieve), the middle stratum, and especially the youth within it, gravitates towards the top. If the main axes of non-​monetary inequalities are analysed separately, it can be seen that they are characterised by a high degree of concentration –​the presence of a “safety cushion”, favourable employment conditions, good health and education, and subjective wellbeing are typical of only a very small minority of the population. Along all these axes, the very nature of inequality is determined by the qualitative differences between the small “top” and the rest of the mass strata. In other words, the position in the system of non-​monetary inequalities differentiates the most well-​off Russians from the rest to a greater extent than it does those who are in the least favourable conditions from the rest (Mareeva 2021). Finally, although the positions of individuals in the systems of monetary and non-​monetary inequalities often do not 315

316

Svetlana Mareeva

coincide, non-​monetary inequalities are superimposed on monetary inequalities and exacerbate them rather than smooth them out.

Social stratification factors The previous subsections were devoted to the manifestations of inequality –​monetary and non-​ monetary –​in modern Russia. The question of the factors determining such a configuration of inequalities and the model of social stratification in present-​day Russia is very complex and does not have a definitive answer. In this section, we will only touch upon the main results of research carried out in this direction. Experts agree that Soviet society had an etacratic nature (Shkaratan 2012; Tikhonova 2021), characterised by the merged relations between power and property. Position in the social structure was primarily determined by one’s position in the system of power relations, which may or may not have involved control over the distribution of certain resources. The key social groups in society were the managers, who had such control, and the larger group of workers, who did not have such control. While the first subgroup was differentiated depending on the amount of power they had, the differences between mass workers were based on their employment in certain industries and certain types of enterprises, which provided certain privileges. So, while non-​monetary inequality was manifested quite noticeably, income gaps were not large, and income inequality increased sharply during the post-​Soviet reforms. The reforms of the 1990s markedly changed this picture. The development of the private sector and market relations reduced the role of privileges connected to the workplace but increased the differentiation associated with the stability of position in the labour market. At the same time, monetary inequality increased sharply, which was reflected in, among other things, a sharp increase in poverty, which included about one-​third of the population in the early 1990s. The foundations of the stratification model have also changed –​instead of the criterion of position in the administrative power hierarchy, the criterion of economic resource (property and income) became the most important factor (Zaslavskaya 1996). By the 2000s, the structural economic transformation was generally complete. The period of economic growth during this period was associated with an increase in income and living standards for all population groups. The poverty zone, from which by then the most educated and qualified Russians had managed to escape, had noticeably decreased. In general, during this period, the income distribution model acquired its key features, which characterise the country today and which we described above. On the other hand, positive trends were counterbalanced by negative processes in the labour market: a decrease in returns on human capital, the formation of a zone of precarious employment and the massive non-​observance of basic rights (Tikhonova and Karavay 2017). These trends were exacerbated in the 2010s, which were characterised by a series of economic crises and negative trends in non-​monetary inequalities that developed in parallel with a decline in the population’s real incomes. Since position in the labour market remains among the key stratification factors, these trends might have long-​term consequences for mass social groups. Today in Russian sociology the debate continues about what factors underlie the existing stratification system. The concept of Russian society as having a class nature, in which the situation is largely determined by the type and nature of employment, seems to be a consensus one, but the class dimension is superimposed by a number of non-​market factors –​associated, first of all, with the region and type of settlement, sectoral employment and the dependency burden. Comparative assessment of the role of these factors is a question that does not yet have a definitive answer. 316

317

Inequality in Russia

Public perceptions of inequality and social structure Despite noticeable socio-​economic changes in Russia over the past few decades, the population’s perception of inequality has not undergone any major transformations. Today, most Russians still think that inequalities are excessively high and unfair, and the conflict between the rich and the poor is considered to be the strongest of all social conflicts. Support for reducing income differences is also shared by the majority of representatives across all social groups. It is seen as the responsibility of the state, which, Russians believe, is failing to respond to the challenge of income inequality. Overall, surprisingly, the situation resembles that seen in the 1990s, when the country was going through a different development stage (Mareeva et al 2022). Moreover, along with the country’s post-​reform development, Russians’ beliefs regarding inequalities are being reinforced. As seen from ISSP data (https://​issp.org/​), in the new, turbulent times of the early 1990s, the population could not yet make sense of “the rules of the game” regarding inequalities and thus form an opinion about them. However, as the new institutional circumstances stabilised, the public developed a clearer understanding of inequality, which was reflected in a more pronounced polarisation of opinions and a smaller number of those who did not have a clear opinion on the matter. Today, existing inequality is deemed to be not only particularly high but also unfair, as also seen from ISSP data. This characteristic was indicated by more than 90 percent of Russians in 2019. The most prominent conflict in the public eye seems to be the one between rich and poor (two-​thirds of Russians say they observe an enmity between these social groups); it is considered to be stronger than traditional class conflicts between workers and employers or between the working and middle classes. Comparative research data show that this perception of income inequality positions Russia globally as one of the leaders in this regard (Mareeva et al 2022). Russia is also one of the leaders in requests aimed at the state for redistribution –​and in terms of the level of dissatisfaction with how the state is dealing with this challenge today, the country is again at the top. It is important that such ideas about income inequality in Russian society turn out to be universal for the entire population and do not differ depending on the income level, level of education, or experience or expectations of mobility. Even the groups with high education and income levels perceive income inequalities as excessively high and unfair, and the conflict between the poor and the rich as the most acute. They, like their less-​prosperous fellow citizens, believe that this problem should be solved by the state, which today cannot cope with it. This universality in perceptions of inequality by Russians might be due to several factors. As noted in the literature, a high tolerance for inequalities can be observed at the first stages of fundamental change, when the population is ready to put up with growing inequalities but expects the situation to be different in the future (Hirschman and Rothschild 1973). For Russia, however, the period of reforms ended a long time ago, but, as mentioned above, only in the lower portion of income distribution did the configuration of inequality change noticeably. As for the upper portion, there remains a big gap between the wealthy few and the rest of the population, whose prosperity can be characterised as very moderate and unstable. The growing gap between the very top of society and the rest of the population adds to this viewpoint. Even that part of the population considered to be relatively prosperous by general standards does not, when talking about reducing income inequality and the conflict between the rich and the poor, refer to itself and its own separation from the other mass groups, but rather to the elite who have left the rest of the population (both the disadvantaged and well-​off, according to general standards) far behind and keep increasing this distance (Mareeva 2020). 317

318

Svetlana Mareeva

Moreover, if we turn to the perceptions of inequality in the mass population, empirical research shows (Mareeva 2020) that Russians are concerned not so much about income inequality per se (they even consider it to be necessary to a certain degree) but about the unfairness of its causes and its non-​monetary aspects in modern Russia. They express a need not for an overall “levelling-​out” of income but for ensuring equality of opportunity, under which different levels of income will be based on legitimate factors –​education and skills, job performance, etc. In this context, a growing equalisation between the mass segments of the population and the shrinking high-​income segment within the mass population does not meet the needs of the most educated and qualified Russians, as it increases the risk of them losing their positions. In general, public perceptions of inequality in Russia today are based mostly not on the specifics of individual situations, but on shared subjective norms and beliefs about inequality and their contrast with existing reality. That makes the task of dealing with inequality, which the Russian state is faced with today, even more challenging.

Conclusion Russia holds a special position in the international arena in terms of its configuration of monetary inequality. With regards to income inequality, its level is quite high compared to European standards but generally lower than in other BRICS countries or Latin America. At the same time, other specifics of income inequality show that Russia is in no way “in the middle”. One of its notable features is an extreme concentration of incomes (and, even more so, wealth) at the very top, and the gap between the top and the rest of the population is growing. The most striking differences between Russia and other countries in that respect occur not at the level of the top 10 percent or even 5 percent, but the top 1 percent and above. Non-​monetary inequalities are also characterised by a high degree of concentration, and the position in the system of non-​­monetary inequalities differentiates to a greater extent the most well-​off Russians from the rest, rather than showing differences between those who are at the bottom and the rest. All of this creates a growing demand for a new social contract between the state and the people, which is manifested in a specific perception of inequality among the Russian population, something that is universal among representatives of all social groups despite their individual positions in society. However, this issue does not seem to have been acknowledged at the upper governance level yet. The principal choices that this new contract should address include at least the following: •​ Inequality between which groups should be addressed? Should measures be limited to supporting the poorest part of the population, targeting inequality between the middle segments of the population, or bridging the gap between the upper class and the masses? •​ Should efforts be concentrated on reducing inequality of opportunity to preserve the stimulating role of inequalities, or does inequality of outcome (in particular, income) also need to be rectified, as it determines inequality of opportunity for future generations? •​ Should high income mobility, which is currently quite typical in Russian society, be promoted or reduced? •​ How can the scope of “productive” inequality be determined –​or is the issue not about the scope of mobility and the “amount” of inequality but about its causes and underlying factors? These questions are so far missing from the socio-​political agenda; without solutions, however, it seems impossible to successfully respond to the challenges of inequality in modern Russian society. 318

319

Inequality in Russia

Note 1 The model was proposed by the research team led by Nataliya Tikhonova (see Tikhonova 2018a). It implies defining five income groups by measuring their incomes against the median values across the population. The poverty threshold is set at 0.5x the median income. The vulnerable population consists of those with income between 0.5–​0.75x the median (the typical lower demarcation for the middle class in literature). The median income group demonstrates a typical standard of living for the whole population (0.75–​1.25x). The “middle class” (1.25–​2x the median income) can be considered to be relatively well-​off. Those with income higher than 2x the median income fall into the high-​income stratum.

References Anikin, V., Yu. Lezhnina, S. Mareeva and N. Tikhonovа (2017), Social Stratification by Life Chances: Evidence from Russia, Higher School of Economics Research Paper No. WP BRP 80/​SOC/​2017 (Moscow: Higher School of Economics). Braguinsky, S. (2009), “Postcommunist Oligarchs in Russia: Quantitative Analysis”, Journal of Law and Economics 52, 2: 307–​49. Credit Suisse (2019), Global Wealth Report (Switzerland: Credit Suisse Group AG). Forbes (2021), World’s Billionaires List, https://​www.for​bes.com/​billi​onai​res/​. Guriev, S. and A. Rachinsky (2005), “The Role of Oligarchs in Russian Capitalism”, Journal of Economic Perspectives 19, 1: 131–​50. Hirschman, A. and M. Rothschild (1973), “The Changing Tolerance for Income Inequality in the Course of Economic Development”, The Quarterly Journal of Economics 87, 4: 544–​66. Mareeva, S. (2020), “Socio-​Economic Inequalities in Modern Russia and Their Perception by the Population”, The Journal of Chinese Sociology 7, 1: 1–​19. Mareeva, S. (2021), “Prostranstvo nemonetarnykh neravenstv v rossiiskom obshchestve: sostoyanie i posledstviya krizisa 2020 g.”, Terra Economicus 19, 4: 77–​91. Mareeva, S. and Yu. Lezhnina (2019), “Income Stratification in Russia: What Do Different Approaches Demonstrate?”, Studies of Transition States and Societies 11, 2: 23–​46. Mareeva, S., E. Slobodenyuk and V. Anikin (2022), “Support for Reducing Inequality in the New Russia: Does Social Mobility Matter?”, Intersections. East European Journal of Society and Politics 16, 2: 175–​96. Novokmet, F., T. Piketty and G. Zucman (2018), “From Soviets to Oligarchs: Inequality and Property in Russia 1905–​2016”, The Journal of Economic Inequality 16, 2: 189–​223. Ovcharova, L., D. Popova and A. Rudberg (2016), “Dekompozitsiya faktorov neravenstva dokhodov v sovremennoi Rossii”, Journal of the New Economic Association 3, 31: 170–​85. Schimpfössl, E. (2018), Rich Russians: From Oligarchs to Bourgeoisie (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Shkaratan, O. (2012), Sotsiologiya neravenstva: teoriya i real’nost’ (Moscow: VShE). Slobodenyuk, E. and V. Anikin (2018), “Gde prolegaet ‘cherta bednosti’ v Rossii?”, Voprosy ekonomiki 1: 104–​27. Tikhonova, N. (ed.) (2018a), Model’ dokhodnoi stratifikatsii rossiiskogo obshchestva: dinamika, faktory, mezhstranovye sravneniya (Moscow; St Petersburg: Nestor-​Istoriya). Tikhonova, N. (2018b), “Income Stratification in Russia in Comparison with Other Countries”, Social Sciences 49, 1: 18–​34. Tikhonova, N. (2021), “Transformatsii sotsial’noi struktury rossiiskogo obshchestva: konets 1980-​kh –​ konets 2010-​kh gg.”, Sotsiologicheskie issledovaniya 8: 22–​32. Tikhonova, N., and A. Karavay (2017), “Vliyanie ekonomicheskogo krizisa 2014–​ 2016 godov na zanyatost’ rossiyan”, Monitoring obshchestvennogo mneniya: ekonomicheskie i sotsial’nye peremeny 2: 11–​17. Tikhonova, N., and S. Mareeva (2016), “Poverty in Contemporary Russian Society: Formation of a New Periphery”, Russian Politics 1, 2: 159–​83. Treisman, D. (2016), “Russia’s Billionaires”, American Economic Review 106, 5: 236–​41. World Bank (n.d.), “Indicators”, https://​data.worldb​ank.org/​indica​tor/​. World Bank (2016), Poverty and Shared Prosperity 2016: Taking on Inequality (Washington, DC: World Bank). Zaslavskaya, T. (1996), “Transformatsiya sotsial’noi struktury rossiiskogo obshchestva”, Kuda idet Rossiia? Sotsial’naya transformatsiya postsovetskogo prostranstva, Issue 3 (Moscow: Aspect Press): 11–​21.

319

320

28 RUSSIAN LABOUR Between stability and stagnation Stephen Crowley

On the surface, one might assume that labour issues are of minimal concern to the Russian leadership as they survey the country’s social and political landscape. While that may in fact be true, a number of compelling issues loom just beneath the surface. These include the many Soviet-​era industrial enterprises that survived into the post-​communist era; the communities that depend on these enterprises, including the “monotowns”; the low wages that have contributed to Russia’s low-​productivity trap; compliant trade unions that paradoxically lead to spontaneous uncontrolled labour protest; and, given stagnant living standards, economic grievances that can become quickly politicised, with the potential to bridge the otherwise considerable gap between social classes. Regarding labour, Russia’s leadership faces a core dilemma: by preventing mass layoffs, the government can maintain social stability, but only at the cost of economic growth. But the lack of economic growth can itself become a potential threat to social, and ultimately political, stability.

Introduction Russia inherited a large industrial infrastructure –​working-​class cities and factory towns –​from the Soviet period. While many residents of these communities are grateful that the Putin era brought about substantial improvements from the cataclysmic 1990s, continued stability can come to be seen as stagnation. Yet reviving economic growth might entail bankruptcies and closures of unprofitable workplaces, which could generate greater dissatisfaction and even protest from a core part of Putin’s social base. Russia’s largest labour union –​a holdover from the communist era, when unions were government-​controlled –​remains largely subservient to the Kremlin. However, as a result Russia’s workers have few legally effective channels to express economic and social grievances, meaning that protests can erupt spontaneously with the potential to escalate. Hence, as this chapter will demonstrate, Russian leaders face a stark dilemma: efforts to promote stability, especially in Russia’s many working-​class communities, might lead to slower economic growth, which could in turn lead to social, and perhaps political, instability. Yet efforts to boost economic growth by restructuring Soviet-​era factories and towns could likewise create hardships, protest and instability.

320

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-32

321

Russian labour: Between stability and stagnation

To best understand this dilemma, we will first look at the Soviet legacy and the impact of the wrenching transformation of the 1990s. Then we can turn to three sets of interrelated challenges for labour in Putin-​era Russia: economic, social and political.

The Soviet labour legacy Beginning with Stalin’s rapid industrialisation drive, more than one thousand new cities were built in the early decades of the Soviet Union, the majority in the 1930s, many of which were “born and raised as Soviet-​style company towns, in the shadow of one industrial establishment or with several establishments dividing responsibility or competing for control.” These enterprises provided “housing and whatever meagre services” there were (Taubman 1973: 54). With cities built around the workplaces, the factories themselves became known as “city-​ forming enterprises” (gradoobrazuyushchie predpriyatiya), and the Soviet “coal and steel economy” was largely centred around such large enterprises. While many Soviet citizens lived in larger cities such as Moscow and Leningrad, a sizeable part of the Soviet population –​much more sizeable than in Western countries of the same era –​ continued to live in factory-​based cities and towns up until the end of the Soviet Union in 1991. Given the Soviet “shortage economy” (Kornai 1980), which included a labour shortage, factories sought to retain workers –​especially the most skilled –​by supplying items that were in short supply elsewhere, including housing and basic consumer goods. Rather than bargaining with management on behalf of workers, Soviet trade unions were seen as an arm of management and were largely responsible for distributing the goods and benefits that the workplace offered to retain workers. Given the labour shortage workers weren’t afraid of getting fired, but they tended to become dependent on the workplace to provide housing and other essential items that were in short supply elsewhere. Much was to change with the collapse of the Soviet system in 1991. Prices –​which had been essentially frozen under the old system –​suddenly skyrocketed. The labour shortage quickly disappeared and was replaced by the fear of unemployment. There was a palpable fear of a “social explosion” as outmoded Soviet technologies were faced with global competition, and factories teetered on bankruptcies alongside predictions of massive unemployment. However, despite almost unprecedented economic decline, the result wasn’t massive unemployment. Instead of a loss of jobs, wages dropped dramatically. Many workers became impoverished, but they were technically still employed. Most of the old Soviet factories somehow hung on, relying on barter and other arrangements rather than profit to remain afloat. Wages became so low that they eventually gave way to a crisis of “wage arrears” –​that is, wages went unpaid altogether. At the height of the crisis in late 1998, approximately two-​thirds of Russian workers reported overdue wages, with those affected reporting close to five months’ pay in arrears on average (Earle and Peter 2000). Robertson (2011: 153) convincingly argues that wage arrears “had become the dominant economic problem in Russia in the second half of the 1990s.” One might argue that it became a major social and political problem as well. Besides predictions of massive layoffs, there were also widespread expectations of mass protest –​the feared “social explosion.” But for the most part, workers and their families appeared to be struggling to get by rather than engaging in protest. However, protests did grow, particularly as wage arrears mounted. In 1999 unpaid coal miners blockaded the Trans-​Siberian Railway, Russia’s main transportation artery, in what became known as the “rail wars.”

321

322

Stephen Crowley

That was the same year that Vladimir Putin came to power, first as prime minister, and then, in 2000, as president. The timing was propitious for him –​a boom in oil prices boosted the Russian economy from its nadir. The wage arrears crisis soon ended, with wages rising considerably, and living standards improved overall. For a time, Putin certainly seemed to fulfil his promise of providing stability after the tumultuous 1990s. However, the oil-​fuelled economic growth obscured a number of significant challenges from view, which became more visible with the end of the boom. In his study of “Putinomics,” Chris Miller (2018: 97) concludes that there is a hierarchy of goals at work in Russia’s political economy: “first, political control; second, social stability; third, efficiency and profit.” Yet the contradictions in such a goal ranking soon become clear. Political control cannot rely indefinitely on repression and propaganda, especially if the third goal –​an efficient economy that provides some public benefit –​is not being met. Yet prioritising economic efficiency, which would almost certainly entail hardship for Russia’s industrial communities, risks undermining the second goal, and ultimately the first.

Economic challenges Although Russia avoided a “social explosion” through the 1990s, it also avoided substantial restructuring of the Soviet industrial infrastructure. Mass unemployment had been averted, but only by making wage levels extremely flexible. While they rose again with economic growth in the 2000s, workplace managers retained considerable control over how much individual workers got paid. This was in part due to the inability of trade unions to influence wage and salary levels (about which more below), but it was also because the official wage paid to workers was very low, as employers sought to avoid paying their share of wage taxes. However, another factor was the extremely low level of Russia’s minimum wage. Despite promises going back to the year 2000, Russia’s legally defined minimum wage was only recently raised to meet the officially defined “minimum subsistence wage,” below which an individual is said to be in danger of not consuming enough calories to maintain his or her body weight. Hence employers often paid workers a very low nominal wage, with supplemental pay being given as a bonus, often as cash “in the envelope” and thus free from taxation. This gave managers a tremendous amount of leverage over workers, since they can simply add or subtract the level of the bonus from an individual worker almost at will. While wages generally rose during Putin’s first years in office, they only did so relative to the extremely low levels of the previous decade. It was only in 2007 (the year before the global recession) that average wages in Russia officially exceeded those of 1991. And with that global recession Russia’s flexible wages contracted once again. Low wages, however brutal for workers, can become a country’s comparative advantage on the world market, provided that the economy is centred on the export of labour-​intensive products. However, this is simply not the case in Russia, where, outside of certain firms in the metals sector and military industry, Russian manufacturing exports are non-​competitive. Yet if wages are so low, as they have been in Russia, there is less incentive to invest in education and technology. Why spend time and money upgrading your skills when wages are so low? Why spend money on expensive machinery when you can add more workers cheaply and pay them even less when times are tough? The failure to invest sufficiently in education has contributed to a decline in Russia’s human capital, a problem that a number of leading economists and business experts conclude is “colossal” (Volkov and Kolesnikov 2021). Likewise with lagging investment in technology. The problem for Russia’s economy is that paying workers cheaply and failing to invest in education 322

323

Russian labour: Between stability and stagnation

and technology reduces productivity. As the economist Paul Krugman (1990: 11) has noted, “productivity isn’t everything, but in the long run it is almost everything. A country’s ability to improve its standard of living over time depends almost entirely on its ability to raise its output per worker.” Raising productivity would appear all the more compelling given Russia’s demographic challenge, namely the decline in its working-​age population. Yet Russian labour productivity is very low by comparative standards. According to the OECD, for every hour worked, a Russian worker contributes the equivalent of $23 to GDP, while the comparative figure for both the US and Germany is $68. Indeed, Russian labour productivity is lower than that of Chile and Turkey. Of 36 OECD comparator countries, Russia outranks only Mexico and South Africa (OECD 2017b). Besides low wages, Russia’s productivity is hindered by the many large factories inherited from the Soviet era. As of 2014, 80 percent of Russian workers employed in manufacturing were working in large enterprises (those employing 250 or more workers), by far the highest proportion of the 36 countries surveyed by the OECD. In almost all of those countries the majority of manufacturing workers were employed in small and medium-​sized firms, which tend to be much more productive (OECD 2017a). While those large factories remained afloat during the 1990s, when times were bad, they also avoided major transformation during the oil boom. Workers remained employed, but, given low productivity levels, the overall result was that Russia became stuck in what economists call a “middle-​income trap” (Doner and Schneider 2016). Thus, stability began to look like stagnation, with a significant impact on living standards. Beyond economics, all of this had social –​ and ultimately political –​implications.

Social challenges Some have argued that the best way for the Russian economy to become more productive and escape the middle-​income trap is to invest in a handful of other Russian cities, lifting them to the level of Moscow and St Petersburg, or what Natalia Zubarevich (2011) has called “first Russia.” That would seem to make sense, since a number of people have argued that “superstar cities” are the engines of growth in a global economy, as they become centres of technological change, receive a disproportionate share of capital investment, house the world’s leading-​edge companies and draw in the so-​called “creative class” (Florida 2004; Mellander et al 2014). Kremlin adviser Alexei Kudrin (2017) has adopted such arguments to propose that Russia should invest in “cities, instead of oil,” as a way to end the country’s dependence on the export of oil, gas and other commodities. The challenge, however, is that doing so would ignore what Zubarevich calls “second Russia” –​that is, its many factory towns and industrial communities in Russia’s heartland. These include over 300 cities and towns that are officially designated as “monotowns”: towns that are almost entirely dependent on a single factory or one industry, such that if the factory closes the very survival of the community is threatened (the official number of such towns may be revised downwards, with the government proposing a more restrictive definition of “monotown”). Beyond the officially recognised monotowns, there are many other cities and towns beyond Moscow and St Petersburg reliant on manufacturing and related industries for their continued wellbeing, and many of those industries struggle to remain competitive and profitable. Some observers argue that a major reason the Russian economy experiences low growth or even stagnation is that it pursues a policy of keeping the “lights on” –​that is, using subsidies and other means to keep factories open even when it makes little economic sense to do so (Gaddy 323

324

Stephen Crowley

and Ickes 2013). The World Bank (2011: 82) has urged the Russian government to take a different approach: “to become a dynamic economy, Russia will have to be more flexible –​to constantly move human resources and productive capital from low-​value to high-​value opportunities. This usually entails shifts of labour and capital from declining regions to expanding regions.” In other words, Russia should encourage workers and their families to move from rust-​belt regions to more vibrant cities. The economic logic behind such recommendations is hard to deny. In the long run it may be true, as commentator Leonid Bershidsky (2019) argues, that “the Grim Reaper is coming for the once-​bustling little towns where people had moved from the villages. In a country with too much space and too few people, much of [Russia’s] territory is doomed to be a huge flyover zone.” Yet the evidence suggests that many Russians do not rely on economic logic alone in choosing where to live. Even given economic hardship, and even when offered monetary incentives to relocate, many Russians prefer to remain in their communities (even beyond the Arctic Circle) where they have long-​established friendships and other ties (Bolotova et al 2017). As Jeremy Morris (2016) has described it, many in Russia’s monotowns find ways to make their struggling communities “habitable.” When pushed to relocate, even if they do not openly protest –​about which more below –​they can engage in what Sam Greene (2018) has termed “aggressive immobility.” Hence, unless the process of relocating families from declining areas to more vibrant cities happens very gradually –​a pace that would likely undercut the goal of economic growth –​ attempts to uproot people from places they call home will almost certainly be resisted. Beyond economic and social concerns, this has significant political implications. As another observer has noted, “voters in the Russian rustbelt form the bedrock of political support for the regime, which fears the anger that would follow from aggressive enterprise closure” (Hedlund 2014).

Political challenges In the post-​communist period, Russia’s main labour federation –​the FNPR –​became what some have termed a “legacy union” –​that is, a union largely shaped by its past as an integral part of an authoritarian regime (Caraway et al 2015). While no longer controlled by the Communist Party, the FNPR is now closely allied with United Russia, the Kremlin-​backed party that dominates the Russian Duma. As in the past, most FNPR unions act less as advocates of workers than as managers of them. While union membership has dropped from the once-​compulsory membership of the Soviet period, one-​quarter of those employed in Russia are union members, and about half of all those working in large and medium enterprises belong to unions (almost all of those affiliated with the FNPR) (Gimpelson et al 2017: 22). At one point, the federation head Mikhail Shmakov (2001) could claim that the FNPR remains “the biggest non-​governmental association in the Russian Federation.” Yet the membership ties remain quite weak. The low wages of Russian workers are a vivid illustration of the ineffectual nature of Russia’s unions. In a finding that is troubling not only for unions but for Russia’s civil society generally, public opinion surveys have repeatedly found that labour unions are among the least-​trusted social institutions in the country. As late as 2021, an independent poll by the Levada Center found that, when respondents were asked which institutions deserve trust, labour unions were ranked third from the bottom out of 19 political and social institutions, above only “large Russian businesses” and “political parties.” There are newer, alternative unions in Russia, and they tend to be fairly militant and inclined to protest (and are often formed as a result of a labour conflict). But they are small in number 324

325

Russian labour: Between stability and stagnation

and, not surprisingly given Russia’s political climate, sharply constricted by law and often harshly repressed. Those that have received solidarity support from unions abroad are typically labelled “foreign agents.” One legacy from the past that might seem to benefit workers is in the area of employment protection laws: according to the OECD (2018), Russia is second only to Portugal in terms of its strictness of employment protection laws regarding individual dismissals. Yet one study finds that a major problem facing Russian industrial relations is “the legal nihilism of employers, who often ignore the provisions of the Labor Code and collective agreements” (Kalashnikov and Shrov 2017). Indeed, in terms of rule of law, in 2017 the World Bank claimed that Russia ranked below Brazil, Mexico and Ukraine, and just above Belarus (World Bank 2018). However, one area where the rule of law clearly impacted workers regarded strikes (there were no laws regarding strikes in the Soviet era, since strikes simply were not recognised). Hence, in defending their interests, workers are not only constrained by ineffectual or repressed unions, but also by legal restrictions that make lawful strikes extremely difficult to carry out. Engaging in unauthorised work stoppages can be grounds for dismissal. Since only legal strikes are formally recognised, this can create misleading official statistics. For instance, during the depth of Russia’s economic crisis in 2009, the statistical agency Rosstat claimed that only one strike took place the entire year. Yet Russian observers record much larger numbers of labour protests, ranging from 250–​450 per year (“Monitoring trudovykh protestov” n.d.). Those protests can take a variety of forms: beyond work stoppages (whether legally recognised or not) they can include petitions, marches and demonstrations, work slowdowns and, in extreme cases, hunger strikes, public self-​mutilation and threats of suicide. While the latter cases are few in number (though much greater during the wage arrears crisis in the late 1990s), they illuminate the lack of effective institutional mechanisms for resolving economic and social problems in Russia’s workplaces. Indeed, while the Putin regime has seemingly reduced the threat of labour protest by either restricting unions or making them compliant and significantly reducing the scope for lawful strikes, the labour protests that do break out are often uncontrolled events. Most such protests are spontaneous and “wildcat” –​that is, they take place without any union participation at all (FNPR unions often become involved later, to try to “dampen” the conflict). As such, they are often acts of desperation, when workers can find no other way out, as the extreme acts of protest vividly illustrate. This points to another rather unique feature of Russian labour protest. At least in advanced capitalist countries, strikes tend to happen when economic conditions are good, when the labour market is “tight” and when workers have greater opportunity to find work elsewhere. In Russia the reverse is true: labour protest typically happens when economic conditions are poor and wages decline or even go unpaid (Crowley and Olimpieva 2018). Once again, we see a connection between the state of the economy and social, and ultimately political, stability. While the oil boom spurred considerable growth from 1999 for close to a decade, the global crisis of 2008 once again raised fears of social unrest in Russia. Suddenly there were concerns about the forgotten monotowns and how they might be impacted by the economic turbulence. In November 2008, the economist Evgenii Gontmakher (2008) caused a sensation when he published an article in the newspaper Vedomosti about the potential for social unrest in monotowns, provocatively titled “Novocherkassk, 2009!” Novocherkassk was the name of a town in southern Russia where, in 1962, twenty-​five workers protesting price increases were shot and killed by Soviet authorities, with another seven later executed and many more injured and imprisoned. Well into the post-​communist era, Novocherkassk remains synonymous with spontaneous labour uprising and state repression in Russia (a feature film portraying the events, 325

326

Stephen Crowley

entitled Dear Comrades, was released in 2020). In fact, in February 2008, just months before Gontmakher’s article appeared, President Putin had visited Novocherkassk and laid flowers at a memorial to the workers killed. The article sketched out a hypothetical scenario where a labour protest in a single monotown quickly spread, leading to unrest and violence all the way to Moscow. Soon thereafter Russia’s Federal Mass Media Inspection Service warned Vedomosti’s editor-​in-​chief that the article “could be considered an attempt to incite extremist activities” and thus in potential violation of Russia’s antiterrorism law. Just five months later, in May 2009, protests erupted in Pikalevo, a monotown in Leningrad Oblast. The town’s three factories had shut down, with one-​fifth of the city’s population laid off, and many workers were owed back wages. Without revenue, the town was in debt for its gas bill and the town’s heating plant was shut down, depriving the city’s residents of hot water. In response, residents stormed the mayor’s office and then blockaded a major highway, creating a four-​hundred-​kilometre traffic jam and making the conflict difficult to ignore. Putin, then prime minister, soon arrived in the town by helicopter to personally intervene in the crisis, in large part by dressing down oligarch factory owner Oleg Deripaska. In an act of ritual humiliation shown on all the national television channels, Putin compelled Deripaska to sign a document promising that the town’s factories would resume operation, in a scene that became known as the “bending of an oligarch.” With a scathing look, Putin asked, “Oleg Vladimirovich, did you sign this? I don’t see your signature.” Once the disgraced Deripaska had signed the document, Putin gruffly demanded his pen back. Much of this was staged: as one source put it, a “solution had already been negotiated the day before Putin’s dramatic visit to the town, one which was in fact generous to Deripaska” (Fortescue 2012: 280). Yet for television viewers, the scene was a dramatic example of Putin acting as the nation’s alpha male, defending Russia’s working families against thieving oligarchs. While Russia’s economy bounced back following the downturn of 2008–​ 9, Putin appeared to rely on working-​class support when faced with a different challenge: mass protests erupted in 2011 and 2012 over charges of election fraud, with protesters demanding a “Russia without Putin!” The protests were said to be driven by the “creative class” –​educated professionals in Russia’s largest urban centres, especially Moscow and St Petersburg, that is, in “first Russia.” When the protests were underway, in December 2011, Igor Kholmanskikh, a factory foreman at the Uralvagonzavod in Nizhny Tagil, addressed Putin directly during one of the president’s annual “direct line” call-​in shows. Standing on the factory floor surrounded by his fellow workers and referring to the protests, Kholmanskikh told Putin that “if the militia … can’t handle it, then me and the guys [muzhiki] are ready to come out and defend stability.” Putin’s administration played up this event considerably, with Putin later appointing Kholmanskikh, despite his lack of relevant credentials, as the presidential representative for the Urals Federal Region, a human symbol of Putin’s working-​class support (Itar-​Tass 2012). Following this, some commentators argued that Putin survived the protests of liberals in Moscow by pitting “rural and Rust Belt Russia against urban and modernizing Russia” (Krastev and Holmes 2012). Yet there are reasons to question the basis and durability of working-​class support for Putin. For example, Kholmanskikh preceded the publicised portion of his 2011 remarks to Putin with these words: “Mr. Putin, you visited our plant in hard times and helped us … Today, thousands of people at our plant have work, get paid for their work and have a good outlook for the future. This stability is important to us. We don’t want to return to the past” (as cited in Guillory 2017). Since that time, however, Russia’s economy has grown rather slowly, and real disposable incomes were 10 percent lower in 2021 than they were in 2013. Even worse for Kholmanskikh 326

327

Russian labour: Between stability and stagnation

and his fellow workers, by 2015 –​just 4 years after his remarks –​Uralvagonzavod was on the verge of bankruptcy (Novaya gazeta 2016). Given this economic stagnation, might workers and others in the country’s hinterlands join with the educated professionals in Russia’s major cities in demanding a “Russia without Putin”? While that would appear quite unlikely, not least given Putin’s apparent popularity, the Kremlin quite clearly fears that such an outcome might lead to a “colour revolution.” In an effort to prevent that from happening in Russia, the leadership seeks to keep society divided, in part by maintaining a bulwark between protests centred around social and economic grievances, which are met with a degree of tolerance, and protests with explicitly political demands, which are harshly repressed. Yet in practice, protests with social and economic grievances can become quickly politicised, especially when, as in Russia, the government controls (directly or indirectly) much of the country’s economic activity. Still, a wide gulf separates Russia’s urban centres from the country’s extensive hinterland, and the different social classes and life chances those regions represent. The Kremlin seeks to exploit that division, as the Kholmanskikh episode demonstrated. An illustrative example of both those phenomena –​the rapid politicisation of economic grievances and the divisions between social classes –​came in 2015, when truck drivers throughout Russia united in protest against what they viewed as an illegitimate road tax. Reflecting their initial respect for Putin, the truckers first pleaded (in an echo of the old Russian saying “if only the Tsar knew”) “President, help us!” That led some academic accounts to dismiss the “failed politicization” of the truckers’ protests (Østbø 2017). Some Russian intellectuals were harsher. The journalist and commentator Arkady Babchenko (2018) noted, on the blog of opposition leader (and former chess champion) Garry Kasparov, that Russian liberals “do not comprehend their own people.” He then added bitterly, “when will you finally understand, my dear caring idealistic liberal friends,” that there will be no revolution because “the people” care only about small localised problems such as trucker taxes and garbage dumps and otherwise support Putin wholeheartedly, which he compared to popular support for Hitler in Nazi Germany. While Babchenko’s comments might appear extreme, other prominent liberal commentators repeatedly refer to average Russians as passive and unthinking “cattle,” as if they themselves are responsible for keeping Putin in power (as discussed in Morris 2021). Yet when faced with repression and silence about their plight on state-​controlled media, the truckers quickly became radicalised, forming their own independent union. For a time at least they explicitly disavowed politics, claiming they distrusted the political system and political parties of every stripe. Within months, however, the truckers bridged the gap from economic grievances to political protest, calling for a general strike while demanding the government resign, and advancing their own leader to run as a presidential candidate against Putin (he was stymied and dealt with severely). Arguably, a central reason that the Kremlin found Aleksei Navalny so threatening is that, by exposing and denouncing egregious levels of corruption, his protest movement promised to unite not only latte drinkers in major cities demanding greater freedoms but also those preferring stronger drink in rust-​belt towns concerned with declining wages. As one trucker put it while addressing a Navalny-​inspired protest, Russia’s pot-​holed roads (the purported reason for the truck tax) were being ruined by yachts, not trucks. The prospect that such disparate groups would unite in protest might appear far-​fetched, yet precisely that happened in 2020 in neighbouring Belarus. There, protesters demanding President Lukashenka step down after a clearly stolen election were soon joined by workers in factories and workplaces across the country. In a tangible message that they were seeking to 327

328

Stephen Crowley

break through the class stereotypes of industrial workers, some marched with a large banner that read: “We are not sheep, not cattle, not ‘little people.’ We are the workers of the Minsk Tractor Factory, and we are not 20 people, we are 16,000” (Aris 2020). There and elsewhere, workers marching in uniform out of factory gates were cheered by fellow protesters. Lukashenka himself went to a factory to appeal to the workers –​long seen as his core supporters –​complaining that their protests were to him like a “stab in the back” (udar v spinu). They responded with boos and cat calls (Kolesnikov 2020).

Russia’s labour dilemma Beyond their numbers –​such as the 16,000 in a single factory –​protests by workers pose some particular challenges for leaders like Lukashenka and Putin. Both leaders have portrayed workers as their core supporters, and workers expressing overt dissatisfaction could quickly bring the leader’s political legitimacy into question. Protesting workers can shut down factories and other workplaces, creating economic costs in a way that is more difficult for students and other social groups to do. Further still, protesting workers can create a dilemma for the security services, the police and militia: it’s one thing to be told to use your truncheon against some college-​educated types infected by Western ideals; it’s another to be ordered to do so against factory workers, who are likely to come from the same social milieu as the police. (Given the widespread nature of the 2020 protests, without the firm backing of Russia Lukashenka would quite likely have been chased from office.) To be sure, there is little evidence of such a coalition –​between Russia’s working class, often found in industrial communities in the country’s widespread regions, and educated liberals in the major cities –​forming in Russia. The social, as well as geographic, distance between these groups remains vast. For that to change, liberal opposition leaders would need to avoid patronising language and speak in a way that resonates across class and social divides (something that opposition leader Navalny perfected). Further, large segments of the population, including workers and others, remain concerned that opposition leaders calling for a “Russia without Putin” might bring about a rerun of the 1990s, which many vividly remember as a time of social chaos and economic dislocation. The Putin leadership has consistently stoked such fears, contrasting such a scenario with its own promise of stability (Sharafutdinova 2019). However, while there are few signs of a looming cross-​class coalition that could lead a Russian colour revolution, a continued reliance on the promise of stability has begun to create its own problems. This is especially true since living standards have been stagnating for some time now. The economic challenge is clear: how does Russia increase its labour productivity and escape from the “middle-​income trap”? Some have suggested paths for doing so, such as closing down unprofitable workplaces and shifting workers and their families to more thriving metropolises. Yet doing so would almost certainly create a social conflict, as Russians in many rust-​belt and rural communities have shown their unwillingness to accept such changes. Ultimately it could well become a political conflict, leading to open protest from the regime’s purported core supporters. Russia’s leadership has made clear that it seeks by all means to prevent such protest. Hence, one might predict a policy of muddling through –​that is, avoiding major disruptions to the country’s social fabric, which major economic restructuring would almost certainly entail. Yet maintaining the status quo will likely create its own set of challenges, since, given sluggish improvements in the living standards of most Russians, stability can begin to look like stagnation and might become its own source of social and even political unrest.

328

329

Russian labour: Between stability and stagnation

References Aris, B. (2020), “An ‘Italian Strike’ Is Hobbling Production at Belarus’ Biggest Companies”, 21 September, www.inte​llin​ews.com/​an-​ital​ian-​str​ike-​is-​hobbl​ing-​pro​duct​ion-​at-​bela​r us-​bigg​est-​compan​ies-​ 192​290/​. Babchenko, A. (2018), “Zdes’ budet tol’ko bunt”, Kasparov.ru, 25 March, www.kaspa​rov.ru/​mater​ial. php?id=​5AB76B​F41B​808. Bershidsky, L. (2019), “Putin Turns Swathes of Russia into Flyover Country”, Bloomberg, 7 March, www. bloomb​erg.com/​opin​ion/​artic​les/​2019-​03-​07/​putin-​s-​deve​lopm​ent-​plan-​picks-​favori​tes-​among-​russ​ ian-​regi​ons. Bolotova, A., A. Karaseva and V. Vasilyeva (2017), “Mobility and Sense of Place among Youth in the Russian Arctic”, Sibirica 16, 3: 77–​124, https://​doi.org/​10.3167/​sib.2017.160​305. Caraway, T.L., M.L. Cook and S. Crowley (eds.) (2015), Working through the Past: Labor and Authoritarian Legacies in Comparative Perspective (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Crowley, S. and I. Olimpieva (2018), “Labor Protests and Their Consequences in Putin’s Russia”, Problems of Post-​Communism 65, 5: 344–​58. Doner, R.F. and B.R. Schneider (2016), “The Middle-​Income Trap. More Politics than Economics”, World Politics 68, 4: 608–​44. Earle, J.S. and K.S. Peter (2000), “Equilibrium Wage Arrears: A Theoretical and Empirical Analysis of Institutional Lock-​In”, SSRN eLibrary, September, http://​pap​ers.ssrn.com/​sol3/​pap​ers.cfm?abst​ract​ _​id=​251​999. Florida, R.L. (2004), The Rise of the Creative Class: And How It’s Transforming Work, Leisure, Community and Everyday Life (New York: Basic Books). Fortescue, S. (2012), “The Russian Economy and Business–​Government Relations”, in G. Gill and J. Young (eds.), Routledge Handbook of Russian Politics and Society (New York: Routledge). Gaddy, C. and B.W. Ickes (2013), Bear Traps on Russia’s Road to Modernization (London: Routledge). Gimpelson, V., R. Kapeliushnikov and S.Yu. Roshchin (eds.) (2017), Rossiiskii rynok truda: tendentsii, instituty, strukturnye izmeneniya (Moscow: Tsentr trudovykh issledovanii National Research University-​ Higher School of Economics). Gontmakher, E. (2008), “Stsenarii: Novocherkassk-​2009”, Vedomosti, 6 November. Greene, S.A. (2018), “Running to Stand Still: Aggressive Immobility and the Limits of Power in Russia”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 34, 5: 333–​47. Guillory, S. (2017), “Whatever Happened to ‘Russia without Putin’?” New Eastern Europe, No. 1, www. newea​ster​neur​ope.eu/​artic​les-​and-​com​ment​ary/​2235-​whate​ver-​happe​ned-​to-​rus​sia-​with​out-​putin. Hedlund, S. (2014), “Russia’s Monotowns –​Evidence of an Increasingly Obsolete Economy”, World Review (blog), 4 February. ITAR-​TASS (2012), “President Appoints Railway Car Building Plant’s Workshop Manager Presidential Envoy in Urals”, 21 May, http://​en.itar-​tass.com/​russi​anpr​ess/​675​842. Kalashnikov, K.N. and V.V. Shrov (2017), “Trudovye otnosheniya v Rossii: mezhdu partnerstvom i konfrontatsiei”, Sotsiologicheskie issledovaniya 4: 73–​81. Kolesnikov, A. (2020), “Dilemma diktatorov: pochemu Lukashenko ne ukhodit”, Carnegie Moscow Center, 21 August, https://​carne​gie.ru/​com​ment​ary/​82543. Kornai, J. (1980), Economics of Shortage (Amsterdam: North-​Holland Pub. Co.). Krastev, I. and S. Holmes (2012), “An Autopsy of Managed Democracy”, Journal of Democracy 23, 3: 33–​45. Krugman, P.R. (1990), The Age of Diminished Expectations: U.S. Economic Policy in the 1990s (Cambridge [Mass]: MIT Press). Kudrin, A. (2017), “Goroda vmesto nefti”, Vedomosti, 20 July. Mellander, C., R.L. Florida, B.T. Asheim, M.S. Gertler and Regional Studies Association (eds.) (2014), The Creative Class Goes Global. Regions and Cities 69 (London: Routledge). Miller, C. (2018), Putinomics: Power and Money in Resurgent Russia (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press). “Monitoring trudovykh protestov.” (n.d.), www.trud​prot​est.org. Morris, J. (2016), Everyday Post-​Socialism: Working-​Class Communities in the Russian Margins (Cham: Springer). Morris, J. (2021), “Laying Homo Sovieticus to Rest, Part I: Who Are You Calling Bydlo?” Postsocialism (blog), 6 August, https://​postso​cial​ism.org/​2021/​08/​06/​lay​ing-​homo-​sov​ieti​cus-​to-​rest-​part-​1-​who-​ are-​you-​call​ing-​bydlo/​.

329

330

Stephen Crowley Novaya gazeta (2016), “Al’fa-​bank podal v Arbitrazhnyi sud Sverdlovskoi oblasti zayavlenie o priznanii bankrotom ‘Uralvagonzavod’”, 10 June, www.novay​agaz​eta.ru/​news/​2016/​06/​10/​122​397-​alfa-​bank-​ popro​sil-​priz​nat-​ura​lvag​onza​vod-​bankro​tom. OECD (2017a), “Entrepreneurship at a Glance 2017”, www.oecd-​ilibr​ary.org/​cont​ent/​publ​icat​ion/​entre​ pren​eur_​aag-​2017-​en. OECD (2017b), “Level of GDP per Capita and Productivity”, 8 May, https://​stats.oecd.org/​index. aspx?Data​SetC​ode=​PDB​_​LV. OECD (2018), “Strictness of Employment Protection –​Individual Dismissals”, OECD Statistics, https://​ sta​tds.oecd.org/​. Østbø, J. (2017), “Between Opportunist Revolutionaries and Mediating Spoilers: Failed Politicization of the Russian Truck Drivers’ Protest, 2015–​ 2016”, Demokratizatsiya: The Journal of Post-​ Soviet Democratization 25, 3: 279–​303. Robertson, G.B. (2011), The Politics of Protest in Hybrid Regimes: Managing Dissent in Post-​Communist Russia (New York: Cambridge University Press). Sharafutdinova, G. (2019), “Russia’s Struggle Over the Meaning of the 1990s and the Keys to Kremlin Power”, PonarsEuarasia –​Policy Memos, May, www.ponars​eura​sia.org/​memo/​russ​ias-​strug​gle-​over-​ mean​ing-​1990s-​and-​keys-​krem​lin-​power. Shmakov, M. (2001), “Press Conference with Independent Trade Unions Federation Chairman Mikhail Shmakov”, Federal News Service, 3 December. Taubman, W. (1973), Governing Soviet Cities; Bureaucratic Politics and Urban Development in the USSR (New York: Praeger). Volkov, D. and A. Kolesnikov (2021), “The Coming Deluge: Russia’s Looming Lost Decade of Unpaid Bills and Economic Stagnation”, Carnegie Moscow Center, 24 November, https://​car​negi​emos​cow. org/​2021/​11/​24/​com​ing-​del​uge-​r us​sia-​s-​loom​ing-​lost-​dec​ade-​of-​unp​aid-​bills-​and-​econo​mic-​sta​ gnat​ion-​pub-​85852. World Bank (2011), Russia: Reshaping Economic Geography (Washington D.C: World Bank). World Bank (2018), “Rule of Law: Percentile Rank”, Worldwide Governance Indicators Databank, https://​datab​ank.worldb​ank.org/​sou​rce/​worldw​ide-​gov​erna​nce-​ind​icat​ors. Zubarevich, N. (2011), “Chetyre Rossii”, Vedomosti.ru, 30 December, www.vedomo​sti.ru/​opin​ion/​ news/​1467​059/​che​tyre​_​ros​sii.

330

331

29 GENDER IN RUSSIA State policy and lived reality Sarah Ashwin

Gender is widely deployed in state legitimation strategies. A textbook example of the use of gender to consolidate state power is provided by the Soviet state, which constructed a distinctive gender order (comprising schemas –​or norms –​and resources, both legal and material). Russian Federation President Vladimir Putin has likewise developed a gendered legitimation strategy, partly echoing, partly repudiating Soviet gender schemas. This chapter examines the development of state approaches to gender before examining their impact on everyday gender relations in the labour market and household.

Gender and state policy While the content of state gender policy has shifted over time, the form has come full circle with the Soviet state’s explicit use of gender to consolidate state power replicated in Putin’s “weaponisation” of gender since 2012. This section provides an overview of the form and content of state policy in relation to gender beginning with the Soviet background, which is essential to understanding gender relations in contemporary Russia. The transformation of gender relations was a crucial element of the programme of the Bolshevik revolutionaries who seized power in 1917. The patriarchal peasant household was viewed as a bulwark of the Tsarist regime, which the emancipation of women through means such as the institution of civil marriage and free divorce would undermine. As Lenin put it, “the success of a revolution depends on how much the women take part in it” ([1918] 1984: 60). Accordingly, women were to be “liberated” from the patriarchal household in order to enable them to serve the state as workers alongside men. But women’s status as workers was always qualified by the idea that they should perform a demographic duty to the state as mothers (Issoupova 2000). Women were thus to be drawn into the new polity through involvement in productive labour, rather than the “barbarously unproductive, petty, nerve-​ wracking, stultifying and crushing drudgery” of the “kitchen and nursery” (Lenin [1919] 1984: 64). Yet neither the Bolsheviks nor their successors challenged the idea of domestic work as inalienably feminine (Ashwin 2000: 11–​12). Rather, it was supposed to be brought into the public sphere, where women would be paid by the state to perform it (Lenin [1919] 1965). This aspiration, however, was only realised to some extent in the realm of childcare, so throughout the Soviet period DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-33

331

332

Sarah Ashwin

women retained responsibility for household management, as well as filling the gaps left by public childcare. Therefore, despite the changes brought by Soviet power, the gender hierarchy inherited from the past was preserved: the acceptance of supposedly natural sexual difference on the part of the new communist elite informed both what was expected of women as wives and mothers and the terms on which they were integrated into the labour force –​as second-​class workers (Katz 2001). Men’s duty to the Soviet state lay in the public sphere, where they were to serve as workers, managers or members of the military. In contrast to the glorification of mothers, there was a notable silence on the part of the regime regarding the role of men as fathers (Issoupova 2000; Kukhterin 2000), while men were not encouraged to immerse themselves in the politically suspect life of the private household. At a popular level, men’s lack of domestic involvement was implicitly justified by their role as “breadwinners”, the preservation of the male breadwinner ideal having been facilitated by the fact that men continued to earn significantly more than women (Kiblitskaya 2000a). The notion of what constituted a breadwinner was simply shifted from that of sole earner to primary (highest) earner (Kozina 2000). These prescriptions resulted in a distinctive gender order that has had a lasting impact on gender relations and gender identities in post-​Soviet Russia. First, Soviet gender relations were unbalanced. In addition to working full-​time,1 women were expected to take primary responsibility for domestic and caring labour. An earlier generation of scholars referred to this as women’s “double burden” (Lapidus 1978: 277), whereas this is now more accurately referred to as women’s “triple” load (Ukhova 2021). The corollary of women’s overload was men’s domestic marginalisation, their role as breadwinners constituting their main link to the family (Ashwin and Lytkina 2004). As Anna Rotkirch put it, “the frailty of men’s presence and position in the family has been a constant ingredient in the everyday knowledge of the Soviet people” (2000: 111). Thus, although apparently benefiting men, the Soviet gender division of domestic labour undermined men’s position in the household, while also leading to endemic marital conflict. Despite these negative outcomes, the available evidence –​Soviet-​era interviews (Hansson and Liden 1983), research (reviewed in Lapidus 1978), and retrospective interviews conducted in the post-​Soviet era (e.g. Kiblitskaya 2000a, 2000b; Kukhterin 2000) –​suggests that Soviet gender ideologies matched the official gender order. This is intriguing from a sociological perspective, since women’s employment is widely held to facilitate more egalitarian gender ideologies and relations (see Ridgeway 2011 for an overview). But in the Soviet Russian case, women’s integration into employment was not matched by men taking on a greater share of domestic labour (Lapidus 1978), nor by an implicit demand for them to do so in the form of women embracing egalitarian gender ideologies. Janet Chafetz argues that women need access to “gender-​conscious” schemas such as those provided by feminism to utilise the micro power they potentially gain from employment (1990: 173–​92). In line with this, it seems that in the Soviet era the lack of a free press and opportunities to form independent organisations such as women’s groups (Browning 1987) were a potent brake on the development of gender egalitarianism in Russia (Ashwin and Isupova 2018).

Gender in post-​Soviet Russia The collapse of the Soviet system did not lead to a coherent repudiation of the Soviet gender order. Mikhail Gorbachev famously suggested that women might return to their “purely womanly mission” in the home (Gorbachev 1987: 177) and worried about the costs of “emancipation”. This theme was echoed by the Russian labour minister in 1993, Gennadi Melikyan, 332

333

Gender in Russia: State policy and lived reality

who, when asked about measures to combat female unemployment, replied, “Why should we employ women when men are out of work? It’s better that men work and women take care of the children and do housework. I don’t think women should work when men are doing nothing” (quoted in Morvant 1995: 5). While such preferences may have been widely shared among the new political elite, no systematic policy was pursued to this end. Indeed, the dramatic fall in living standards caused by “shock therapy” meant that women’s contribution to household income became more necessary than ever (Burawoy et al 2000). Indeed, it is difficult to overestimate the impact of the economic collapse of the 1990s on Russian politics and society, including gender relations. The “shock therapy” programme, which was supposed to deliver Russia a functioning market economy, supplied only shock and no therapy. Russia underwent the “deepest and most sustained recession in world history” during the 1990s (Clarke 1999: 1). In mid-​1998 statistical real wages were a little over half their 1985 level (Clarke 1999: 120), while rising inequality and endemic wage delays meant that, for many, the decline in living standards was much greater than this. Unemployment was lower than many other post-​communist economies, rising to a peak of 13.2 percent in 1998 (Goskomstat 2003: 130). But comparatively low unemployment merely reflected the fact that labour was so cheap and flexible that enterprises had little reason to shed staff,2 instead routinely resorting to late payment of wages, short time and enforced leave. As will be shown below, this economic devastation had profound social and gendered consequences. The social trauma also had political consequences, with President Putin adeptly exploiting feelings of loss to fuel a revanchist politics including a deeply conservative gender turn. For working mothers, state policy in the 1990s was largely experienced as abandonment (Rivkin-​Fish 2010). As Issoupova argues, the popular understanding in this period was “only you need your child” (2000: 39). Although the state continued to provide family support, and even expanded the existing categories of assistance, the value of the payments did not keep up with inflation and amounted to less than 5 percent of the (low) average wage (Rivkin-​Fish 2010: 710). Single mothers experienced the fall in the value of benefits particularly acutely, resulting in what Svetlana Yaroshenko and Tat’yana Lytkina (2021) refer to as a “recommodification” of single mothers’ labour –​meaning that working class single mothers are pushed into exploitative working conditions because they lack alternative sources of income such as benefits. In terms of childcare, kindergartens, which prior to privatisation had been provided by state enterprises, were supposed to be transferred to local authorities. The latter often did not have the resources to keep them open or fund them properly, which meant a decline in the availability of places and an increase in cost to parents, sometimes combined with a reduction in the quality of care (Teplova 2007: 292). The impact of the economic crisis on men was equally devastating. While women’s domestic management assumed greater importance as incomes shrank (Burawoy et al 2000), many men found it increasingly difficult to uphold their status as breadwinners (Ashwin and Lytkina 2004). Research reveals high levels of anxiety about this among men, both regarding their position in established families and their ability to form a family in the absence of a “material base” (Ashwin 2006: 37–​43; Kay 2006: 78–​9; Kiblitskaya 2000a). A key symptom of the social stress experienced by men was a collapse in male life expectancy “unprecedented in peacetime in any country with complete death registration” (Leon et al 2009: 1630). Male life expectancy plummeted in the 1990s, declining from 64.2 in 1989 (Goskomstat 2002: 105) to a low of 57.5 in 1994. It then recovered to 61.3 in 1998, only to fall back to 58.4 in 2002 (Goskomstat 2003: 117). Since 2005, however, it has climbed steadily, standing at 68 in 2019 (World Bank n.d.-​a). Meanwhile, female life expectancy remained more constant, declining from 74.4 in 1989 (Goskomstat 2002: 105) to a nadir of 71.1 in 1994, followed by a stabilisation at over 72 333

334

Sarah Ashwin

between 1996–​2002 (Goskomstat 2003: 117). In 2019 it had reached 78 (World Bank n.d.-​ b), still a decade more than that enjoyed by men. The declines in male life expectancy were mainly accounted for by the premature deaths of working-​age men –​mortality in infancy and childhood, as well as old age, remained relatively stable –​and were strongly related to alcohol consumption (Leon et al 2009). Susannah Tomkins and colleagues (2007) found a strong association between unemployment and low levels of household wealth and amenities and hazardous drinking in Russian men, arguing that “men struggling economically are driven to alcoholism, and eventually end up consuming surrogates” because they cannot afford spirits. Economic devastation thus occasioned mass “deaths of despair” (Case and Deaton 2020) predominantly among Russian men. The symbolic losses were equally great. The destruction of the Soviet Union was compounded by the economic and geopolitical humiliation of Russia in the 1990s, as evidenced, for example, by the military defeat in Chechnya 1994–​6. Since masculinity was “socialised and embodied in the Soviet state” (Ashwin 2000: 1), this fall in national status was experienced as “demasculinization” (Riabov and Riabova 2014). National and individual shame at the loss of dominance provided a seedbed for what Riabov and Riabova (2014) have termed Putin’s politics of “remasculinization”. Remasculinisation did not begin in earnest until Putin’s third term in office beginning in 2012. In the 2000s, Putin appeared to revert to Soviet themes with his 2006 policy of “maternity capital” (Rotkirch et al 2007). Explicitly designed to increase the birth rate by providing “support [to] women who decide to have a second child” (Putin 2006), this policy echoed Soviet pronatalism. With effect from 1 January 2007, women giving birth to a second or third child were entitled to “maternity capital” worth approximately $10,000, indexed to inflation, when the child reached the age of three. The money is not given in cash, but as a voucher usable for three purposes: the purchase or improvement of housing, the child’s education costs or the augmentation of the mother’s pension fund (Rivkin-​Fish 2010). In the same speech, Putin also announced substantial increases in monthly allowances for family members who care for children; increases in the government contribution to childcare for pre-​school children; an increase in the value of childbirth certificates used to pay for care at pregnancy and maternity units; and measures to encourage foster-​parenting of orphans (Putin 2006). The return to Soviet gender politics was evident in several features of the speech. First, the speech explicitly endorsed the Soviet model of working motherhood with its emphasis on “getting women back into the workforce again” after maternity leave (Putin 2006: 387). Second, fathers were “glaringly absent” from the address, as they were from Soviet-​era public discourse (Rotkirch et al 2007: 352). Third, Putin offered women compensation for “the losses he assumed they must inevitably incur” as a result of their maternal role (Rivkin-​Fish 2010: 716). Thus, while Putin lamented the “dependent and even frankly degraded position in the family” of non-​working mothers caring for their second child (2006: 388), he did not question the existing gender division of labour responsible for this “degradation”. From 2012 Putin began what has been variously referred to as “remasculinization” (Riabov and Riabova 2014), a “biopolitical turn” (Makarychev and Medvedev 2015) or “morality politics” (Sharafutdinova 2014), although Elizabeth Wood (2016) notes that “hypermasculinity” had been part of Putin’s image since the start of his presidency. Putin’s use of this strategy intensified as economic challenges and street protests threatened his popularity in 2011–​12. The “punk prayer” of the feminist opposition group Pussy Riot, performed in the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour in February 2012, provided a convenient means of mobilising a “moral majority” to shore up his support (Sharafutdinova 2014). Pussy Riot were convicted at a “show trial”, the verdict of which asserted that feminism was incompatible with the religious basis of 334

335

Gender in Russia: State policy and lived reality

social relations in Russia (Sharafutdinova 2014: 216–​17). Thereafter, the regime, in alliance with the Orthodox Church, began constructing opponents as alien “others”, using gender traditionalism as a signifier of Russianness. Thus, like the Soviet regime, Putin mobilised gender in the service of state power (Ashwin and Utrata 2020), deploying it as a key plank in his legitimation strategy (Sperling 2014). The politicisation of gender has had a legislative impact, for example in the law banning gay “propaganda” in 2013. The Russian government also notoriously decriminalised domestic abuse in 2017, pushed on by the conservative forces allied with the Orthodox Church (Johnson 2017). Abortion, which was accepted as a routine form of contraception in the late Soviet era, is also increasingly contested by conservative forces. Abortion rights were restricted in 2011, and attempts to further limit abortion rights may be on the agenda. A government paper in September 2021 proclaimed the aim of halving abortions by 2025, through measures such as access to legal, psychological and medical assistance for pregnant women considering terminating their pregnancies (RFE/​RL 2021). This accords with Putin’s declared priority for his fourth presidential term of ensuring stable population growth (Luxmoore 2019), an aim he reiterated in his state-​of-​the-​nation address in January 2020 when he proclaimed, “The preservation and growth of our nation is the highest national priority” (RFE/​RL 2021). Thus, while the religious overtones of current policies are a break from the past, the notion of motherhood as a duty to the state (Issoupova 2000) echoes Soviet policy. State hostility to alien “Western” feminism is also longstanding, but the often vociferous public defence of patriarchal privilege engaged in by Putin allies represents a break with the official celebration of gender equality supposedly enjoyed in the Soviet Union.

Gender in the labour market To what degree is remasculinisation reflected in the gender ideologies and relations of Russian men and women? Scholars have debated whether Russia has seen a rise in so-​called neo-​ traditional gender ideology. The evidence on this is mixed, with strong support for women’s employment limiting the extent of remasculinisation in everyday life. To begin with employment, despite early predictions that Russian women would embrace the opportunity to return to the home once employment was no longer quasi-​compulsory (for example, Lissyutkina 1993; Voronina 1994), women’s labour market attachment has proved resilient since the Soviet collapse. Both male and female employment dropped significantly between 1989 and 1998 during the economic crisis, but the gender differences in these falls were marginal, with female employment declining by less than ten million, and male employment declining by over nine million (Katz 2001: 211). In the Putin era, women’s share of the labour force has remained remarkably stable, symbolic remasculinisation having little impact on women’s labour participation. In 2020, Russian women still constituted 48.6 percent of the employed population (Rosstat n.d.). Likewise, early predictions that unemployment would have a “female face” proved unfounded (for a summary of such views, see Ashwin and Bowers 1997; Katz 2001: 205–​7), with unemployment rates of men and women staying roughly equal since 1992 when the Labour Force Survey, using the internationally comparable definition of unemployment, was introduced. As of 2020, male and female unemployment rates were still approximately equal at 5.8 percent and 5.7 percent respectively (OECD n.d.). While women have retained their presence in the labour force, gender inequality in employment has persisted. Given the nature of Soviet official statistics, it was difficult to calculate the level of the gender wage gap precisely, but in the late Soviet era women were estimated to earn between 65 to 75 percent of men’s income (Lapidus 1978). Studies of the wage gap in the 1990s 335

336

Sarah Ashwin

suggested continuity with the Soviet era (Newell and Reilly 1996; Arabsheibani and Lau 1999; Katz 2001: 224–​6), with a study using Russian Longitudinal Monitoring Service (RLMS) data from 1996 to 2002 finding that women earned 66 percent of men’s average annual wage in 2002 (Kazakova 2007: 370). More recently, also using RLMS data, Atencio and Posadas (2015: 11) calculated Russia’s gender pay gap at just above 30 percent. As they note, this is one of the highest gaps among high-​income countries. What accounts for women’s lower earnings? Russia’s gender wage gap cannot be explained by lower human capital or lower working hours. Russian women have the advantage in terms of human capital endowments, while differences in working hours explain only a “miniscule part” of gender wage differences (Ogloblin 1999: 610, 618). In line with this, Atencio and Posadas (2015) found that education and experience show larger payoffs for men than for women, especially at the bottom of the earnings distribution. Ogloblin concludes that most of the wage gap is due to very high levels of gender job segregation. Similarly, Atencio and Posadas (2015) find that women are in different types of work to men, with flatter career paths. This sorting of men and women into different professions is a social process informed by ideas about what is “appropriate” work for men and women (Ogloblin 1999; Kozina and Zhidkova 2006). Kozina and Zhidkova’s analysis of the gender stereotyping of jobs in the post-​Soviet era shows that, while various criteria are used to designate the gender of jobs, the constants are that women’s jobs are considered lower status and deserving of lower pay. They argue that this results from the way in which women’s role as workers has always been implicitly nested within their prior identities as mothers and household managers. Women are thus seen as “special” workers and paid accordingly. As will be seen in the following section, little has changed in the domestic division of labour to challenge such assumptions. Turning to men, although they maintained their labour market advantage overall, increased inequality implies greater differentiation between men. While the winners enjoy a lavish lifestyle, those at the lower end of the labour market face a challenging situation marked by the intensification of work as well as increased precarity (Morris 2012). As noted above, this makes living up to the male breadwinner schema particularly challenging for poorer men. In addition, working class jobs have been stripped of the status they enjoyed in the Soviet era, with young men facing narrowing options entailing a risk of material and symbolic impoverishment (Walker 2018).

Gender in the household Is there any evidence that gender ideologies –​individuals’ support for particular gendered configurations of market and domestic work (Davis and Greenstein 2009) –​are changing in the light of remasculinisation? First, it should be noted that Russian gender ideologies are not accurately captured by standard international measurement scales because of the specificities of the post-​Soviet gender order. A conventional measure of gender traditionalism is the “separate spheres” statement “A man’s job is to earn money; a woman’s job is to look after the home and family”. However, such a statement does not capture the (post-​)Soviet model of “primary” male breadwinning in which women are expected to be employed, but also to take primary responsibility for domestic and caring labour (Ashwin and Isupova 2018; Ukhova 2022). International Social Survey Programme (ISSP) data from 1994, 2002 and 2012 showed that the “separate spheres” position obtained majority support from men and women at all time periods. But this was at odds with even greater support for shared breadwinning: at all time periods over 70 percent of women agreed that women should contribute to household income, as did approximately three-​quarters of men in 2002 and 2012 (Ashwin and Isupova 2018). 336

337

Gender in Russia: State policy and lived reality

Daria Ukhova (2022) also analysed the ISSP Russian data and did not find any clear evidence of a neo-​traditional trend. She did, however, find class-​specific gender ideology trajectories. Lower-​class women and men slightly increased their support for the “separate spheres” ideology. More educated and affluent respondents of both genders increased their support of both joint breadwinning and gender-​essentialist views of women’s caring role –​that is, the traditional Soviet model –​at the expense of support for the separate sphere model and, in the latest survey, for egalitarianism. By contrast, a 2017 VTsIOM survey using a random probability sample of 1,800 participants suggested declining support for Soviet gender schemas. Asked who should be the breadwinner, only 45 percent of women supported male responsibility for breadwinning by 2017, although nearly two-​thirds of men did. Meanwhile, asked who should take responsibility for running the household, approximately three-​quarters of men and women endorsed equal sharing of domestic labour (Ashwin and Isupova 2018). The latter findings may exaggerate levels of egalitarianism because “equal” running of the household may be understood as a gendered division of labour in which women are assigned the more onerous routine tasks such as cleaning (Ashwin and Lytkina 2004), but they nonetheless suggest increasing egalitarianism. Qualitative findings likewise provide limited evidence of a rise in neo-​traditionalism. They do suggest that the male breadwinner schema retains its cultural dominance (Ashwin and Isupova 2014; Utrata 2019), legitimising men’s domestic privilege and women’s concomitant responsibility for domestic and care work (Ashwin and Isupova 2018). Nevertheless, women’s employment remains largely unquestioned (Ashwin and Isupova 2018). There have, however, been some shifts, notably in a minority of men embracing involved fatherhood (Bezrukova and Samoylova 2019; Lipasova 2017). Daria Ukhova (2021) provides a detailed analysis of this trend, revealing its class character. In her St Petersburg-​based sample, educated middle-​class couples distanced themselves from the Soviet model of women’s “triple burden”, which was perceived negatively as “unmodern”, practised, as one of Ukhova’s respondents put it, by those with a foot “in Asia or somewhere even deeper. Those who are not in the avant-​garde” (2021). Middle-​class men were thus held accountable as carers and for sharing household labour, although Ukhova reports that middle-​class men’s ideal scenario, finances permitting, was to outsource domestic labour. Ukhova also found that, while men expected women to work and develop careers, they held them accountable to presumed feminine standards of physical attractiveness and sex appeal. Thus, the middle-​class move away from the Soviet gender order, while implying some equalisation of care and domestic labour, nonetheless continues to be deeply gendered. Another dimension of continued gender inequity is highlighted by Ibragimova and Guseva (2017), who, on the basis of a representative survey, showed that, in younger and more affluent families, male-​dominated money management was becoming more common. This represented a shift from the Soviet period when women typically managed household money. Women’s budgetary management continues in lower-​income families (where budgeting is a worrisome responsibility), but the likelihood of male-​dominated money management increases with rising income and is the highest for the most affluent families. Guseva and Ibragimova (2021) also found change over time in longstanding marriages in which men’s income growth dwarfed that of their wives. This typically led to a move from shared budgeting to male management. Where women in these marriages worked, they kept their income for their own expenses –​which their husbands agreed to since it defined women’s income as “pin money”. Nevertheless, the autonomy even small earnings granted women was significant for their wellbeing. Guseva and Ibragimova (2021) theorise this as using the “weapons of the weak” (Scott 1985) framework, 337

338

Sarah Ashwin

arguing that it is a way in which women avoid dependency and evade control. Overall, therefore, Ibragimova and Guseva (2017) do find some evidence of neo-​traditionalism among those men with the wealth to adhere to a separate spheres ideology, though with women’s labour market attachment attenuating its impact (Guseva and Ibragimova 2021). The evidence thus suggests that remasculinisation at a political level has so far had a limited impact on gender ideologies and relations. Moreover, especially among middle-​class Russians, new gender ideologies are emerging particularly in relation to involved fatherhood. Despite such changes, however, the demonisation of feminism as an alien Western ideology limits the challenge to gender essentialism. As noted above, for example, the male breadwinner schema remains dominant. In addition, attributes, skills and jobs perceived as “feminine” continue to be undervalued. Just as Lenin derided the “petty … stultifying and crushing drudgery” of household and caring labour ([1919] 1984: 64), so Putin decried the “frankly degraded” position of mothers (2006: 388). Given such devaluation, it is little surprise that middle-​class men held accountable to caring and domestic labour see outsourcing (onto working class women) as the ultimate ideal. Likewise, such gender hierarchical conceptions influence wage setting (England 2005; Ridgeway 2011), feeding into the gender wage gap. Nevertheless, as Guseva and Ibragimova (2021) argue, women’s employment, if not a harbinger of egalitarianism, provides a basis for autonomy. It is also an important source of social status, of “mattering”, which is important in boosting women’s subjective wellbeing (Ashwin et al 2021).

Conclusion The research on gender in contemporary Russia reveals that the contradictions of the post-​ Soviet gender order remain a source of inequality and distress. Women continue to be confined to lower-​paid jobs and to carry a heavier domestic load, despite their strong labour market attachment. Men’s situation is becoming more polarised with rising inequality. Poorer men face considerable difficulties in conforming to the still-​dominant male breadwinner schema and can experience considerable distress when they are unable to do so. By contrast, the most affluent men are able to use their higher earnings to exert greater domestic power (for example over budgeting). Some middle-​class men are being held accountable to what are perceived as “modern” gender relations. A number of issues require further research. For example, to what extent is remasculinisation influencing men’s gender ideologies and identities? So far, research suggests that change has been relatively modest, with no clear trend towards neo-​traditionalism, but the evidence is somewhat fragmentary. As Ukhova (2022) argues, sensitivity to class-​specific gender trends is important, as is the adaptation of survey questions to fit post-Soviet realities. Further survey data to contextualise qualitative findings would be helpful to understand the direction and extent of change in gender ideologies and relations. Both the Soviet and Putin regimes have employed gender as an instrument of state power. But gender orders are constituted from above and from below; “weapons of the weak” have the power to undermine state prescriptions.

Notes 1 There was officially no part-​time work in Soviet Russia, although a minority of women did work shift systems that gave them a reduced working week. 2 For an explanation of the phenomenon of “structural adjustment without mass unemployment”, see Clarke 1999.

338

339

Gender in Russia: State policy and lived reality

References Arabsheibani, R. and L. Lau, (1999), “Mind the Gap: An Analysis of Gender Wage Differences in Russia”, Labour: Review of Labour Economics and Industrial Relations 13, 4: 761–​75. Ashwin, S. (2000), “Gender, State and Society in Soviet and Post-​Soviet Russia”, in S. Ashwin (ed.), Gender, State and Society in Soviet and Post-​Soviet Russia (London: Routledge): 1–​29. Ashwin, S. (2006), “The Post-​Soviet Gender Order: Imperatives and Implications”, in S. Ashwin (ed.), Adapting to Russia’s New Labour Market: Gender and Employment Behaviour (New York: Routledge): 30–​51. Ashwin, S. and E. Bowers (1997), “Do Russian Women Want to Work?”, in M. Buckley (ed.), Post-​Soviet Women: From the Baltic to Central Asia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press): 21–​37. Ashwin S. and O. Isupova (2014), “‘Behind Every Great Man …’: The Male Marriage Wage Premium Examined Qualitatively”, Journal of Marriage and Family 76, 1: 37–​55. Ashwin, S. and O. Isupova (2018), “Anatomy of a Stalled Revolution: Processes of Reproduction and Change in Russian Women’s Gender Ideologies”, Gender & Society 32, 4: 441–​68. Ashwin, S., K. Keenan and I.M. Kozina (2021), “Pensioner Employment, Well-​Being, and Gender: Lessons from Russia”, American Journal of Sociology 127, 1: 152–​93. Ashwin, S. and T. Lytkina, (2004), “Men in Crisis in Russia: The Role of Domestic Marginalization”, Gender & Society 18, 2: 189–​206. Ashwin, S. and J. Utrata (2020), “Masculinity Restored? Putin’s Russia and Trump’s America”, Contexts 19, 2: 16–​21. Atencio, A. and J. Posadas (2015), “Gender Gap in Pay in the Russian Federation: Twenty Years Later, Still a Concern”, World Bank Policy Research Working Paper (7407). Bezrukova, O.N. and V.A. Samoylova (2019), “ ‘Eager Dads’ and ‘Dads Against Their Will’, Or Why Russian Dads Are Reluctant to Go On Parental Leave”, Sotsiologicheskie issledovaniya, 7: 90–​101. Browning, G. (1987), Women and Politics in the USSR: Consciousness-​Raising and Soviet Women’s Groups (Brighton: Harvester). Burawoy, M., P. Krotov and T. Lytkina (2000), “Domestic Involution: How Women Organise Survival in a North Russian City”, in V. Bonnell and G. Breslauer (eds.), Russia in the New Century: Stability or Disorder? (Boulder: Westview Press): 231–​61. Case, A. and A. Deaton (2020), Deaths of Despair and the Future of Capitalism (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Chafetz, J. (1990), Gender Equity: An Integrated Theory of Stability and Change (Newbury Park: Sage). Clarke, S. (1999), New Forms of Employment and Household Survival Strategies in Russia (Coventry, Moscow: ISITO/​CCLS). Davis, S. and T. Greenstein (2009), “Gender Ideology: Components, Predictors, and Consequences”, Annual Review of Sociology 35: 87–​105. England, P. (2005), “Emerging Theories of Care Work”, Annual Review of Sociology 31: 381–​99. Gorbachev, M. (1987), Perestroika. New Thinking for Our Country and the World (London: Collins). Goskomstat (2002), Demograficheskii ezhegodnik Rossii 2002 (Moscow: Goskomstat Rossii). Goskomstat (2003), Rossiiskii statisticheskii ezhegodnik 2003 (Moscow: Goskomstat Rossii). Guseva, A. and D. Ibragimova (2021), “Autonomy as Empowerment, Or How Gendered Power Manifests Itself in Contemporary Russian Families”, in K. Bluhm, G. Pickhan, J. Stypinska and A. Wierzcholska (eds.), Gender and Power in Eastern Europe (Cham: Springer International Publishing.): 173–​89. Hansson, C. and K. Liden (1983), Moscow Women: Thirteen Interviews (New York: Pantheon). Ibragimova, D. and A. Guseva (2017), “Who is in Charge of Family Finances in the Russian Two-​Earner Households?”, Journal of Family Issues 38, 17: 2425–​48. Issoupova, O. (2000), “From Duty to Pleasure? Motherhood in Soviet and Post-​Soviet Russia”, in S. Ashwin (ed.), Gender, State and Society in Soviet and Post-​Soviet Russia (London: Routledge): 55–​70. Johnson J.E. (2017), “Gender Equality Policy: Criminalizing and Decriminalizing Domestic Violence”, Russian Analytical Digest 200: 1–​5. Katz, K. (2001), Gender, Work and Wages in the Soviet Union: A Legacy of Discrimination (Basingstoke: Palgrave). Kay, R. (2006), Men in Contemporary Russia: The Fallen Heroes of Post-​Soviet Change? (Aldershot: Ashgate). Kazakova, E. (2007), “Wages in a Growing Russia: When is a 10 Per Cent Rise in the Gender Wage Gap Good News?”, Economics of Transition 15, 2: 365–​92. Kiblitskaya, M. (2000a), “Once We Were Kings: Male Experiences of Loss of Status at Work in Post-​ Communist Russia”, in S. Ashwin (ed.), Gender, State and Society in Soviet and Post-​Soviet Russia (London: Routledge): 90–​104.

339

340

Sarah Ashwin Kiblitskaya, M. (2000b), “Russia’s Female Breadwinners: The Changing Subjective Experience”, in S. Ashwin (ed.), Gender, State and Society in Soviet and Post-​Soviet Russia (London: Routledge): 55–​70. Kozina, I. (2000), “Chto opredelyaet status ‘kormil’tsa’ sem’i?”, Sotsiologicheskie issledovaniya 11: 83–​9. Kozina, I. and E. Zhidkova (2006), “Sex Segregation and Discrimination in the New Russian Labour Market”, in S. Ashwin (ed.), Adapting to Russia’s New Labour Market: Gender and Employment Behaviour (New York: Routledge): 87–​133. Kukhterin, S. (2000), “Fathers and Patriarchs in Communist and Post-​Communist Russia”, in S. Ashwin (ed.) Gender, State and Society in Soviet and Post-​Soviet Russia (London: Routledge): 71–​89. Lapidus G. (1978), Women in Soviet Society: Equality, Development and Social Change (Berkeley: Berkeley University Press). Lenin, V. ([1918] 1984), “Speech at the First All-​Russia Congress of Working Women, November 19, 1918”, in The Emancipation of Women from the Writings of V.I. Lenin , (NY: International Publishers): 59–​61. Lenin, V. ([1919] 1965), “The Tasks of the Working Women’s Movement in the Soviet Republic. Speech Delivered at the Fourth Moscow City Non-​Party Conference of Women Workers, September 23, 1919”, in V.I. Lenin, Selected Works, vol. 30 (London: Lawrence and Wishart): 40–​6 Lenin, V. ([1919] 1984) “A Great Beginning”, in The Emancipation of Women from the Writings of V.I. Lenin (New York: International Publishers): 63–​5. Leon, D., V. Shkolnikov and M. McKee (2009), “Alcohol and Russian Mortality: A Continuing Crisis”, Addiction 104: 1630–​6. Lipasova, A. (2017), “Fatherhood in the Russian Provinces: A Theoretical and Empirical Analysis”, Zhurnal issledovanii sotsial’noi politiki 15, 4: 629–​42. Lissyutkina, L. (1993), “Soviet Women at the Crossroads of Perestroika”, in N. Funk and M. Mueller, Gender Politics and Post-​Communism (London: Routledge): 274–​86. Luxmoore, M. (2019), “Rising Mortality Rates Challenge Russia's Efforts to Kick-​Start Population Growth”, Radio Free Europe/​Radio Liberty, 4 April, rferl.org/​a/​rising-​mortality-​rates-​challenge-​ population-​g rowth-​decline-​putin-​demographics/​29861882.html. Makarychev, A. and S. Medvedev (2015), “Biopolitics and Power in Putin’s Russia”, Problems of Post-​ Communism 62, 1: 45–​54. Morris, J. (2012), “Unruly Entrepreneurs: Russian Worker Responses to Insecure Formal Employment”, Global Labour Journal 3, 2: 217–​36. Morvant, P. (1995), “Bearing the Double Burden in Russia”, Transition 1, 16: 4–​9. Newell, A.B.R. and B. Reilly (1996), “The Gender Wage Gap in Russia: Some Empirical Evidence”, Labour Economics 3, 3: 337–​56. OECD (n.d.), Employment: Unemployment rate, by sex and age group, OECD.Stat, https://​stats.oecd.org/​ index.aspx?quer​yid=​54743. Ogloblin, C. (1999), “The Gender Earning Differential in the Russian Transition Economy”, Industrial and Labor Relations Review 52, 4: 602–​27. Putin, V. (2006), “Vladimir Putin on Raising Russia’s Birth Rate”, Population and Development Review 32, 2: 385–​9. RFE/​RL (2021), “Russia Announces Plan to Halve Abortion Rates to Spur Population Growth”, Radio Free Europe/​Radio Liberty, 22 September, www.rferl.org/​a/​rus​sia-​plan-​red​uce-​aborti​ons/​31473​124. html (accessed 15 December 2021). Riabov, O. and T. Riabova (2014), “The Remasculinization of Russia? Gender, Nationalism, and the Legitimation of Power Under Vladimir Putin”, Problems of Post-​Communism 61, 2: 23–​35. Ridgeway, C. (2011), Framed by Gender: How Gender Inequality Persists in the Modern World (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Rivkin-​ Fish, M. (2010), “Pronatalism, Gender Politics and the Renewal of Family Support in Russia: Toward a Feminist Anthropology of ‘Maternity Capital’”, Slavic Review 69, 3: 701–​24. Rosstat (n.d.), Trudovye resursy, zanyatost’ i bezrabotitsa, Federal’naya sluzhba gosudarstvennoi statistiki (Rosstat), https://​ross​tat.gov.ru/​labou​r_​fo​rce. Rotkirch, A. (2000), The Man Question. Loves and Lives in Late 20th Century Russia (Helsinki: University of Helsinki). Rotkirch, A., A. Temkina and E. Zdravomyslova (2007), “Who Helps the Degraded Housewife? Comments on Vladimir Putin’s Demographic Speech”, European Journal of Women’s Studies 14, 4: 349–​57. Scott J.C. (1985), Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance (New Haven: Yale University Press).

340

341

Gender in Russia: State policy and lived reality Sharafutdinova, G. (2014), “The Pussy Riot Affair and Putin’s Démarche from Sovereign Democracy to Sovereign Morality”, Nationalities Papers 42, 4: 615–​21. Sperling, V. (2014), Sex, Politics, and Putin: Political Legitimacy in Russia (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Teplova, T. (2007), “Welfare State Transformation, Childcare and Women’s Work in Russia”, Social Politics 14, 3: 284–​322. Tomkins, S., L. Saburova, N. Kiryanov, E. Andreev, M. McKee, V. Shkolnikov and D.A. Leon (2007), “Prevalence and Socio-​Economic Distribution of Hazardous Patterns of Alcohol Drinking: Study of Alcohol Consumption in Men Aged 25–​54 Years in Izhevsk, Russia”, Addiction 102, 4: 544–​53. Ukhova, D. (2021), “Doing Gender with Class: Gender Division of Unpaid Work in Russian Middle-​ Class Dual Earner Heterosexual Households”, Journal of Family Issues, September, https://​doi.org/​ 10.1177/​019251​3x21​1042​846. Ukhova, D. (2022), “Back to ‘Traditional’ Family Values? Trends in Gender Ideologies in Russia, 1994–​ 2012”, Europe-​Asia Studies DOI: 10.1080/09668136.2022.2107615. Utrata, J. (2019), “Invisible Labor and Women’s Double Binds: Collusive Femininity and Masculine Drinking in Russia”, Gender & Society 33, 6: 911–​34. Voronina, O. (1994), “The Mythology of Women’s Emancipation in the USSR as the Foundation for a Policy of Discrimination”, in A. Posadskaya, (ed.), Women in Russia. A New Era in Russian Feminism (London: Verso): 34–​56. Walker, C. (2018), “‘I Just Don’t Want to Connect My Life with this Occupation’: Working-Class Young Men, Manual Labour, and Social Mobility in Contemporary Russia”, The British Journal of Sociology 69, 1: 207–​25. Wood, E.A. (2016), “Hypermasculinity as a Scenario of Power: Vladimir Putin’s Iconic Rule, 1999–​ 2008”, International Feminist Journal of Politics 18, 3: 329–​50. World Bank (n.d.-​a), Life expectancy at birth, male (years) –​Russian Federation, https://​data.worldb​ank.org/​ indica​tor/​SP.DYN.LE00.MA.IN?locati​ons=​RU (accessed 20 December 2021). World Bank (n.d.-​b), Life expectancy at birth, female (years) –​Russian Federation, https://​data.worldb​ank.org/​ indica​tor/​SP.DYN.LE00.FE.IN?locati​ons=​RU (accessed 20 December 2021). Yaroshenko, S. and T. Lytkina (2021), “Na peresechenii gendera i klassa: kak odinokie materi organizuyut povsednevnuyu zhizn’ v postsotsialisticheskoi Rossii”, Sotsiologicheskie issledovaniya 11: 62–​73.

341

342

30 THE RISE OF A HYBRID WELFARE STATE IN PUTIN’S RUSSIA Social welfare under authoritarianism Elena Maltseva

The welfare state has been a major focus of both political and scholarly attention since the term came into wide circulation in the 1950s. Since then, the concept of a welfare state has been used to refer to a state that provides its population with a basic safety net, often through the provision of social insurance and pensions, poverty alleviation and social relief measures, and the development of effective health care and education systems. With time, the development of different welfare arrangements across the Western world contributed to the growing body of literature on the topic, which linked the origins of the welfare state in Western industrialised societies to cultural changes, the development of the market economy and the strengthening of modern democratic institutions. In 1990, research on welfare states in Western democracies culminated with the publication of a seminal work by Gosta Esping-​Andersen (1990) entitled The Three Worlds of Welfare Capitalism. In this book, the author laid out three different types of welfare states that emerged in advanced capitalist democracies –​the liberal, the conservative or corporatist, and the social democratic models –​and argued that cross-​national welfare state variations were the result of different class coalitions and the differing capacity of labour movements to organise and mobilise politically (Esping-​Andersen 1990; Deeming 2017). The liberal welfare state regime emphasised market dominance and laissez-​faire politics, the conservative or corporatist model focused predominantly on social insurance programmes that are differentiated based on class and status, and the social democratic model stressed the provision of generous universal social rights to its citizens. Many scholars criticised Esping-​Andersen’s models and began to talk about other types of welfare system (for example, Deeming 2017; Andersen 2012), including in the non-​democratic and developmental welfare states of Asia (Wu 2007; Kwon 2007). Also important were studies of the type of welfare system that emerged in the formerly socialist countries after 1989/​91. Over time, a consensus emerged in the comparative welfare literature that, although post-​ communist welfare states shared some common characteristics, most of them were hybrids, with significant variations in welfare arrangements across the region. In the post-​Soviet region, most countries, except for Belarus, transitioned into hybrid welfare systems that combined the universalistic legacies of the Soviet welfare state that were supported by the people with liberal 342

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-34

343

The rise of a hybrid welfare state in Putin’s Russia

welfare arrangements, which many post-​Soviet governments struggled to implement due to various institutional, political and social obstacles. This combination of universalistic and liberal welfare policies allowed Aspalter (2017) to define the post-​Soviet welfare state as a selective rudimentary welfare regime. In his interpretation, such regimes display a number of distinct characteristics, including the persistence of socialist welfare ideas, ongoing diversification of welfare arrangements and declining welfare funding due to economic crises and the onset of neoliberal ideas. Using Aspalter’s definition as a conceptual lens, the Russian welfare state can be considered an example of the selective rudimentary welfare regime, as it combines elements of the Soviet, conservative and neoliberal welfare systems. In addition, starting in the mid-​2000s, the development of the Russian welfare state institutions was influenced by the authoritarian turn in Russian politics under Vladimir Putin. Gradually, the Russian government started viewing social welfare not only as a mechanism for promoting the economic and social wellbeing of its citizens but also as an instrument of social and political control and a force for structuring social relations, guaranteeing national security and securing the regime’s stability and legitimacy (Cook 2007, 2010). As a result, some scholars preferred to categorise the Russian welfare state under Vladimir Putin as an example of a hybrid welfare regime and an authoritarian welfare system (Logvinenko 2020).

The zigzags of post-​Soviet welfare state restructuring Understanding the legacies of the Soviet past The Soviet welfare system was a classic example of an authoritarian welfare state that used redistribution and universal welfare provision as an instrument to achieve social justice but also to strengthen the regime’s legitimacy and its political and social control. The ideological foundations of the Soviet welfare system ensured that the state provided its citizens access to a wide range of goods and services, including universal primary education, free health care, subsidised housing, full employment with small wage differentials and a guaranteed pension. At first glance, such a universal system of social provision facilitated high levels of decommodification and equalisation of Soviet society in terms of access to basic social goods and services. The credibility of the communist welfare system was also enhanced with the help of ideology, which continuously emphasised its humanitarian and egalitarian principles. These declarations, however, did not mean that egalitarian principles were dominant in reality. Other principles competed with welfare policies, such as the necessity of increasing economic output and the practice of offering privileges to certain population groups regarded as pillars of the communist system. In other words, many social privileges were distributed according to class and occupation as a reward for merit or service and receiving them went hand in hand with work performance, loyalty, discipline and productivity. For instance, privileges were granted to workers and military personnel with a long work record as well as members of certain professions such as rural public sector workers. As a result, in addition to the universal provision of basic goods and services, the Soviet welfare system was also characterised by social stratification that manifested in the form of privileged access to better housing, better health care services and discounted or free use of various services, including utilities, transport, telephones and treatment at sanatoria (Maltseva 2012). In addition to the universalist and conservative elements, the Soviet welfare state also followed developmentalist logic, as it offered only limited social protection to those unable to adequately provide for themselves, such as disabled people, families with many children, or 343

344

Elena Maltseva

single-​parent families. The official rhetoric rarely associated the provision of special social services or privileges with deprivation or referred to them as assistance. Rather, it described them as a reward or fair entitlement. As a consequence, the possession of social privileges became a significant source of personal pride, as they indicated official recognition of one’s status and service.

Welfare state liberalisation in Yeltsin’s Russia (1992–​99) The collapse of communism produced a deep political, social and economic crisis in Russia. Faced with an enormous budget deficit, the collapse of nearly all trade relations, an industrial system in desperate need of modernisation and growing unemployment and poverty levels, the Russian economy required an immediate and complete overhaul (Hedlund 1999). To tackle the crisis, on the advice of international organisations such as the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund, the government designed a programme of liberal economic and social reforms known as “shock therapy”, which included price liberalisation, fiscal stabilisation, the privatisation of state enterprises and the retrenchment of the vast Soviet welfare state. In the words of Egor Gaidar, the Russian state had to be divested of its welfare functions, which were seen as “inappropriate under market conditions” (Gaidar 1994; Maltseva 2012). The goal was to transform the Soviet welfare system into a liberal welfare state by cutting the government’s social spending and liberalising the systems of social security, education, health care and housing. Launched in 1991–​3, the welfare reforms aimed to alleviate the federal government’s financial burden during the early period of transition. To achieve this, the state moved the Pension, Unemployment, and Social Insurance Funds from state budget financing to separate off-​budget funds, which were financed solely by a payroll tax levied almost entirely on employers (Manning et al 2000; Maltseva 2012). Further, in the education sphere, the government ended the state monopoly over education, legalised the establishment of private schools and granted local education authorities greater autonomy in questions of school curricula (Cook 1993). In the health care sector, the government shifted the responsibility for health care provision from the federal to the regional level, replaced the publicly funded health care system with compulsory medical insurance and divided the financial responsibilities between federal and regional governments and private insurance companies (Cook 2007). Finally, the government launched the reform of Russia’s state-​owned and heavily subsidised housing sector. The reform presupposed the creation of a housing market in which residents could privatise their apartments for a nominal fee but would also be expected to pay substantially higher housing costs. The only sectors that remained unreformed in the 1990s were the Soviet pension and social benefits systems. The Russian state inherited the Soviet pay-​as-​you-​go (PAYG) pension system, which offered nearly universal coverage, a low retirement age (60 for men and 55 for women), generous earnings-​related benefits and a high average replacement rate that often exceeded two-​thirds of the workers’ previous highest wages. During the 1990s, the difficult economic situation and demographic pressures made the question of pension reform particularly urgent. As mentioned earlier, the government responded to these pressures with the establishment of an off-​budget Pension Fund. It also made two attempts to reform the system: in 1995 when the government developed the “Concepts of the Pension System Reform in the Russian Federation” and in 1998 when it published a new “Pension Reform Programme” (Ohtsu and Tabata 2005). However, none of these attempts were successful: the reform was put on hold due to the political and institutional obstacles that manifested in the form of electoral expectations, veto players defending the old order and the financial crisis of 1998 (Maltseva 2019). 344

345

The rise of a hybrid welfare state in Putin’s Russia

The stalemate on the question of pension reform echoed the policy inertia in the area of social protection. As in older times, the government guaranteed Russian citizens the types of economic and social benefits they received in the Soviet Union. The delay with reforming the Soviet system of social benefits was related to the fact that taking away social privileges and social guarantees, which many people considered a just reward for their hard work and personal sacrifice, was a risky political decision for which none of the politicians wanted to assume responsibility. Moreover, fearing an escalation of social protests, the government designed ad hoc and often populist social welfare policies, which, instead of contracting the costly welfare system, expanded the Russian government’s social responsibilities. As a result, during the 1990s the basic eligibility criteria to receive social benefits remained unchanged: privileges were granted primarily on the basis of merits, professional hazards and vulnerability but rarely on the basis of income (Alexandrova et al 2005; Maltseva 2012). An attempt to change the Russian social benefits system was made after the 1996 presidential election, when the government announced that it planned to replace the in-​kind benefits with targeted, means-​tested social assistance (Manning et al 2000). However, as in the case of the pension reform, this initiative was never fully realised due to the onset of the 1998 economic crisis, which made the implementation of new social policies highly problematic. In the end, the welfare reforms produced controversial results. To begin with, they did not lead to significant cuts in social spending. On the contrary, social spending increased substantially during the 1990s: from 27 percent of total state expenditures in 1992 to nearly 40 percent in 1997 (Maltseva 2012). Despite such a dramatic increase in social spending, the economic crisis made the regular payment of pensions, social benefits and wages problematic. Further, education reforms were compromised by such negative trends as depleting school infrastructure due to a lack of financial resources, a decline in the quality of educational programmes as teachers left for better-​paying jobs, dissonance in education programmes across regions and growing social stratification in schools. All these developments made education lower quality and less accessible to low-​income citizens (Maltseva 2013). Similarly, Gaidar’s health care reforms resulted in a dramatic collapse of the Russian health care system. Reassignment of the financing for social and health care programmes to the regional level contributed to a dramatic decline in their quality, as regions that failed to integrate into the new market economy lacked sufficient financial resources and were unable to provide an adequate level of health care and social services to its residents. Fiscal transfers from the federal government helped little due to their irregularity and small size. Next, in the housing sector, the hopes of the reformers for the establishment of a smoothly functioning housing market did not materialise, as people were hesitant to privatise their apartments. By the end of the 1990s, about 40 percent of housing still remained in the public sector (Cook 2007). Finally, economic problems, broad public support for the provision of generous pensions and social benefits to various population groups and strong political opposition from the Communist Party to the pension and social benefits reforms left Yeltsin with no choice but to postpone any fundamental restructuring of the Soviet pension and social benefits systems. To recapitulate, under Yeltsin, the Russian welfare system displayed contradictory trends. On the one hand, in line with the principles of neoliberalism, the role of the state in welfare provision was gradually rolled back, signalling a fundamental rethinking of the Soviet welfare model. On the other hand, reorganisation and retrenchment did not affect the pension and social benefits systems: in the face of strong political opposition, the government did not dare to dismantle the old Soviet system of old age security and social benefits, thereby leaving the Russian welfare system half-​reformed. As a result, the Russian welfare system combined the elements of a liberal welfare state with the strong legacies of the Soviet universalist welfare state 345

346

Elena Maltseva

in the case of pension and social benefits provision. Such was the system inherited by Yeltsin’s successor, Vladimir Putin, after the 2000 presidential election.

The welfare state in Putin’s Russia: Towards further liberalisation and hybridisation of the welfare system Following Putin’s ascension to power at the turn of the century, Russia has transformed from a weak democracy to a type of hybrid regime best described as a competitive authoritarian system (Levitsky and Way 2002). Competitive authoritarian regimes allow regular multiparty elections that display substantial irregularities. In addition, such regimes reveal serious flaws in political culture, government performance and political participation (Levitsky and Way 2002; Ross 2018). In the case of Russia, following Putin’s rise to power in 2000, the weak and defective electoral democracy of Yeltsin’s era has gradually been replaced with a more authoritarian political system characterised by a top-​down vertical of power in which the bureaucracy, political parties, regional elites and economic actors are all hierarchically subordinate to central authority (Hale 2010). Moreover, after Putin’s return to the presidency in 2012, the system underwent further “authoritarianisation” in which the moderately open political landscape of the early to mid-​2000s evolved into a system increasingly more intolerant of dissenting voices. In the socioeconomic realm, political and institutional centralisation offered the government an opportunity to restart the liberalisation process and complete the pension and social benefits reforms that were stagnating during the 1990s, while the surge in oil and gas revenue during the early 2000s served as a source of income for reinvestment in the country’s economy and the implementation of several national projects. These projects aimed to improve Russia’s education and health care systems, modernise its infrastructure and support families, with the ultimate goal of stimulating economic growth and boosting the popular support for and legitimacy of the regime. In short, Russian welfare policy under Putin combined elements of the liberal and authoritarian welfare models. Moreover, the persistence of neoliberal trends in an otherwise illiberal Russian context also continued during the pandemic, coexisting with a number of national projects and social privileges reserved for some politically important population groups. The liberal reforms started with a pension reform. Launched in 2002, the pension reform signalled an important ideational shift in the underlying principles of the Russian pension system (Maltseva 2019). The reform presupposed the replacement of the Soviet PAYG pension system with a mixed scheme comprised of both solidarity and defined contribution elements. The proposed changes aimed to align the pension system with the principles of the market economy, address demographic and fiscal pressures and tackle the problem of poverty in retirement. Led by a team of liberal economists, the Russian government was strongly committed to the pension reform, but weak administrative structures, low levels of public trust in private financial institutions and problems with understanding how the new pension system worked resulted in an ineffective implementation process and questions about the long-​term sustainability of the new pension system. By 2009, the realisation was growing that the pension reform had failed to achieve its goals, as the majority of workers did not transfer their pension savings to private insurance companies and kept their funds in the State Pension Fund. This essentially negated the whole purpose of a liberal pension reform and pointed to the need for policy adjustment (Maltseva 2012). As a result, an understanding emerged that the system had to be changed again, leading to the partial reversal of the liberal policies in 2013 (Maltseva 2019). The liberalisation of the welfare sector continued with the monetisation of social benefits. Launched in 2005, the social benefits reform pursued several objectives, including cutting 346

347

The rise of a hybrid welfare state in Putin’s Russia

down welfare expenses and modernising a complex and inefficient social benefits system. The reform presupposed that most in-​kind benefits such as free prescription drugs, visits to sanatoria and transport privileges would be gradually replaced with cash benefits, with payments made from federal or regional budgets. However, the implementation of the reform was stalled and even reversed due to vigorous public protests. The protesters were critical of government actions and doubted that monetary compensations would match the actual monetary value of in-​kind social benefits. Many people also worried that the compensations would be eaten up by inflation or plundered by the bureaucracy (Maltseva 2012). The government responded to these protests with higher social expenditures; it also restored some of the in-​kind social benefits, such as free transport for most welfare recipients. In addition, afraid of antagonising the masses even further, the government decided to delay the enactment of the new retirement age requirements and postpone the monetisation of housing and communal services benefits. These developments left the social benefits sector more muddled than before (Maltseva 2012). In sum, the social benefits reform in Russia reduced the number of benefits offered to various groups, replaced some in-​kind benefits with monthly cash payments, helped establish a comprehensive list of welfare recipients and improved the targeting mechanism and administrative processes. At the same time, the reform failed to replace all in-​kind social benefits with monetary compensation. In addition, the division of welfare recipients into “federal” and “regional” groups by sources of funding contributed to unequal social protection measures and increased dissatisfaction among the public. Furthermore, although the reform turned out to be nearly twice as expensive as originally planned, it did not significantly reduce the level of poverty in the country and in some cases even worsened it (Maltseva 2012). Ultimately, the liberal pension reform and the monetisation of social benefits further symbolised the weakening of state social commitments and confirmed the shift towards a residual welfare state. As Egor Gaidar stressed in 1994, the liberal welfare reform would send an important message to the Russian people that the provision of welfare was no longer a right or a privilege but rather a “measure of state support”. This statement echoed the neoliberal ideology promoted by major financial institutions such as the World Bank and the IMF and adopted earlier in several Eastern European and Latin American countries. Still, the state continued to provide social protection to large segments of the Russian society, though in a rather peculiar way. The available data suggest that under Putin, the state, comprised of the government and state-​owned enterprises, has effectively employed 30.6 percent of the labour force (Logvinenko 2020). If one adds to this the recipients of pensions, various benefits and social subsidies, the number of people who receive regular payments from the state or state-​connected enterprises is extraordinarily high, reaching, according to various accounts, nearly 45 percent of the total population (Logvinenko 2020). This suggests that the Russian government recognises the importance of social protection and the need for some degree of welfare distribution in order to maintain political and social stability and the credibility of the regime in a country whose population still shares largely paternalistic beliefs about the role of the state in society. In fact, this notion of state paternalism, together with political and economic considerations, is one of the factors responsible for the creation of large state-​run National Priority Projects. Launched in 2005, these projects promised to improve the situation in Russia’s housing, health care, education and agriculture sectors as well as to address Russia’s concerning demographic trends (Fakhrutdinova 2009). In health care, the government planned to improve the training of family doctors, general practitioners and paediatricians; increase the wages of medical personnel; and build several national hi-​tech medical centres across Russia. In the education sector, the main goal was to provide all students with quality education regardless of where they live. 347

348

Elena Maltseva

The government promised to provide all schools across Russia with libraries, computers and internet access. A system of grants was introduced to reward schools for innovative teaching methods. Grants have also been made available to the most talented students. In the housing sector, the government announced that it would promote market measures, such as developing the mortgage-​lending industry to make apartment and home ownership more affordable. It also promised to provide direct support to certain population groups so they could buy and maintain their own homes. Special state subsidies were set for young families to help them buy a new home. In agriculture, the government offered cheap loans for agricultural producers and schemes to import livestock and equipment and provide affordable housing for young agricultural specialists and their families. Finally, in 2007, in an effort to tackle Russia’s demographic crisis and raise birth rates, the government offered families monetary compensation in the amount of 250,000 rubles (circa $10,000) for each baby born after their first child, but with spending restrictions (Slonimczyk and Yurko 2013). Critics of Putin’s regime argued that the national projects were launched in an effort to improve the damaged image of Putin’s administration following the disastrous results of the monetisation reform. Quickly labelled “Putin’s New Deal” by journalists, the projects became subject to close attention. By the end of 2005 it looked as if the national projects had become a genuine national priority. Led by then-​Deputy Prime Minister Dmitry Medvedev, the programme’s de facto coordinator, the government cultivated a caring and benevolent image of the Russian state through the media, where stories of ordinary people who were helped in some way by the projects became the focus of daily news. The political and ideological importance of the national projects was especially evident during the 2008 presidential election, when images of Medvedev visiting farms, schools, hospitals and housing projects helped raise his public profile and ensured the successful transition of power from Putin to Medvedev. In short, during the first two terms of Putin’s presidency the government initiated the long-​ overdue pension and social benefits reforms, which aimed to further liberalise and marketise Russia’s welfare system. In addition, to balance the politically sensitive reform initiatives, the government launched a number of top-​down, state-​directed national projects aimed at tackling the country’s socioeconomic and demographic challenges. Expansive in coverage and ideological appeal, these projects proved to be an important instrument for boosting the regime’s legitimacy and popularity and for reinforcing the processes of authoritarian state-​and nation-​building. The blend of neoliberal and statist welfare policies continued during Putin’s intermission as prime minister between 2008 and 2012, followed by his third term as Russian president. In 2010, the government initiated a large-​scale liberal health care reform that aimed to strengthen primary care provision, streamline the existing institutional framework, modernise the country’s medical facilities, complete the implementation of the mandatory medical insurance system and gradually privatise some state health services (Klenko and Rudnev 2019). The reform produced mixed results: in fact, the so-​called “health care optimisation” process resulted in massive hospital closures, layoffs of qualified staff and an overall decrease in the quality of medical care in Russia. The reform was accompanied by regular protests and a low level of trust in the health care system (Weir 2014). In 2018, to partially address some of these concerns, the government established the National Healthcare Project (NHP), which was designed to ensure the sustainable natural growth of the population of the Russian Federation and increase life expectancy to 78 years by 2024 and 80 years by 2030. The project promised the provision of additional funds to develop primary health care, eliminate personnel shortages and invest in programmes focused on cancer, cardiovascular disease and children’s health (TASS 2019).

348

349

The rise of a hybrid welfare state in Putin’s Russia

With concerns about old-​age pension security increasing, by 2012 the realisation was growing within government circles that the liberal pension reform promoted by Western financial institutions required some adjustment. This sentiment coincided with mounting criticism of the liberal pension policy paradigm in academic literature and among the international policy community (for example, Kotlikoff 1999; Barr 2000; Heneghan 2015). Since 2008, this criticism has also been accompanied by pension system reversals in countries such as Argentina, Bolivia, Hungary and Kazakhstan that have either rolled back earlier privatisations or offered citizens the option of switching to a public redistributive pension system (Mesa-​Lago 2014; Maltseva and Janenova 2018, 2019). Following in their footsteps, in 2013 the Russian government launched a partial reversal of its liberal pension policies. To cover the deficit in the Pension Fund, the government decided to freeze transfers into private pension funds and use this money to finance current pension payments. In addition, the government de facto restored the old solidarity pension system by making the funded component optional. These changes, however, were temporary, as in 2015 the government had already backtracked on its earlier decision and decided to keep mandatory pension savings (Maltseva 2019). The transformation of the pension system continued into 2018, when the government decided to raise the retirement age. This was followed by numerous protests across the country and a dramatic decline in Putin’s approval ratings, which forced the authorities to soften the initial plan but not reverse the earlier decision. In the end, the law, which came into effect on 1 January 2019, introduced a gradual increase in the retirement age to 60 for women and 65 for men, with the transition period lasting until 2028 (Maltseva 2019). The retirement age hike unfolded in the context of greater injections into national projects, with health care and demographics receiving some of the largest funding as part of an ambitious presidential development strategy laid out by Putin following his re-​election in 2018 (Aris 2018). In fact, the announcement of the national projects coincided with Vladimir Putin’s fourth presidential inauguration in 2018, sending a message about the government’s serious intentions to invest in the country’s social and economic spheres. With the original funding of $400 billion over five years, the government hoped to stimulate the economy as well as repair its own popularity and receive greater public support (Engqvist 2021). However, the implementation of these projects ran into numerous institutional, administrative and financial obstacles. In addition to the challenges associated with low levels of the institutional transparency and regional capabilities required to cope with political projects of this size, progress was stalled due to the pressures of the COVID-​19 pandemic and the stagnating economy (Engqvist 2021; Tóth-​Czifra 2020; Chazan 2020). The onset of the pandemic marked a new chapter in the nature of the Russian welfare state, as it put a temporary hold on the implementation of the ambitious and expensive state-​ run national projects and further individualised the responsibility for one’s social wellbeing. To begin with, the government responded to the pandemic with a set of temporary social and economic measures, including financial bonuses to health care and social workers who worked on the front line of the coronavirus outbreak, with payments calculated based on the qualifications of employees and whether they worked directly with coronavirus patients (Russian Government 2020). In addition, the government offered an automatic extension of social benefits for all active recipients of social services, additional cash transfers for families with children, temporary support measures to the unemployed and to health care and social workers and a temporary moratorium on cutting utility services for debts and fines for late payments, along with several other measures (Tarasenko 2021). Families with children received the most support, with the government offering a one-​time payment of 10,000 rubles per child aged

349

350

Elena Maltseva

3 to 16 starting 1 June 2020 and a social support payment in the amount of 5,000 rubles per child for the months of April, May and June 2020. In addition, the government increased the regular monthly payments to eligible families with children and introduced new categories of social assistance to families with children. At the same time, in an attempt to provide targeted social assistance to families in need, the review process became more rigid as the government linked access to social assistance to several additional tests in addition to the confirmation of low-​income status and the presence of children in the family (Tarasenko 2021; World Bank 2020; State Duma 2020). The temporary social assistance was accompanied by economic support measures that offered businesses tax holidays, lower social taxes, a six-​month deferral on rent payments, a bankruptcy moratorium and interest-​free loans. Also, some organisations considered strategically important to the Russian economy received government support (Sherwin 2020). These measures, however, proved to be brief and limited in scope (Tarasenko 2021; Cook and Twigg 2020). As a result, many people started questioning the sincerity of the government’s message and defying the government’s orders in order to secure their incomes and maintain their livelihoods. In summary, welfare provision in the Putin era has been characterised by the persistence of neoliberal social policies that coexisted with several top-​down state-​run national projects carrying a political and economic significance to the regime.

Conclusion The post-​Soviet transformation of the Russian welfare system can be divided into three different periods: (1) the early liberalisation phase of the Yeltsin era (1992–​9), which left the welfare system half-​reformed due to the strong political and public opposition to the retrenchment and privatisation of the welfare sector; (2) the radical liberalisation phase, which took place during the first two terms of Putin’s presidency and was accompanied by the use of statist top-​down national projects as a counterweight to the politically sensitive liberal pension and social benefits reforms; and (3) the most recent period of welfare system hybridisation characterised by a mixture of liberal and statist, paternalist welfare ideas. The dynamics of this transformation have been determined by the influence of four distinct factors: the strong institutional legacies of the communist past and public support for the preservation of a generous welfare state, on the one hand, and the economic and demographic pressures, along with support for the neoliberal welfare policy paradigm among international and domestic political actors, on the other. Also, the statist and paternalist turn in Russian welfare policy under Vladimir Putin is best explained by the logic of authoritarian state-​and nation-​building, when the use of welfare policies is dependent on the need to solve pressing socioeconomic problems and bolster the regime’s support base. Together, these factors contributed to the development of a hybrid welfare regime that features elements of both a liberal and an authoritarian welfare model. Thus, in a rather peculiar way, the Russian welfare state succeeded in merging two seemingly incompatible ideas of liberal and authoritarian welfare models. Specifically, since the early 1990s, the liberal dimension of the Russian ­welfare system has been determined by neoliberal economic advisers to the Russian government. Despite some left-​wing opposition to the reforms in the parliament and widespread public protests against the liberal welfare reforms, the underlying principles driving the reform process remained liberal in nature, and this remained consistent throughout the entire post-​ Soviet history. Even during the pandemic, the government’s response was limited in scope and focused on the provision of some temporary basic social assistance, sending a message to the 350

351

The rise of a hybrid welfare state in Putin’s Russia

public about individual responsibility for their own destiny (Trudolyubov 2020). And given the current geopolitical, demographic and fiscal pressures affecting the Russian economy, this trend is likely to continue. At the same time, under Vladimir Putin the Russian welfare state displayed features of an authoritarian welfare state in which social policy is used to strengthen the country’s economic growth, maintain its authoritarian institutions and boost the regime’s legitimacy. The launch of national projects and the strategic provision of state support to various population groups, such as pensioners and families with children, contributed to the regime’s resilience. Together with other factors such as the strategic distribution of rents among political and economic elites, the coercion or cooptation of civil society and the use of public sector employees such as teachers and doctors for manipulating election results, the Putin regime ensured its long-​ term survival (White 2018; Forrat 2018). In other words, the paternalist and redistributive character of the Russian authoritarian welfare state contributed to the formation and maintenance of an informal social pact between the recipients of welfare services and the state (Logvinenko 2020).

References Alexandrova, A., P. Kuznetsova and E. Grishina (2005), “Reforming In-​Kind Privileges at the Regional Level in Russia: Political Decisions and Their Determinants”, in M. Cain, N. Gelazis and T. Inglot (eds.), Fighting Poverty and Reforming Social Security: What Can Post-​Soviet States Learn from the New Democracies of Central Europe? (Washington, D.C.: Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars): 117–​44. Andersen, J.G. (2012), “Welfare States and Welfare State Theory”, Centre for Comparative Welfare Studies, Institut for Økonomi, Politik og Forvaltning, Aalborg Universitet, CCWS Working Paper, https://​vbn.aau.dk/​ws/​files/​72613​349/​80_​20​12_​J​_​rge​n_​Go​ul_​ Andersen.pdf. Aris, B. (2018), “Russian Government Gets a New Programme and People”, bne IntelliNews, 20 May, www.inte​llin​ews.com/​r uss​ian-​gov​ernm​ent-​gets-​a-​new-​progra​mme-​and-​peo​ple-​141​376/​?sou​rce=​ rus​sia. Aspalter, C. (2017), “Ten Worlds of Welfare Capitalism: An Ideal-​Typical Perspective”, in C. Aspelter (ed.), The Routledge International Handbook to Welfare State Systems (London: Routledge), www.rou​tled​ geha​ndbo​oks.com/​doi/​10.4324/​978131​5613​758.ch2. Barr, N. (2000), “Reforming Pensions: Myths, Truths, and Policy Choices”, IMF Working Paper, August, www.imf.org/​exter​nal/​pubs/​ft/​wp/​2000/​wp00​139.pdf. Chazan, Y. (2020), “Russia’s ‘National Projects’ in Need of a Lift”, Geopolitical Monitor: Situation Reports, 24 March, www.geop​olit​ical​moni​tor.com/​russ​ias-​natio​nal-​proje​cts-​in-​need-​of-​a-​lift/​. Cook, L.J. (1993), The Soviet Social Contract and Why It Failed: Welfare Policy and Workers’ Politics from Brezhnev to Yeltsin (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press). Cook, L.J. (2007), Postcommunist Welfare States: Reform Politics in Russia and Eastern Europe (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Cook, L. (2010), “Russia’s Welfare Regime: The Shift Toward Statism”, in M. Jappinen, M. Kulmalaand and A. Saarinen (eds.), Gazing at Welfare, Gender, and Agency in Post-​Socialist Countries (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing): 14–​36. Cook, L. and J. Twigg (2020), “Can Russia’s Health and Welfare Systems Handle the Pandemic?”, Current History 119, 819: 251–​7. Deeming, C. (2017), “The Lost and the New ‘Liberal World’ of Welfare Capitalism: A Critical Assessment of Gøsta Esping-​Andersen’s the Three Worlds of Welfare Capitalism a Quarter Century Later”, Social Policy and Society 16, 3: 405–​22. Engqvist, M. (2021), “Why Russia’s National Projects Went Out in the Cold”, Swedish Defence Research Agency, RUFS Briefing No. 51, www.foi.se/​rest-​api/​rep​ort/​FOI%20M​emo%207​531. Esping-​Andersen, G. (1990), The Three Worlds of Welfare Capitalism (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Fakhrutdinova, E.V. (2009), “Prioritetnye natsional’nye proekty v Rossiiskoi Federatsii: dialektika razvitiya”, Uchenye zapiski Kazanskogo gosudarstvennogo universiteta 151, 4: 253–​64, https://​core.ac.uk/​ downl​oad/​pdf/​197370​548.pdf.

351

352

Elena Maltseva Forrat, N. (2018), “Shock-​Resistant Authoritarianism: Schoolteachers and Infrastructural State Capacity in Putin’s Russia”, Comparative Politics 50, 3: 417–​34. Gaidar, E.T. (1994), “The Most Correct Policy is a Responsible Policy, Not Populism”, Problems of Economic Transition 37, 4: 5–​13. Hale, H. (2010), “Eurasian Polities as Hybrid Regimes: The Case of Putin’s Russia”, Journal of Eurasian Studies 1, 1: 33–​41. Hedlund, S. (1999), Russia’s “Market” Economy: A Bad Case of Predatory Capitalism (London: UCL Press). Heneghan, M. (2015), “The Rise and Fall of the World Bank’s Global Pension Model”, Sheffield Political Economy Research Institute, http://​speri.dept.shef.ac.uk/​2015/​12/​01/​the-​r ise-​and-​fall-​of-​the-​ world-​banks-​glo​bal-​pens​ion-​model/​. Klenko, L. and R. Rudnev (2019), “Healthcare Reform: 9 Years Later”, RAPSI, 26 June, http://​rapsin​ ews.ru/​legi​slat​ion_​publ​icat​ion/​20190​626/​301036​660.html. Kotlikoff, L.J. (1999), “The World Bank’s Approach and the Right Approach to Pension Reform”, www. kotlik​off.net/​sites/​defa​ult/​files/​adb.pdf. Kwon, H. (2007), “Transforming the Developmental Welfare States in East Asia”, DESA Working Paper No. 40, www.resea​rchg​ate.net/​prof​i le/​Huck-​Ju-​Kwon/​publ​icat​ion/​23694220_​Transforming_​the_​ developmental_​welf​are_​stat​es_​i​n_​Ea​st_​A​sia/​links/​559de​53c0​8aeb​45d1​715d​d0c/​Trans​form​ing-​the-​ develo​pmen​tal-​welf​are-​sta​tes-​in-​East-​Asia.pdf. Levitsky, S. and L.A. Way (2002), “Elections Without Democracy: The Rise of Competitive Authoritarianism”, Journal of Democracy 13, 2: 51–​65. Logvinenko, I. (2020), “Authoritarian Welfare State, Regime Stability, and the 2018 Pension Reform in Russia”, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies 53, 1: 100–​16. Maltseva, E. (2012), Welfare Reforms in Post-​Soviet States: A Comparison of Social Benefits Reform in Russia and Kazakhstan, PhD Dissertation, Department of Political Science, University of Toronto, https://​tsp​ace. libr​ary.utoro​nto.ca/​bitstr​eam/​1807/​35069/​1/​Maltseva_​Elena_​201206_​PhD_​thesis.pdf. Maltseva, E. (2013), “The Challenges and Prospects of Reforming Russia’s Higher Education System”, in L. Black and M. Johns (eds.), Russia after 2012: From Putin to Medvedev to Putin –​Continuity, Change, or Revolution? (London: Routledge): 57–​72. Maltseva, E. (2019), “The Politics of Retirement Age Increase in Russia: Proposals, Protests and Concessions”, Russian Politics 4, 3: 375–​99. Maltseva, E. and S. Janenova (2018), “Case Studies: Kazakhstan”, in I. Ortiz, F. Durán-​Valverde, S. Urban and V. Wodsak (eds.), Reversing Pension Privatizations: Rebuilding Public Pension Systems in Eastern Europe and Latin America (Geneva: International Labour Office): 199–​232, www.ilo.org/​wcm​sp5/​gro​ups/​pub​ lic/​-​-​-​ed_​prot​ect/​-​-​-​soc_​sec/​docume​nts/​publ​icat​ion/​wcms​_​648​574.pdf. Maltseva, E. and S. Janenova (2019), “The Politics of Pension Reforms in Kazakhstan: Pressures for Change and Reform Strategies”, in S. An, T. Chubarova, B. Deacon and P. Stubbs (eds.), Social Policy, Poverty and Inequality in Central and Eastern Europe and the Former Soviet Union (London: JH Publishing): 209–​36. Manning, N., O. Shkaratan and N. Tikhonova (2000), Work and Welfare In the New Russia (Burlington: Ashgate Publishing). Mesa-​Lago, C. (2014), “Reversing Pension Privatization: The Experience of Argentina, Bolivia, Chile and Hungary”, Geneva: International Labour Organization, www.ilo.org/​gimi/​gess/​Resso​urce​PDF. act​ion?ressou​rce.ress​ourc​eId=​43277. Ohtsu, S. and S. Tabata (2005), “Pension Reforms in Russia”, PIE Discussion Paper Series, March, http://​her​mes-​ir.lib.hit-​u.ac.jp/​her​mes/​ir/​re/​14311/​pie_​dp​262.pdf. Ross, C. (2018), “Regional Elections in Russia: Instruments of Authoritarian Legitimacy or Instability?”, Palgrave Communications 4, 75, https://​doi.org/​10.1057/​s41​599-​018-​0137-​1. Russian Government (2020), “The Government Allocates Over 7.6 Billion Roubles for Additional Payments to Social Workers”, 18 May, http://​gov​ernm​ent.ru/​en/​docs/​39697/​. Sherwin, E. (2020), “Russia’s ‘Corona-​Holidays’ Leave Small Businesses in Freefall”, Deutsche Welle, 3 April, www.dw.com/​en/​russ​ias-​cor​ona-​holid​ays-​leave-​small-​bus​ines​ses-​in-​freef​all/​a-​53010​856. Slonimczyk, F. and A. Yurko (2013), “Assessing the Impact of the Maternity Capital Policy in Russia Using a Dynamic Model of Fertility and Employment”, Institute for the Study of Labor, Discussion Paper No. 7705, October, https://​ftp.iza.org/​dp7​705.pdf. State Duma of the Federal Assembly of the Russian Federation (2020), “Kakie vyplaty polozheny sem’yam s det’mi”, 22 October, http://​duma.gov.ru/​news/​48529/​.

352

353

The rise of a hybrid welfare state in Putin’s Russia Tarasenko, A. (2021), “Russia’s Social Policy Response to Covid-​ 19: Temporary and Categorized Benefits”, CRC 1342 Covid-​19 Social Policy Response Series, 3. Bremen: Universität Bremen, SFB 1342 Globale Entwicklungsdynamiken von Sozialpolitik/​CRC 1342 Global Dynamics of Social Policy, https://​nbn-​resolv​ing.org/​urn:nbn:de:0168-​ssoar-​71811-​3. TASS (2019), “Funds Allocated for National Healthcare Project Should Be Spent Wisely —​Putin”, 20 August, https://​tass.com/​polit​ics/​1074​315?utm​_​sou​rce=​goo​gle.com&utm​_​med​ium=​orga​nic&utm_​c​ ampa​ign=​goo​gle.com&utm_​r​efer​rer=​goo​gle.com. Tóth-​Czifra, A. (2020), “The Labors of Sisyphus: Why Russia’s National Projects Are Put On Hold”, Institute of Modern Russia, 2 April, https://​imrus​sia.org/​en/​analy​sis/​3091-​the-​lab​ors-​of-​sisyp​hus-​ why-​rus​sia%E2%80%99s-​natio​nal-​proje​cts-​are-​put-​on-​hold. Trudolyubov, M. (2020), “In Russia, Distrust of Authority Hinders Coronavirus Response”, Wilson Center, 17 April, www.wilso​ncen​ter.org/​blog-​post/​rus​sia-​distr​ust-​author​ity-​hind​ers-​coro​navi​rus-​ respo​nse. Weir, F. (2014), “Healthcare Reform Brings Protesters to the Streets –​in Russia”, The Christian Science Monitor, 3 December, www.csmoni​tor.com/​World/​Eur​ope/​2014/​1203/​Healthcare-reformbrings-​protesters-​to-​the-​streets-​in-​Russia. White, D. (2018), “State Capacity and Regime Resilience In Putin’s Russia”, International Political Science Review/​Revue Internationale de Science Politique 39, 1: 130–​43. World Bank (2020), “COVID-​ 19 (Coronavirus) Policy Response to Protecting the Poorest and Most Vulnerable in Russia”, 4 May, www.worldb​ank.org/​en/​coun​try/​rus​sia/​ brief/​covid-​19response-​poor-​vulnerable-​russia. Wu, Y.S. (2007), “Taiwan’s Developmental State: After the Economic and Political Turmoil”, Asian Survey 47: 977–​1001.

353

354

31 MEDIA AND CULTURE IN PUTIN’S RUSSIA Galina Miazhevich

Post-​Soviet Russia’s media transformations Since perestroika, glasnost and the subsequent dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, Russia’s media have gone through a series of profound transformations. This chapter will briefly reflect on how these key milestones were reviewed in academic literature and then focus on the recent changes to media and culture in Putin’s Russia. By foregrounding contemporary developments, the chapter allows for a more in-​depth insight into the complexity of the Russian mediascape without running into generalisations or simplifications. This focus on the media and cultural aspects strives to overcome a long-​term emphasis on the political and economic dimension of media systems in Russia by foreign and native experts alike. Some timely conceptualisations and systematisations of Russian media were provided at the turn of the century (for example, de Smaele 1999; McNair 2000; Mickiewicz 1999; Vartanova 2001; Zassoursky 2001, 2004). As the contextual factors and the nature of the ongoing post-​ Soviet transformations were unique, dynamic and complex, it proved challenging to fit post-​ Soviet Russian media developments (Oates 2007) into existing Western media system paradigms (Hallin and Mancini 2004; Siebert et al 1963). In addition to the media system approach, the researchers were interested in such macro processes as institutional change and the intersection of media and power, journalism and politics. Some of the key junctures here are Yeltsin’s re-​ election, when the media, oligarchs and journalists were actively involved in his 1996 political campaign (Mickiewicz 1999), and the subsequent reshuffling of media ownership structures after Putin’s election in 2000. Figures in the old oligarchic elite such as Boris Berezovsky, Vladimir Gusinsky and Vladimir Potanin were replaced with new ones. According to Ilya Kiriya (2019), two oligarchs –​Alisher Usmanov and Yuri Kovalchuk –​established very close ties with the key TV channels in Russia. Following a period of relative media liberalisation under Yeltsin, Putin’s first two terms in presidential office (2000–​8) were marked by steadily growing state control (Beumers et al 2009). This meant that an analysis of the economic structure of media production in Russia had to carefully consider both the role played by the media owners, exerting commercial pressure on media, and various legislative and executive state actors employing other means of media

354

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-35

355

Media and culture in Putin’s Russia

control (Kachkaeva et al 2006; Koltsova 2006; Kiriya 2019). Ownership, however, has proved difficult to ascertain due to the lack of transparent data and the distorted system of ownership, whereby the overwhelming majority of national newspapers and TV stations were owned by groups close to the state, although this may have been less so in the regions.1 There was a sustained legacy of takeovers of TV assets by the state and oligarchic groups linked to the government (Kiriya 2019; Kachkaeva et al 2006; Becker 2018), such as the NTV channel in 2001. A growing internet penetration during Medvedev’s presidency (2008–​12) started to draw officials’ and scholars’ attention to RuNet, the Russian internet (Oates 2013). Its regulation proved more difficult than traditional media due to the nature of the medium. Gradually, RuNet’s relative freedom was curtailed by several “generations” of control, ranging from the simple blocking of access, legal regulation and counter-​campaigns to other more sophisticated tactics (Deibert and Rohozinski 2010) outlined below. Having said that, the Russian approach to restricting the internet differs from simple large-​scale direct censorship based on filtering and technical blocking, as in the case of China (Toepfl 2018). One of the first volumes to supplement these insights into the structural changes in Russian media, with an inquiry into the socio-​cultural aspect of media transformations, was The Post-​ Soviet Russian Media: Conflicting Signals (Beumers et al 2009). Other studies investigated the persistence of the Soviet legacy of (self-​)censorship and conformism (Koltsova 2006; Pasti 2005), including (self-​)censorship online (Fossato et al 2008). The overview of journalistic values, the instrumentalisation of media via “clientelism” (Roudakova 2008) and the “commodification of loyalty” (Kiriya 2019) revealed the uncomfortable position of journalists torn between marketisation and ethics. So Roudakova’s recent book (2017) on journalists’ ethical standards in Russia during the 1990s and 2000s uncovered an erosion of the value of “truth-​seeking” amongst journalists and a changing cultural contract between media professionals and their audiences. Finally, a cultural aspect of media transformation embraces changing media genres due to the cross-​cultural dialogue between Russian and transnational media, as well as the audience perception of these “hybrid” media texts. Several studies have explored Russian television through this prism: earlier research by Ellen Mickiewicz –​Television, Power, and the Public in Russia (2008) –​and by Stephen Hutchings and Natalya Rulyova, whose 2009 book Television and Culture in Putin’s Russia: Remote Control provides a nuanced understanding of changing TV genres and their reception. A large-​scale study of Russian audiences (going beyond TV viewership) would be a timely and welcome addition to the existing scholarship. After noting these dynamics, the chapter shifts its focus to the last decade, when Vladimir Putin returned to office as Russia’s president in spring 2012. This timeframe (2012–​21) is particularly important due to (i) Russia’s changing political and ideological landscape, exemplified by its neo-​authoritarian turn (Becker 2018) as discussed below, and (ii) the technological shift, as digital media have dramatically altered established media consumption and production patterns. A complete overhaul of Russia’s media ecology –​marked among other things by the emergence of new newspaper-​or television-​internet hybrids (one of the first volumes published in the Russian language to consider this shift and the consequences of digitisation for Russian media is Strukov and Zvereva 2014) and the audience’s participatory engagement, which is representative of the post-​broadcast era (Turner and Tay 2009) –​adds complexity to the heavily regulated Russian media landscape. By considering this growing hybridity of the nation’s media (Chadwick 2013) and blending older and new media logic, this chapter provides a novel perspective on the Russian mediascape.

355

356

Galina Miazhevich

The changing Russian media ecology Russian media and the socio-​political environment Contemporary Russia’s media have to operate in a peculiar socio-​political environment. The escalating repressive nature of the Russian regime has led its path to be re-​labelled from a “managed democracy” (Wilson 2005) to one of authoritarianism. The diversity of definitions of authoritarianism and the proliferation of terms –​including neo-​authoritarianism (Becker 2018), resurgent (Flikke 2016), consultative (Toepfl 2018), soft (Guriev and Treisman 2020) and other types of authoritarianism –​renders these typologies problematic. Still, it is not the task of this chapter to establish the distinctive type of authoritarian regime emerging in Russia or to investigate to what degree Russia falls within any particular group of semi-​centralising states (such as maintaining a pretence of fair elections). The goal here is to survey the media landscape in Putin’s Russia, accounting for economic and political factors, and to reflect on the recent trends brought about by the changing socio-​cultural and technological environment such as digital media. Nevertheless, state control mechanisms inform the boundaries of freedom of expression in Russia. Reporters Without Borders (RSF) states that Russia remains at the lower end of its press freedom rankings, falling even further in 2021 to become ranked 150th out of 180 countries (RSF 2021). Intimidation of journalists is commonplace and independent investigative media is suppressed (Khvostunova 2021).2 Freedom House’s annual Freedom on the Net index also reveals a gradual but steady decline: in 2009 Russia’s internet freedom was ranked as “partly free”, changing to “not free” in 2015 (Freedom House 2021). Earlier optimistic statements about the democratic potential of digital media (Oates 2013) are now supplemented with disconcerted (Human Rights Watch 2020) and more cautionary accounts (Filimonov and Carpentier 2021; Bodrunova et al 2021), which show how Russia’s “hybrid regime” (Petrov et al 2014) employs both overt and covert regulatory mechanisms (Wijermars and Lehtisaari 2021). Until recently, the Russian regime had pursued a relatively open policy towards the internet in comparison to its regulation of other media. High internet penetration3 is now counterbalanced by the constraints placed on it via modifications to domestic legislation (Deibert and Rohozinski 2010; Human Rights Watch 2020) and explicit official requests to remove online content4 and block certain services (such as the messaging app Telegram in 2018). Importantly, Wijermars and Lehtisaari (2021) assert that a Russian federal law “On news aggregators” passed in January 2017 enabled a shift from the state controlling news content and its producers “towards governing the algorithmic infrastructures that shape news dissemination”. This can work both ways, by downplaying “unwanted” search results and promoting pro-​state information resources and messages. Finally, Sivetc (2019) draws attention to the growing role of indirect regulations due to the cooperation between internet infrastructure owners and the state. The regulation of Russian media is ongoing, with further restrictions continuously being introduced under the pretext of informational sovereignty (such as the Sovereign Internet Law, which came into force in November 2019, and the “fake news” law in March 2019) or the fight against various forms of extremism and terrorism (such as a requirement to store users’ data). The establishment exerts “more influence over international social media companies”5 and targets independent media outlets by employing its “foreign agent” legislation6 to make it more difficult for them to operate (Freedom House 2021). Furthermore, the legislative documents’ vague wording and selective application (RSF 2021) are also used to exert pressure and create a significant level of uncertainty in the media’s day-​to-​day functioning.

356

357

Media and culture in Putin’s Russia

Challenging persistent misconceptions Even though Russian media have to operate under numerous pronounced constraints on their freedom of expression, the situation should not be viewed in a simplistic manner. Rather than treating Russia as a homogenous entity, any scrutiny of Russian media needs to be more nuanced, accounting for regional differences and variations (Erzikova and Lowery 2017). An expanding scholarship demonstrates that regional TV might be more autonomous than the state TV channels or that, despite its fragmentation and financial struggles, regional print media can benefit from digitisation in terms of content and reach, branching out onto other platforms and capitalising on other services (Erzikova and Lowery 2017; Bodrunova et al 2021). The country’s media diversity also includes ethnic media, which experience diverging levels of management from the state (e.g. Gladkova et al 2019). Furthermore, control of the media in Russia is less uniform and homogenous than previously thought.7 As has been persuasively argued, (even) the state-​controlled traditional media demonstrate a consistent presence of various alternative voices (Flood et al 2008) and journalistic agency (Hutchings and Rulyova 2009; Tolz et al 2020), not to mention the role of alternative media (Filimonov and Carpentier 2021) and the interplay of the two (Miazhevich 2021). Furthermore, Kiriya (2019: 8), albeit from a slightly different perspective, questions the supposed “monolithic” nature of state power and suggests substituting the idea of top-​down state control of the media with the notion of “rooted practices”, where certain historically informed routine media practices of “communication support” might be mistaken for state paternalism. Likewise, the crude argument that Russia’s state media is subjugated to the establishment’s message is successfully refuted by Tolz et al (2020) in their study, which shows that the degree of coordination of the state media might be less prominent than previously assumed. As the research team investigated a hitherto overlooked dimension of media/​journalistic agency in Russia, they discovered the complex nature of media production, claiming that even the state media outlets have more freedom at the editorial level and display more agency in their everyday production practice than has traditionally been ascribed to them (despite growing conservativism and tightening of the regulations). At the level of journalistic engagement in the regions, including their social media interactions, the situation might vary (Bodrunova et al 2021). Next, a misleading division between state media and limited oppositional (dissident) media opposing the regime constitutes a recurrent argument. Here, a post-​Cold War mentality of clear-​cut ideological divides informs the viewpoint of oppositional media countering traditional media’s messaging. In fact, the “information ghettos” (a narrow public sphere) and lack of a common platform amongst already marginalised oppositional or “alternative” media (Kiriya 2019) can be reviewed when located in a broader hybridising media system with more porous layers. In a similar vein, internet use by the political opposition during protests (Oates 2013) can be conceptualised as going beyond online tools of resistance to the official mainstream. Unexpectedly, Dunn’s (2014) model of Russian media as a two-​tier, dichotomous media system –​with limited interaction between the official (associated foremost with state TV) and alternative (digital) media –​might be effective in bringing the legacy and new media together and challenging an assumption of a passive and/​or naïve audience. Indeed, state TV plays an important role for most people.8 According to Volkov and Goncharov (2019), it remains a crucial source of information for 72 percent of the Russian population, especially the more mature demographic group above 65 years of age, with the level of trust in it gradually declining over the last decade (from 83 percent to 55 percent). Whilst there is a sustained division of media consumption patterns among various demographic groups, the audience might be more critical 357

358

Galina Miazhevich

to the media messaging than previously thought; studies have shown that a proportion of the viewership consumes media texts with a degree of scepticism (Klimov 2007). Interestingly, since the notion of convergent media –​where various types of media such as print, broadcast and new media merge –​was introduced (Jenkins 2006), Western media studies have moved past that pivotal moment. However, for the Russian mediascape operating within this rigid two-​tiered media structure (Dunn 2014) it remains pertinent. It implies that a significant part of the population might still be accessing the same events simultaneously on state TV when “all eyes [are] transfixed on the ceremonial center” (Dayan and Katz 1992: 15). Furthermore, a sustained distinctive divide between the spectators predominantly consuming traditional media and those exposed to online media flows increases paradoxes of communication. Indeed, Russia Today’s (RT) editor Margarita Simonyan has asserted that the younger generation, who do not watch TV, only know Putin from memes (2019). However, one cannot expect these parallel public spaces to endure. The Russian establishment is striving to optimise its communication strategy in this hybrid digitised mediascape, signalling its evolution into something akin to “information autocracy” (Guriev and Treisman 2020) or “hybrid regime governance” (Petrov et al 2014) to ensure sustained legitimacy. This strategy presupposes various approaches, ranging from more rigid forms of control (censorship, filtering, legal restrictions) to more covert and indirect controls (Deibert and Rohozinski 2010; Morozov 2011) including subversive tactics such as infotainment, co-​optation, public opinion manipulation, introducing contradictory accounts or information overload. To account for these interrelated tactics and examine how they play out in Russia’s mediascape, this chapter considers several specific cases below.

Complex trends in Russia’s hybridising media ecology This discussion will reveal a significantly more complex convergent mediascape in contemporary Russia where various actors, including state media, are active (albeit not equal) participants in media exchanges. This has come about as the idea of the top-​down dissemination of messages by the official media has been challenged by various other media, revealing a complex dynamic including bottom-​up currents and multidirectional information flows. It will also demonstrate that it depends on whether it is in the regime’s interests to tolerate these various “windows of pluralism” (Becker 2018: 205) and allow certain safety valves instead of ruthlessly constraining and marginalising alternative voices. Noticeably, contemporary media consumption is characterised by infotainment, as the audience’s consumption is driven less by a wish to obtain factual news and more by their social and entertainment needs, as well as by a growing interest in the type of journalism that informs and also explains (Russian Periodical Press 2015: 12). To gratify these needs, the online audience, which now incorporates a steadily growing older (previously TV-​inclined) cohort,9 can select from a variety of online media and news aggregators (such as Yandex.ru) in addition to the available state outlets and “institutionalised” oppositional media such as Ekho Moskvy radio, Novaya Gazeta print media and Dozhd (TV Rain) broadcaster (Kiriya 2019). Thus, in order to maintain its viewership in this highly competitive environment, and perhaps in a vain attempt to attract a new “digital audience”, the state media need to supplement “hard” news with a more amusing news delivery (soft news), diversify its media genres and employ varying “cross-​media” formats, stylistic and aesthetic strategies to imitate the plurality of opinions (Wijermars and Lehtisaari 2021). To start with, the official media skilfully utilises various media genres to enable a richer and more complex mediascape. The “Western formats” that are adopted for the local context range 358

359

Media and culture in Putin’s Russia

from chat and talk shows (or tok shou, see Hutchings and Rulyova 2009) to stand-​up comedy10 and offer diverse entertainment options. However, this co-​optation strategy frequently backfires when social media celebrities are invited to take part in various primetime TV shows. First, their communication strategy confuses and potentially alienates the audience of the first-​tier media, who are unaccustomed to the language and cultural references11 of the online celebrities (such as the controversial stand-​up comedian Danial Poperechnyi on the Vechernii Urgant chat show on Channel One). Second, the invited celebrities frequently display quite a dissident, unpredictable attitude when on state TV. For instance, online influencers expressed dissatisfaction at their treatment as guests on the show Modnyi Prigovor (“Fashion Verdict”), and the main guest walked out during Davai Pozhenimsya (“Let’s Get Married”), rebelling against its hierarchical communicative mode. Both programmes were aired on Channel One. Ironically, this two-​tier division also means that the state media unexpectedly promote certain events and figures from the second tier when covering various events such as scandals. One of the most recent cases involved cadets from an aviation institute in Ulyanovsk, whose online video parody “Satisfaction”, filmed in the privacy of their hall of residence, unexpectedly made its way onto the main state TV channels. This large-​scale media publicity led to wider public awareness of this scandalous video, enabling those who otherwise might not have encountered it to have their say (via various media channels) in saving the cadets from being expelled from their institute and forcing the state media to dramatically alter their disparaging narrative (Miazhevich 2021). Similar challenges to the “top-​down” control or dissemination of media messages are highlighted by the arrest of the investigative journalist Ivan Golunov on a trumped-​up drug trafficking charge in June 2019 (RSF 2021). The charges were soon dropped after being widely challenged, demonstrating how quickly the establishment’s stance was able to change when media, journalists and the general public expressed their concerns and manifested their agency. This analysis would not be complete without an investigation into a conspicuous feature of Russia’s media ecology –​namely, the exploitation of “information oversaturation” or the “information war” (Pomerantsev 2014) prominent in a post-​truth and post-​fact society devoid of a coherent sustainable clear-​cut ideological stance.12 Russian official media products crafted for both domestic and international audiences (near abroad and beyond) at times contain stories that are not (entirely) true, mixing real and fake details. Russia’s international multilanguage broadcaster RT plays a crucial role in this process (Miazhevich 2018), advancing some of the “grey” narratives on an international scale.13 This oversaturation of the information space with “diverse, and occasionally contradictory, accounts which cannot easily be verified” is intended “to create confusion and doubt” (Miazhevich 2018: 578). Apart from RT, Russia’s posturing in the international arena includes the use of state-​ sponsored chatbots and troll factories (OSCAR 2021) to manufacture numerous online posts, either to boost Russia’s profile or criticise its opponents. Big data and algorithm tracking projects (Wijermars 2021) explore patterns in these media messages to ascertain whether they are managed, follow certain patterns, or simply left circulating without any follow up (OSCAR 2021). These intersections and ongoing alignments between the state, state-​related and other actors need to be urgently explored. As Russia’s media forms part of global media flows, it appropriates and domesticates global media practices, narratives and genres, in part to feed them back as the projected image of nationhood. In his recent book, Hutchings (2022) applies the logic of the feedback loop or “recursion” to a variety of genres, ranging from TV to performative art, to uncover Russia’s multiple “projections” to the world. The Palgrave Handbook of Digital Russia Studies (Gritsenko et al 2021) looks into an array of phenomena brought about by the proliferation of digital 359

360

Galina Miazhevich

technologies affecting Russia’s media industry, exploring how they are “domesticated” and what parallels can be drawn with the transformations of journalistic practices and agency elsewhere. Still, Russian media remains quite peripheral within the transnational media flows. For instance, Flood et al (2008) have established that Russia’s terror reporting largely grounds itself in the Western media’s patterns of coverage, which are then used for domestic consumption in line with the country’s strategic needs (such as justifying the Chechen wars), rather than feeding back and actively informing transnational narratives.

Conclusion This overview of the recurring conceptualisations of Russia’s media ecology has shown that the country’s media constitutes a unique and challenging case for specialists in media, area, communication and cultural studies. Contemporary Russia’s mediascape is characterised by a complex intersection of official and alternative media; legacy and digital media; editorial, regional and ethnic media diversity; and more sophisticated “hybrid” media management by Putin’s government, which consolidates state control over the mediascape yet responds to the changing global environment and media consumption patterns. Ultimately, the chapter has exposed a set of the current regime’s strategies of direct and indirect control, feeding into what Sergei Guriev and Daniel Treisman (2020) call an “information autocracy”. However, in his latest interview (Khvostunova 2021), Guriev notes that the most recent media suppression in Russia involving the use of laws on extremism, growing censorship and the like signals a further centralisation of the regime, which might potentially move even further away from information autocracy. Possibly, grasping Russian media’s peculiarities can be enhanced by comparing them with the post-​Soviet (Becker 2018) or BRICS (Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa) countries (Vartanova 2015). Bearing in mind the non-​ linear nature of post-​Soviet Russian media transformations (Becker 2018), it remains to be seen how Russia’s media structures and practices will be (re-​)fashioned from now on.

Notes 1 Zassoursky (2001) and Kiriya (2019) note a high dependence of the print media on local and federal governments. 2 Largely, the pressure on the independent media has been steadily increasing “since the big anti-​ government protests in 2011 and 2012” (RSF 2021). This was when the regulation of the internet came into the establishment’s focus as well. 3 In 2018, internet penetration was calculated at 75.4 percent for those aged 16 and above, with mobile internet use increasing to 61 percent. There are clear generational differences, with only 36 percent of the population over 55 using the internet on a regular basis. In turn, 99 percent of the youngest group (16–​29) and 88 percent of 30–​54 year olds used the internet regularly (GfK 2019). 4 An official Google report from 2019 shows that Russia filed more than 10,000 requests to remove online content, followed by Turkey with just 1,000 requests (McGowran 2022). 5 Russia positions itself as a “sophisticated cyber superpower” that can build the internet on its own terms without “isolating itself from the broader internet” (Druzhinin 2021). Just before Russia’s 2021 parliamentary elections, it made the key tech giants Apple and Google comply with its demands to remove a voting app from their Android and iOS app stores. 6 Originally introduced in 2012 as “On amendments to legislative acts of the Russian Federation regarding the regulation of the activities of non-​profit organisations performing the functions of a foreign agent”, it was changed several times. In November 2017 the “foreign agents” legislation expanded its remit from NGOs to media outlets that might be in receipt of foreign support (understood very broadly). The amendment in December 2019 included individuals (e.g. people distributing content on social media) who received funding from foreign donors.

360

361

Media and culture in Putin’s Russia 7 Total political control over the press was not possible even in the USSR, as the case of samizdat (self-​ published) literature showed. 8 TV is still a leading source of information for most of the population: 73 percent of respondents indicate television as their main source of information, followed by online media outlets (39 percent), social media (39 percent), family, friends and neighbours (18 percent), newspapers (16 percent), radio (15 percent) and Telegram channels (4 percent) (Levada Center 2020). The younger generation (18–​ 24) rely heavily on social media for their news (65 percent), while only 16 percent of the eldest group (the over 55s) follow online outlets. 9 In Russia’s two-​tier media system, the older generation is getting more used to the convergent media. The Levada Center (2020) detected a 10 percent increase in online activity in the middle-​aged group (those between 40 and 54 years of age). 10 A recent phenomenon of “hollow humour” introduced by Roudakova (2017) questions the potential and nature of the scathing commentary present even on state media primetime entertainment shows. 11 Similarly, state TV strives to appeal to different generational groups via such programmes as Starye pesni o glavnom (“Old songs about the main things”), which broadcasts old Soviet compositions reworked by contemporary singers. However, it is not enticing a younger audience due to the multitude of different non-​shared discursive codes (despite them being performed by singers they might know). The fact that the series, which was created in 1995, was rebroadcast in January 2020 and 2022 indicates either a rigidity of tactics or a lack of available options for the state media. 12 This chapter does not discuss propaganda and/​or promotion of the state line, as it goes beyond the chapter’s scope. 13 Some of the most prominent examples include a manufactured story about a little boy’s torture and execution by crucifixion in Ukraine aired on state TV (Channel One, 12 July 2014) and RT’s coverage of the Malaysian plane downed over Ukraine (17 July 2014). RT had originally reported that its passengers were already dead due to a virus outbreak on board before the plane was shot down.

References Becker, J. (2018), “Russia and the New Authoritarians”, in P. Rollberg and M. Laruelle (eds.), Mass Media in the Post-​Soviet World: Market Forces, State Actors, and Political Manipulation in the Informational Environment after Communism (Stuttgart: Ibidem-​Verlag): 57–​77. Beumers, B., S. Hutchings and N. Rulyova (2009), The Post-​Soviet Russian Media: Conflicting Signals (London: Routledge). Bodrunova, S., A. Litvinenko and K. Nigmatullina (2021), “Who is the Censor? Self-​Censorship of Russian Journalists in Professional Routines and Social Networking”, Journalism 22, 12: 2919–​37, https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​14648​8492​0941​965. Chadwick, A. (2013), The Hybrid Media System: Politics and Power (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Dayan, D. and E. Katz (1992), Media Events: The Live Broadcasting of History (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press). Deibert, R. and R. Rohozinski (2010), “Control and Subversion in Russian Cyberspace”, in R. Deibert, J. Palfrey, R. Rohozinski and J. Zittrain (eds.), Access Controlled: The Shaping of Power, Rights, and Rule in Cyberspace (Cambridge [Mass]: MIT Press): 15–​34. de Smaele, H. (1999), “The Applicability of Western Media Models on the Russian Media System”, European Journal of Communication 14, 2: 173–​89. Druzhinin, A. (2021), “Russia is Building Its Own Kind of Sovereign Internet –​With Help from Apple and Google”, The Conversation, 4 October, https://​thec​onve​rsat​ion.com/​rus​sia-​is-​build​ing-​its-​own-​ kind-​of-​sovere​ign-​inter​net-​with-​help-​from-​apple-​and-​goo​gle-​169​115. Dunn, J.A. (2014), “Lottizzazione Russian Style: Russia’s Two-​Tier Media System”, Europe-​Asia Studies 66, 9: 1425–​51, https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​09668​136.2014.956​441. Erzikova, E. and W. Lowery (2017), “Russian Regional Media: Fragmented Community, Fragmented Online Practices”, Digital Journalism 5: 919–​37. Filimonov, K. and N. Carpentier (2021), “Beyond the State as the ‘Cold Monster’: The Importance of Russian Alternative Media in Reconfiguring the Hegemonic State Discourse”, Critical Discourse Studies, https://​doi-​org.abc.card​iff.ac.uk/​10.1080/​17405​904.2021.1999​283. Flikke, G. (2016), “Resurgent Authoritarianism: The Case of Russia’s New NGO Legislation”, Post-​ Soviet Affairs 32, 2: 103–​31, https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​10605​86X.2015.1034​981.

361

362

Galina Miazhevich Flood, C., S. Hutchings, G. Miazhevich and H. Nickels (2008), Islam, Security and Television News (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). Fossato, F., J. Lloyd and A. Verkhovsky (2008), The Web That Failed: How Opposition Politics and Independent Initiatives are Failing on the Internet in Russia (Oxford: Reuters Institute for the Study of Journalism). Freedom House (2021), Russia, Freedom on the Net, https://​freed​omho​use.org/​coun​try/​rus​sia/​free​ dom-​net/​2021. GfK (2019), “Issledovanie GfK: proniknovenie interneta v Rossii”, https://​www.gfk.com/​ru/​insa​ity/​ press-​rele​ase/​issle​dova​nie-​gfk-​pronik​nove​nie-​intern​eta-​v-​ros​sii/​. Gladkova A., I. Aslanov, A. Danilov, A. Danilov, V. Garifullin and R. Magadeeva (2019), “Ethnic Media in Russia: Between State Model and Alternative Voices”, Russian Journal of Communication 11, 1: 53–​70. Gritsenko, D., M. Wijermars and M. Kopotev (2021), The Palgrave Handbook of Digital Russia Studies (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan). Guriev, S. and D. Treisman (2020), “A Theory of Informational Autocracy”, Journal of Public Economics 186, https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​j.jpub​eco.2020.104​158. Hallin, D. and P. Mancini (2004), Comparing Media Systems: Three Models of Media and Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Human Rights Watch (2020), “Russia: Growing Internet Isolation, Control, Censorship”, 18 June, https://​www.hrw.org/​news/​2020/​06/​18/​rus​sia-​grow​ing-​inter​net-​isolat​ion-​cont​rol-​cen​sors​hip. Hutchings, S. (2022), Projecting Russia on the Global Stage: International Broadcasting and Recursive Nationhood (London: Routledge). Hutchings, S. and N. Rulyova (2009), Television and Culture in Putin’s Russia: Remote Control (London: Routledge). Jenkins, H. (2006), Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide (New York: New York University Press). Kachkaeva, A., I. Kiriya and G. Libergal (2006), “Television in the Russian Federation: Organisational Structure, Programme Production and Audience”, Report for the European Audiovisual Observatory (Moscow: InterNews). Khvostunova, O. (2021), “We May Already Be Seeing Russia’s Return to the Repressive Dictatorship of the 20th Century”, Institute of Modern Russia, 5 August, https://​imrus​sia.org/​en/​opini​ons/​3321-​ser​ gei-​gur​iev-​“we-​may-​alre​ady-​be-​see​ing-​r us​sia’s-​ret​urn-​to-​the-​rep​ress​ive-​dicta​tors​hip-​of-​the-​20th-​ cent​ury. Kiriya, I. (2019), “New and Old Institutions within the Russian Media System”, Russian Journal of Communication 11, 1: 6–​21. Klimov, I. (2007), “Sotsial’nye vyzovy ‘privatizirovannogo’ televideniya”, in A. Kachkaeva and I. Kiriya (eds.), Rossiiskoe televidenie: mezhdu sprosom i predlozheniem (Moscow: Jelitkomstar): 9–​22. Koltsova, O. (2006), News Media and Power in Russia (London: Routledge). Levada Center (2020), “Rossiiskii medialandshaft”, 28 April, https://​www.lev​ada.ru/​2020/​04/​28/​ros​sijs​ kij-​med​iala​ndsh​aft-​2020/​. McGowran, L. (2022), “Russia Top of the List in Google Content Take-​Down Requests”, Silicon Republic, 7 January, https://​www.sili​conr​epub​lic.com/​busin​ess/​rus​sia-​goo​gle-​cont​ent-​surfsh​ark-​study. McNair, B. (2000), “Power, Profit, Corruption, and Lies. The Russian Media in the 1990s”, in J. Curran and M.-​J. Park (eds.), De-​Westernizing Media Studies (London: Routledge): 79–​94. Miazhevich, G. (2018), “Nation Branding in the Post-​Broadcast Era: The Case of RT”, European Journal of Cultural Studies 21, 5: 575–​93. Miazhevich, G. (2021), “An Innocent Provocation or Homoerotic Challenge? Mediations of the ‘Satisfaction’ Video Parody in the Russian Mediascape”, Information, Communication and Society 24, 8: 1123–​39. Mickiewicz, E. (1999), Changing Channels: Television and the Struggle for Power in Russia (Durham: Duke University Press). Mickiewicz, E. (2008), Television, Power, and the Public in Russia (New York: Cambridge University Press). Morozov, E. (2011), The Net Delusion: How Not to Liberate the World (London: Allen Lane). Oates, S. (2007), “The Neo-​Soviet Model of the Media”, Europe-​Asia Studies 59, 8: 1279–​97. Oates, S. (2013), Revolution Stalled: The Political Limits of the Internet in the Post-​ Soviet Sphere (New York: Oxford University Press).

362

363

Media and culture in Putin’s Russia OSCAR (2021), “How a Kremlin-​Linked Influence Operation is Systematically Manipulating Western Media to Construct and Communicate Disinformation”, Report, Cardiff University, https://​www. card​iff.ac.uk/​news/​view/​2547​048-​high-​prof​i le-​west​ern-​media-​outl​ets-​rep​eate​dly-​infi​ltra​ted-​by-​pro-​ krem​lin-​tro​lls. Pasti, S. (2005), “Two Generations of Contemporary Russian Journalists”, European Journal of Communication 20, 1: 89–​115. Petrov, N., M. Lipman and H.E. Hale (2014), “Three Dilemmas of Hybrid Regime Governance: Russia from Putin to Putin”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 30, 1: 1–​26. Pomerantsev, P. (2014), “The Menace of Unreality: How the Kremlin Weaponizes Information, Culture, and Money”, The Interpreter, 22 November, http://​www.int​erpr​eter​mag.com/​the-​men​ace-​of-​unreal​ ity-​how-​the-​krem​lin-​wea​poni​zes-​info​r mat​ion-​cult​ure-​and-​money/​ Roudakova, N. (2008), “Media –​Political Clientelism: Lessons from Anthropology”, Media, Culture & Society 30, 1: 41–​59. Roudakova, N. (2017), Losing Pravda: Ethics and the Press in Post-​Truth Russia (New York: Cambridge University Press). RSF (2021), “Russia. Stifling Atmosphere for Independent Journalists”, Reporters Without Borders, https://​ rsf.org/​en/​rus​sia. Russian Periodical Press (2015), “Situation, Trends and Development Perspectives”, Report by the Federal Agency for the Press and Mass Communications of the Russian Federation. Siebert, F., T. Peterson and W. Schramm (1963), Four Theories of the Press: The Authoritarian, Libertarian, Social Responsibility, and Soviet Communist Concepts of What the Press Should Be and Do (Urbana: University of Illinois Press). Simonyan, M. (2019), “Direktor RT Simon’yan ozadachilas toi problemoi, chto molodezh’ ne smotrit TV i ne znaet Putina”, Rambler, 24 November, https://​www.goo​gle.co.uk/​amp/​s/​news.ramb​ler.ru/​ other/​43220​563-​direk​tor-​r t-​simon​yan-​ozad​achi​las-​toy-​proble​moy-​chto-​molod​ezh-​ne-​smot​r it-​tv-​i-​ ne-​znaet-​put​ina/​amp/​. Sivetc, L. (2019), “State Regulation of Online Speech in Russia: The Role of Internet Infrastructure Owners”, International Journal of Law and Information Technology 27, 1: 28–​49, https://​doi-​org.abc.card​ iff.ac.uk/​10.1093/​ijlit/​eay​016. Strukov, V. and V. Zvereva (eds.) (2014), Ot tsentral’nogo k tsifrovomu: televidenie v Rossii (Voronezh: Voronezhskii gosudarstvennyi pedagogicheskii universitet). Toepfl, F. (2018), “Innovating Consultative Authoritarianism: Internet Votes as a Novel Digital Tool to Stabilize Non-​Democratic Rule in Russia”, New Media & Society 20, 3: 956–​72. Tolz, V., P.N. Chatterje-​Doody, S. Hutchings and R. Crilley (2020), “Mediatization and Journalistic Agency: Russian Television Coverage of the Skripal Poisonings”, Journalism: Theory, Practice & Criticism, https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​14648​8492​0941​967. Turner, G. and J. Tay (eds.) (2009), Television Studies after Television: Understanding Television in the Post Broadcast Era (London: Routledge). Vartanova, E. (2001), “Media Structures: Changed and Unchanged”, in K. Nordenstreng, E. Vartanova and Y. Zassoursky (eds.), Russian Media Challenge, 2nd ed., (Helsinki: Kikimora Publications): 21–​72. Vartanova, E. (2015), “Russia: Post-​Soviet, Post-​Modern and Post-​Empire Media”, in K. Nordenstreng and D.K. Thussu (eds.), Mapping BRICS Media (London: Routledge): 125–​44. Volkov, D. and S. Goncharov (2019), “Rossiiskii medialandshaft: televidenie, pressa, internet i sotsial’nye seti”, Levada Center, https://​www.lev​ada.ru/​2019/​08/​01/​21088/​. Wijermars, M. (2021), “Russia’s Law ‘On News Aggregators’: Control the News Feed, Control the News?”, Journalism 22, 12: 2938–​54, https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​14648​8492​1990​917. Wijermars, M. and K. Lehtisaari (2021), Freedom of Expression in Russia’s New Mediasphere (London: Routledge). Wilson, A. (2005), Virtual Politics: Faking Democracy in the Post-​Soviet World (New Haven: Yale University Press). Zassoursky, I. (2001), Mass-​media i politika v 90-​e gody (Moscow: Moscow State University Press). Zassoursky, I. (2004), Media and Power in Post-​Soviet Russia (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe).

363

364

32 ICT IN PUTIN’S RUSSIA 1999–​2021 Ilya Yablokov and Olga Solovyeva

On 12 November 2021 at the international conference Artificial Intelligence Journey 2021, Russian President Vladimir Putin stated: “The issues of protecting personal data and digital payments and countering hidden manipulation of citizens’ preferences and actions are increasingly coming to the fore. Now it concerns not only ensuring the cybersecurity of a person but also that of their virtual double –​the avatar that will live within the metaverses being established now” (Putin 2021). The quote itself might sound outlandish, especially from the person known for not being a prophet of digitisation (Winder 2019; TASS 2020). Unlike his predecessor Dmitry Medvedev, Putin doesn’t use social networks or internet banking and is not known for watching YouTube shows (RFE/​RL 2010). Yet the setting of the speech and the word choice is remarkable: they highlight state of the art in relations between the Kremlin and information communication technologies (ICT) in 2021. First, the speech shows an intimate relationship between the Kremlin’s political needs related to ICT and developments in the big tech sphere outside Russia, primarily in the United States. New developments there cause an almost immediate reaction in the Russian authorities, who would like to respond to the ever-​growing pressure of digitisation. Putin’s reference to Mark Zuckerberg’s announcement of Metauniverse just days before Putin’s speech is a great example of how sensitive the Kremlin’s bosses are to innovations in the West (Heath 2021). What happens to big tech in the West (and in China) inspires similar developments in Russia, mainly to increase the Kremlin’s control over the population. Second, Putin’s speech was made at an event organised by German Gref, CEO of Sberbank, Russia’s biggest bank and an ICT leader. Within the last 20 years, the Russian internet has created an elite that partly consists of the pioneers of the Russian internet (such as Yandex) and the Kremlin’s big tech companies (such as Gref ’s Sber) that represent different visions of how the RuNet should develop (Asmolov and Kolozaridi 2017). Gref is an icon of the state-​led development of the RuNet that sees ICT as the way to make big money and adopt the innovations that would help Russia’s technological development. The Kremlin’s role is to oversee these processes, support loyal elites and defend them from foreign competitors. Third, the Kremlin sees the benefit of using implemented technologies to ensure state security and regime stability. The menace of regime change, extremism and domestic dissent are the top threats the Kremlin takes seriously (Pigman 2019). The first real danger to the political equilibrium came in December 2011, with hundreds of thousands coming out onto the 364

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-36

365

ICT in Putin’s Russia: 1999–2021

streets to protest rigged parliamentary elections (Gel’man 2015). Social networks became the main instrument of social mobilisation and, as a result, became the main target of the Kremlin’s repressive legislation in the next decade. By the end of the 2010s, the Kremlin had ensured that the laws applied to social networks had made that sphere one of the most regulated and turned ICT into a tool to trace and punish those who speak against the regime. This chapter looks at the evolution of relations between ICT and the Kremlin under Vladimir Putin (1999–​2021). It will sketch the main trends over the last two decades in the history of the Russian internet and look at the evolution that the Kremlin has gone through in its approach to digital technologies.

“RuNet”: From total freedom to Putin’s sovereign internet The history of the RuNet, as Gregory Asmolov notes, should be seen as a sequence of “geological” layers, with the oldest layers being the freest periods of its history and the youngest layers being the most regulated (Asmolov 2021). In fact, this development of ICT in Russia can only be understood in the context of the country’s political evolution. The more liberal the political regime, the faster the development of online technologies. Yet the more authoritarian traits the regime shows, the more regulations internet companies and ordinary users experience. The Soviet scientists exploring and designing communication technologies from the 1950s onwards failed to produce a system similar to that of their American colleagues (Gerovitch 2002). The reasons, as Benjamin Peters notes, are precisely in the political climate of the totalitarian state (Peters 2016). The foundations of the RuNet were laid in the late 1980s-​early 1990s, and the first boosts to ICT technologies came from the West amidst the Soviet Union’s liberalisation led by Mikhail Gorbachev. Soviet and Russian internet pioneers –​either young graduates with degrees in the sciences or entrepreneurs –​quickly moved to the new niche. As Sergey Kuznetsov notes, RuNet’s history post-​1991 could be seen as an evolution from the alternative cultural and anarchist space of the early 1990s to the commercialised and business-​oriented sphere of the late 2000s (Kuznetsov 2004). Throughout the 1990s, the online sphere was a free terrain where talent, stubbornness and a bit of money made fortunes and careers. It was a springboard for new businesses that grew out of forums, early websites and e-​commerce pages. The first attempts by the government to put the online space under control took place in the 1990s. Since counter-​intelligence failed to monitor early internet users on the eve of the Soviet collapse, the state made another attempt to do that in the late 1990s (Konradova 2016). In 1998, the Federal Security Service (FSB) installed SORM-​2 black boxes on providers’ equipment to eavesdrop on users (Soldatov and Borogan 2015). The FSB’s decision was one of the first signs that the autonomous life of internet projects from Russian politics was almost over. In 1999, Minister of Mass Media Mikhail Lesin planned to take over distributing domain names in the .ru zone. This created a big concern in the industry, which increasingly sought independence. Gleb Pavlovsky, the Kremlin’s primary political adviser between 1996 and 2011 who stood behind Russia’s first news websites Dni.ru and Lenta.ru, used this conflict to make Vladimir Putin, the then prime minister and Yeltsin’s successor, look good. He organised a meeting between Putin and the leaders of the internet industry. Putin described the internet as “a very promising form of communication” and publicly turned down Lesin’s initiative to the satisfaction of many. “We are not going to look for a balance between freedom and regulation. We will always choose freedom”, said Putin (Asmolov 2021). The next ten years were a decade of prosperity and rapid growth, a time when major internet companies grew into multi-​billion-​dollar business ventures. This growth was halted, first, by the economic crisis of 2008, and second, by the weather change among Putin’s elite that started 365

366

Ilya Yablokov and Olga Solovyeva

to realise the power of ICTs. In 2010 Putin stated that 50 percent of the Russian internet is pornography. In 2012 Russian MPs used that statement as a pretext to implement the first law on online censorship by banning pornography, drugs and suicide references (BBC News 2012). Since then, the Kremlin steadily increased its pressure on the online sphere: formally, to protect youth from undesirable content; in reality, to impose stricter censorship (Kremlin.ru 2021a). In 2014, amidst the Ukrainian crisis, Putin called the internet a “CIA project”, warning that all information goes through servers in the United States (Al-​Jazeera 2014). As the statement was influenced by the bombshell revelations of NSA employee Edward Snowden, it signalled a new period in Russian ICTs. The Kremlin began building a sovereign internet to isolate Russia from online foreign influence (Soldatov and Borogan 2015). The Kremlin’s desire to rely on Russian-​produced equipment in building the internet infrastructure was clear from the 1990s (Shubenkova and Kolozaridi 2016). Foreign equipment –​ both hardware and software –​have traditionally been seen as a threat to state security. It took the Kremlin 20 years to ensure the Russian internet could be isolated from the global network but still up and running. In the late 2010s, the Kremlin prompted legislative and technological construction of an independent Russian internet infrastructure. In 2019 the internet sovereignty law was adopted. The law demanded that foreign big tech companies with a daily traffic count in Russia of 500,000 or more store their data on Russian servers and open branches of their companies in Russia be responsible for possible violations of Russian law (Human Rights Watch 2020). One of the law’s authors, Alexander Khinshtein, noted that the law’s implementation was primarily aimed at protecting Russian citizens’ data (RFE/​RL 2021a). This is yet another indication that the Kremlin abuses Western practices of data protection that give it more power over citizens. Some experts note that the Kremlin’s assault on the internet in the 2010s should be seen as part of national attempts to adjust state legislation to the new reality where the internet is a crucial part of the daily operations of the state bureaucracy (Kolozaridi and Muravyev 2020). It might sound sensible that governments seek ways to protect the internet infrastructure given its vital role in the everyday functioning of society. However, the context for the introduction of Russia’s internet sovereignty speaks volumes about the real incentives of the Kremlin aimed at the political usage of ICTs against its citizens. The lesson the Kremlin learnt about the difficulties in controlling ICTs within the borders of one state took place in 2018 when Roskomnadzor –​Russia’s media censorship agency –​ tried to ban Telegram, one of Russia’s most popular messengers (Wijermars 2021). The reason was Telegram’s policy that promised to protect users’ anonymity. The government claimed that Telegram was used by terrorist organisations and requested access to encryption keys to review data to prevent possible terrorist attacks in future. Pavel Durov, the founder of Telegram, refused. On 13 April 2018, all Russian internet providers received an order to deny Telegram website access. Durov implemented technological diversions. Despite the governmental ban, the messenger was available and worked fairly well, even for top-​ranking Kremlin politicians, but thousands of websites suffered collateral damage and were inadvertently shut (Burgess 2018). After two years, parliament lifted the ban (Sherman 2020). Instead, the authorities chose an alternative strategy of co-​optation –​an approach getting more popular in authoritarian regimes across the world (Oates 2013; Gunitsky 2015). Dissenting voices stay online on Telegram, but pro-​government media, bots and influencers create an alternative reality with the financial support of the Kremlin. It helps downplay criticism of the government and keep the dominant narratives under the control of the authorities (Proekt 2018). In 2021, the government used more coercive strategies in its fight against the Kremlin’s main political nemesis of the 2010s, politician Aleksei Navalny. The politician, who began his 366

367

ICT in Putin’s Russia: 1999–2021

career as a blogger in the 2000s on LiveJournal and in the 2010s, built horizontal networks of supporters across the country thanks to an active online presence (Savin and Solovyeva 2020). His corruption investigations into the highest echelons of power in Russia spread like wildfire and gathered millions of likes and shares. The ultimate victory was a film about Putin’s Black Sea mansion, which was watched 121 million times (Navalny 2021). In 2021, when the politician ended up in prison, his team launched the “Smart voting” app to help elect MPs unrelated to the United Russia party. This promised to hack the predictable result of the parliamentary elections in September 2021 (Mirovalev 2021). This caused a counterattack by the Kremlin: in March, Roskomnadzor slowed Twitter, a popular social network among Russian opposition (BBC News 2021a). In May, Roskomnadzor requested that Google remove any of Navalny’s team videos that the government agencies found extremist (BBC News 2021b). On the eve of the elections in September 2021, Telegram removed all channels related to Navalny (AFP 2021). To make online control of users even more accessible, in 2017 the government introduced a ban on virtual private networks (VPN) and, in 2021, tried to block the six most popular VPN applications (Data Center Knowledge 2021). Finally, in December 2021, the government banned TOR –​a website created to use the internet anonymously (ggus 2021). In addition to bans and threats to companies, Russian law enforcement services punished famous vloggers and bloggers with millions of followers and dissenting opinions (Committee to Protect Journalists 2021). So, by the end of 2021, the Russian internet had become a highly regulated environment where only the wiliest could survive.

Big tech elites and the Kremlin: The logic of co-​existence Media elites in Russia are key elements of the political regime. Their ability to negotiate rules of the game, sustain horizontal relationships with colleagues and vertical relations with the Kremlin bosses are part and parcel of the process of how the political system in Russia operates (Schimpfössl and Yablokov 2017). As Gregory Asmolov and Polina Kolozaridi suggest, RuNet’s logic of development “should be seen in context as a continuous struggle between various internet visions promoted by inherent cultural, political, and economic elites” (Asmolov and Kolozaridi 2017). In the 2000s, some RuNet pioneer enterprises, such as Yandex and Mail.ru, became profitable. The European Bank of Reconstruction and Development was the source of the first major investments in the IT market. Russia’s economic prosperity of the 2000s and its distance from the state helped many internet companies become rich and influential. The IT sector experienced rapid growth between 2001 and 2012 (up to 50 percent per year), restructuring in 2013–​15, and new development between 2016 and 2020, with the main driver of the market being e-​commerce (Davydov 2020: 70–​1). This rapid growth of ICT companies created the Russian big tech elite, which also partly comes out of the 1990s pioneers’ generation. Yet most of it was shaped in the 2000s, in the years of economic growth. Russian big tech owners are among the wealthiest businesspeople in Russia (Forbes 2021). The Russian IT market is integrated into the global economy. Yandex became Russia’s first IT company to raise $1.3 billion at the NYSE IPO in 2011. Many influential Russian internet entrepreneurs invest in companies both inside Russia and abroad. Yuri Milner, formerly co-​owner and head of the board of directors of the Mail.ru Group, is one of Russia’s most influential global investors. He acquired stakes in Facebook, Twitter, Alibaba and Spotify in the early stages of these companies’ histories. In line with the developing state protectionism in IT, Russian ICT companies have been very active in protecting the market from foreign companies (The Economist 2012). Yandex 367

368

Ilya Yablokov and Olga Solovyeva

Taxi drove out Uber and introduced its version of Amazon’s Alexa called Alisa. Its search engine is also more prevalent in Russia than Google. In e-​commerce, Wildberries and Ozon are more prominent than Amazon. Only Chinese Alibaba has a significant presence in Russia. As Asmolov notes, the Russian concept of internet sovereignty is driven by the vision that Russian companies should occupy all top rankings of IT companies. The Russian government creates favourable conditions for local companies and introduces legislative and administrative obstacles for foreign ICTs (Asmolov 2021). In one of the latest moves, the Russian government required mobile phone producers to pre-​install Russian software, and Apple agreed to do so. In the words of the Russian government, this measure should make all players in the IT market equal (Porter 2021). This mutual interest in keeping foreign companies at bay is one of the factors that keeps the relationship between the state and ICT companies stable. Nevertheless, control of the ITC is also maintained by appointing children of the Kremlin’s elite into ICT business management. Since 2016, Boris Dobrodeev, the son of Oleg Dobrodeev, head of the state media company VGTRK, has been CEO of the Mail.ru group –​one of Russia’s largest IT companies. In December 2021, Dobrodeev was replaced by Vladimir Kirienko, the son of Sergei Kirienko, deputy head of the presidential administration responsible for internal affairs (TASS 2021). Given the scale of the Mail.ru Group’s operations in Russia, including two popular social networks that in the future could replace Facebook and YouTube, if the Kremlin bans these websites, then these appointments will show how important control over the Kremlin is (Meduza 2022).

Networked society: The Kremlin’s challenge The power of the internet to create new forms of collective action is hard to overestimate. From social movements and new forms of public participation, the internet dramatically changed how people participate in political life (Tufekci 2018). Russia is no exception: the internet became a critical element of the decade’s major political events that reshaped the regime. In the 2000s, the growth of daily internet audiences in Russia increased almost tenfold: from 3m in 2003 to 25m in 2010 (Machleder and Asmolov 2011). In the mid-​2000s, the first social networks, Odnoklassniki and VKontakte, emerged. It was one of the major ways to attract new internet users. In the beginning, VKontakte was primarily used by university students; it allowed liking and sharing information and messaging friends. Odnoklassniki, on the other hand, was a tool to connect with classmates and was vastly popular among adults. By the end of the 2000s, Facebook had also become a popular social network in Russia, mostly among users in big Russian cities. At the same time LiveJournal, a blogging platform, had a very active user population in the 2000s (Greenall 2012). It was the prime space for political discussions when the first repressions against the traditional media occurred in the mid-​2000s. In the context of the growing Russian authoritarianism of the 2000s, digital affordances provided by social media were the way to build horizontal networks and challenge the regime. The first example of the effects that online movements had on real life was the wildfires of 2010, which brought significant economic and human losses. The inefficiency of governmental services in fighting the huge fires, the multiple deaths from smog in the Moscow area and the faked attempts by United Russia party activists to fight the fires (which were immediately exposed online) showed the real power of online tools to provide transparency and expose the state’s failures (Asmolov 2010). At the same time, the Help Map platform was created by volunteers to assist those who suffered during the fires and those who wanted to help (Asmolov 2020: 236–​42). 368

369

ICT in Putin’s Russia: 1999–2021

In 2011–​12, during the parliamentary and presidential election campaigns, social media became a crucial tool in challenging the Kremlin’s plans to ensure smooth electoral fraud. On the eve of the elections, journalists and activists organised a crowdsourcing platform for electoral monitoring called “The Map of Violations” that helped report electoral fraud across Russian polling stations. Like Facebook and VKontakte, social media were the prime locations for social mobilisation before the rallies for fair elections that brought thousands of Russians onto the streets. Activists’ digital tools, such as dedicated websites (“Feb 26” and “The White Ribbon”), organised people for protest and monitored arrests of activists. They were effective in monitoring authorities’ actions, reporting everyone arrested at rallies, and carried on working for another decade, such as the “OVD-​Info” project to monitor unlawful arrests at rallies (Asmolov and Kolozaridi 2020). Some experts even argue that the country became split into “Internet Russia and TV Russia” (Alexanyan 2013: 161), reflecting the fact that the opposition to the Kremlin was very efficient in exploiting digital affordances in the early 2010s. While ICT creates challenges for the existing hierarchies and power centres, it can also reinforce the government’s efforts to control the population. Already during the electoral campaign of 2011–​12, the Kremlin elites demonstrated that they saw ICT primarily as a source of unrest and protest that can generate undesirable outcomes and challenge the political status quo. After this campaign, the Kremlin developed an alternative strategy to co-​opt ICT to control content, agenda and users. VKontakte’s founder Pavel Durov, who refused to cooperate with the FSB in closing down opposition groups during the 2011–​12 rallies, was expelled from Russia (Hakim 2014). In 2014, the controlling stake of VKontakte was purchased by Kremlin-​loyal media owner Alisher Usmanov, whose business structures controlled the Mail.ru Group holding. After Usmanov’s purchase, this social media was turned into a tool for the state surveillance of dissenting voices, as the Mail.ru Group gained control over both major Russian social media. From the mid-​ 2010s, cases of extremism online have been opened across Russia, accusing users of offending the church or politicians (Yudina 2016). This became one of the ways to suppress freedom of speech online. Since 2012, amendments to the Law “On information” legitimised blocking (without a court decision) access to online content that could be considered illegal, and now the blocking of material containing justifications for extremist and terrorist activities will be carried out promptly by the Prosecutor General of the Russian Federation or their deputies (Russian State Duma 2021). This often applies in conjunction with the legislative acts defining illegal and extremist, which, according to experts, do not contain the concept of extremism (Verkhovensky et al 2013). A few hundred people are annually convicted for posting content that allegedly stirs up hatred and enmity, insults believers’ feelings and calls for separatism (Kulikov 2021). Tweaking users’ attitudes by providing content favourable to the Kremlin was a necessary part of taming Russian social media. This role was granted to multiple pro-​Kremlin actors, who invested billions of dollars in user perception control such as troll farms, bots and other online means of information warfare. These online military regiments are constantly involved in domestic and foreign missions that dilute political conversations online, push disinformation and harass opposition leaders (Patrikarakos 2017). In addition, in 2011 the Kremlin supported the League of Safe Internet and recruited citizen cyber guards to monitor and file complaints on content that seemed to undermine Kremlin positions (Gabdulhakov 2020). This became a handy tool to open criminal cases against dissenting users and trigger media campaigns to support further undemocratic reforms of ICTs. These authoritarian initiatives did not meet any significant resistance from the public. On the contrary, according to an Annenberg School for Communication poll at the University 369

370

Ilya Yablokov and Olga Solovyeva

of Pennsylvania, 49 percent of Russians supported online censorship and 51 percent favoured creating a blacklist of websites to protect political stability (Nisbet 2015). At the same time, only a third of Russians agreed that the new measures would limit their freedoms (Levada Center 2016).

The Kremlin’s ICT-​related legislation With a long and long-​lasting tradition of “legalism” in the political culture (Van der Vet 2014), the ambiguous application of the concept of good faith in the Russian legislation (Vasilyev and Murzin n.d.) and a low threshold of legal liability, Russian legislation today is an instrument of control and repression. Marked as the “dictatorship-​of-​law” approach (Nocetti 2015), regulation of the internet targets both internet and online service users, local and international IT businesses and online service providers. The increasing internet regulation establishes control over the information society by imposing restrictions on content dissemination and administrating online users’ behaviour by introducing new legal obligations for ICT companies. ICT regulation in Russia is usually framed to support notions of national sovereignty and economic benefit. Its active development began after the 2011–​12 mass protests and the economic consequences of Crimea’s annexation in 2014. In addition to the obligations of ICT companies for content removal discussed above, this ICT-​related legislation is focused predominantly on the issues of data and data management, ICT infrastructure and business ownership. The issue of personal data is taken seriously by the state –​the discussion suggests that it quickly became a matter of national security and is perceived to have the potential of “new oil” (The Economist 2017). Without a clear understanding of using these new emerging sorts of “natural resources”, the state is actively engaging in regulatory work to secure its access to them. According to the 2015 law “On personal data”, Russian and foreign companies are obliged to store the personal information of Russians only on the territory of Russia. In 2021 the government obliged significant online service providers such as Facebook and Twitter to localise personal data (called “prizemlenie dannykh” or private data landing) and open branches in Russia that would bear full responsibility for the work of their companies. The government-​ favoured narrative spread by the loyal media trumped the idea of keeping control of the personal data of Russians so that Western companies such as Facebook could not use it for their purposes. This was presented as a threat to Russian citizens and the state. Yet an analysis of this legislation suggests that its core idea lies in full state access to the data stored on the servers of IT companies in the Russian territory, not the care of users’ rights. One of the most recent results of Russian law-​making toughens the requirements for processing impersonal user information. Equating anonymised data with personal data means the emergence of new grounds for bringing internet business to justice in connection with the violation of legislation governing legal relations in the field of their collection, storage, processing and distribution. The project was prepared on behalf of the president following his address to the Federal Assembly in 2021 (Kremlin.ru 2021b). The legislative act that established control over the infrastructure and impacted IT business organisations the most is the so-​called “Yarovaya law package”: a set of federal laws with amendments that passed in 2016 and came into force in 2018. The bills amend the pre-​ existing counterterrorism law by expanding the powers of law enforcement agencies and setting new requirements for communication and internet businesses. It legitimises increased surveillance over the internet granted to telecom companies, including the need for telecom providers to store online communication content (including voice calls, data and messages) 370

371

ICT in Putin’s Russia: 1999–2021

for six months and meta data on them for three years. Moreover, internet and telecom companies must provide all this information to the authorities upon request (Moyakine and Tabachnik 2021). Execution of the regulations significantly increased organisations’ expenses for storing data, the dropout rate of clients using their internet communication services and the reputational risks that emerged through the violation of users’ privacy (Litvinenko 2021). To exhibit the power of the new law, the government shut down access to LinkedIn –​the global social network for professionals owned by Microsoft. Roskomnadzor explained that LinkedIn violated the data storage laws (Lunden 2017). The Kremlin chose a different tactic for big tech companies with a bigger presence in Russia. With every refusal of these companies to remove undesirable content from their pages, Roskomnadzor issues a fine; in 2020–​1, Facebook, Twitter and Google combined were fined 200m rubles (Zakharov and Churmanova 2021). The state also aims to protect ICT businesses under the auspices of financial companies loyal to the Kremlin, in the same fashion as with the traditional media in the 2000s (Reuters 2013). In 2021 the controlling stake of the VK Group (formerly the Mail.Ru group), which belonged to Alisher Usmanov, was shared equally between two resource-​extracting companies, Gazprom and Sogaz, both of which already control large media assets. However, the clearest example of how legislative innovations of the 2010s changed the sphere of ICT is Yandex, Russia’s tech giant. The growing influence of Yandex, initially independent and famous for its liberal views, meant that the Kremlin could not afford to leave it neutral. In the late 2000s, Yandex had to tweak its newsgathering algorithm to remove news critical of the Kremlin from the front page of the website. Later, in the mid-​2010s, to control the news feed of online users, the Kremlin forced Yandex to heavily censor its news page, which had a daily audience of several million users. The legal changes forced Yandex to index and publish only news from news sources registered in Russia. That left many highly popular media, such as the Latvia-​based Meduza, outside of Yandex’s search engine scope and helped downplay some major news reaching large audiences (Proekt 2020). In 2021 Yandex started adding the tag “Foreign agent” to every publication by media accused of having foreign funding. Although every Russian media must comply with this regulation, experts suggest that, although Yandex is not a media company, it acts in this way to avoid any potential trouble (RFE/​RL 2021b). In 2004 Yandex moved its head office to the Netherlands, which helped its international integration, but, given the growing influence of the company inside Russia, it had to implement structural changes to keep friendly relations with the Kremlin and comply with the law to avoid any legal charges that could ultimately destroy the company. In 2009, when Yandex started preparing for its IPO, a series of negotiations was held to ensure that a significant proportion of shares would be purchased by business leaders loyal to the state or government corporations. Later, it was decided to implement a “golden share” instrument, which was sold for a symbolic €1 to Sberbank, Russia’s largest state-​affiliated bank. The golden share allows any shareholder or third party to block the purchase of 25 percent of votes or the authorised capital of Yandex. Ten years later, in July 2019, deputies from the United Russia party introduced a law to limit foreign ownership of popular Russian websites to 20 percent (the so-​called “Gorelkin law”). Although Yandex initially opposed it, in November 2019 it had to change its corporate structure. The Dutch head company created a public interest fund in Russia (in Kaliningrad). The board of trustees was empowered to approve the consolidation of 10 percent or more of Yandex shares and monitor how the internet company processes users’ personal data and transfers significant intellectual property. It included Yandex’s top managers, academics and representatives 371

372

Ilya Yablokov and Olga Solovyeva

of Sberbank, which by the late 2010s had become Yandex’s rival tech giant under the name Sber (Meduza 2019). Since then, Yandex, according to the head of the organisation, “remains constantly in contact with representatives of the state at different levels”. The organisation expresses a rather cooperative strategy despite coping with growing regulations. As a result, within ten years, and due to the array of both the content on Yandex’s websites and its ownership, it ended up under the strict control of Russian authorities (Proekt 2020).

After Russia invaded Ukraine The Russian invasion of Ukraine in February 2022 became a turning point for ICT in Russia, with the state’s control over the narrative circulated online becoming tighter than ever. Shortly after the invasion began, the Russian Duma passed a law punishing the spread of “false news” about the so-​called military operation with up to 15 years’ imprisonment (The Moscow Times 2022). This law was later extended to cover all government agencies working abroad –​including the work of embassies, prosecutors, investigative committees and other public bodies. Following the earlier observed declaratory logic, the definition of “false news” was not clearly stated and, in a nutshell, referred to calling the act of military intervention a “war”. Considering that the regulator had earlier obliged all state-​registered media to take down all published materials that use the definition of war to describe conflict (Scott 2022), it turned into an unprecedented act of censorship stretching to the online environment. Based on the violation of this law, several legal cases have been opened against citizens and activists for posting “discrediting and false” information on their social accounts on VKontakte and Telegram channels (Konstantinova 2022). The posts of prosecuted individuals on VKontakte were later removed from the platform. ICT companies have faced pressure as the war in Ukraine has continued, including the obligation to follow the legislation, international sanctions and criticism from the public. The most illustrative is the case of Yandex. From the first weeks of the war, Yandex News has only been indexing state-​owned media stories, amplifying the narrative of a “special military operation” (Davies 2022). Following the legislation, Yandex contributed to creating univocal media coverage of the war, dominated by the Russian state. Then, the company went through a series of crises. First, international personal sanctions have been imposed on its deputy CEO, Tigran Hudaverdyan, who had to step down from the leadership position (Cordell 2022). Later, Elena Bunina, CEO and HR Director of the company, announced her resignation for political reasons. As the war escalated, Yandex announced it would sell its media assets, including the news aggregator YandexNews and blogpost service YandexZen, to the VK group. Although these media assets have always been perceived by the company as problematic, the deal finishes the consolidation of ICT and media assets in the hands of a company loyal to the state.

Conclusion It is impressive how rapidly the Russian internet has evolved from total freedom to very tight control over the 22 years of Putin’s rule. At the start of the post-​Soviet era, it was a space of freedom and creativity, open to the world and well-​integrated in it. Today, Russia tops the ranking of countries that most frequently request content removal from online services provided by Twitter and Google. At the end of 2021, the key discussion among journalists and experts is about the alternative platforms to YouTube and Facebook when the state shuts down access to these sources. The Kremlin quickly realised the power of ICTs to control users and the benefits of 372

373

ICT in Putin’s Russia: 1999–2021

possessing unlimited access to personal data. The number of legislative amendments introduced in the last decade cover all aspects of citizens’ interaction with ICTs. They are presented by state bureaucrats and public intellectuals loyal to the Kremlin as an attempt to protect the security and privacy of Russians. However, the declarative nature of this regulation, combined with the growing accessibility of the state to the technical means for monitoring online activity, filtering, rerouting internet traffic and removing content from the web, contradicts the basic assumptions of the human rights to free speech and access to information (Human Rights Watch 2020). Now, the Russian state has the upper hand both financially and politically and therefore defines the rules in the sphere of ICTs. However, it is a never-​ending battle, and regime change may open a new chapter in the history of Russian ICTs.

References AFP (2021), “Telegram Messenger Blocks Navalny Bot During Russian Election”, The Moscow Times, September 18, www.the​mosc​owti​mes.com/​2021/​09/​18/​teleg​ram-​messen​ger-​blo​cks-​nava​lny-​bot-​ dur​ing-​russ​ian-​elect​ion-​a75​079. Alexanyan, K. (2013), The Map and The Territory: Russian Social Media Networks and Society, PhD thesis, https://​acad​emic​comm​ons.colum​bia.edu/​doi/​10.7916/​D8XP7​C49. Al-​Jazeera (2014), “Putin Says Internet is a CIA Project”, Al-​Jazeera, 25 April, www.aljaze​era.com/​news/​ 2014/​4/​25/​putin-​says-​inter​net-​is-​a-​cia-​proj​ect. Asmolov, G. (2010), “Russia: Bloggers Clash with the Ruling Party”, Global Voices, 8 September, https://​ globa​lvoi​ces.org/​2010/​09/​08/​rus​sia-​blogg​ers-​clash-​with-​the-​rul​ing-​party/​. Asmolov, G. (2020), “RuNet in Crisis Situations”, in S. Davydov (ed.), Internet in Russia: An Integral Study of the RuNet and Its Impact on Social Life (Cham: Springer): 231–​50. Asmolov, G. (2021), “Russian Social Media Logic: Between the East and the West”, Knight First Amendment Institute, 6 May, https://​kni​ghtc​olum​bia.org/​blog/​russ​ian-​soc​ial-​media-​logic-​betw​eenthe-​east-​and-​the-​west. Asmolov, G. and P. Kolozaridi (2017), “The Imaginaries of RuNet: The Change of the Elites and the Construction of Online Space”, Russian Politics 2, 1: 54–​79. Asmolov, G. and P. Kolozaridi (2020), “Run RuNet Runaway: The Transformation of the Russian Internet as a Cultural-​Historical Object”, in D. Gritsenko, M. Wijermars and M. Kopotev (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Digital Russia Studies (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan): 277–​96. BBC News (2012), “Russia’s Parliament Votes for Internet Censorship Law”, 11 July, www.bbc.com/​ news/​tec​hnol​ogy-​18805​039. BBC News (2021a), “Russia Slows Down Twitter over “Banned Content”’, 10 March, www.bbc.com/​ news/​world-​eur​ope-​56344​304. BBC News (2021b), “Russia: Google Removes Putin Critic’s Ads from YouTube”, 10 September, www. bbc.com/​news/​tec​hnol​ogy-​45471​519. Burgess, M. (2018), “This Is Why Russia’s Attempts to Block Telegram Have Failed”, The Wired, 28 April, www.wired.co.uk/​arti​cle/​teleg​ram-​in-​rus​sia-​bloc​ked-​web-​app-​ban-​faceb​ook-​twit​ter-​goo​gle. Committee to Protect Journalists (2021), “Russian Authorities Open Court Case against Journalist Yury Dud for Distributing ‘Drug Propaganda’”, 17 June, https://​cpj.org/​2021/​06/​russ​ian-​auth​orit​ies-​ open-​court-​case-​agai​nst-​jou​r nal​ist-​yury-​dud-​for-​distr​ibut​ing-​drug-​pro​paga​nda/​. Cordell, J. (2022), “Yandex Head Quits after Surprise EU Sanctions”, The Moscow Times, 27 May, www. the​mosc​owti​mes.com/​2022/​03/​16/​yan​dex-​head-​quits-​after-​surpr​ise-​eu-​sancti​ons-​a76​952. Data Center Knowledge (2021), “Russia Blocks NordVPN, Express VPN in Bid to Control Content”, 3 September, www.data​cent​erkn​owle​dge.com/​netwo​rks/​rus​sia-​blo​cks-​nord​vpn-​expr​ess-​vpn-​bid-​cont​ rol-​cont​ent. Davies, K.M. (2022), “Turmoil at ‘Russia’s Google’ Amid Sanctions, War and Censorship”, The Moscow Times, 27 May, www.the​mosc​owti​mes.com/​2022/​04/​23/​turm​oil-​at-​russ​ias-​goo​gle-​amid-​sancti​ons-​ war-​and-​cen​sors​hip-​a77​429. Davydov, S. (2020), Internet in Russia: A Study of the RuNet and Its Impact on Social Life (Cham: Springer). Forbes (2021), “200 bogateishikh biznesmenov Rossii-​2021”, Forbes Russia, 22 April, www.for​bes.ru/​rat​ ing/​426​935-​200-​boga​teys​hih-​bizn​esme​nov-​ros​sii-​2021-​reyt​ing-​for​bes.

373

374

Ilya Yablokov and Olga Solovyeva Gabdulhakov, R. (2020), “(Con)trolling the Web: Social Media User Arrests, State-​Supported Vigilantism and Citizen Counter-​Forces in Russia”, Global Crime 21, 3-​4: 283–​305. Gel’man, V. (2015), Authoritarian Russia: Analyzing Post-​Soviet Regime Changes (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press). Gerovitch, S. (2002), From Newspeak to Cyberspeak: A History of Soviet Cybernetics (Cambridge [Mass]: MIT Press). ggus (2021), “Responding to Tor Censorship in Russia”, Tor blog, 7 December, https://​blog.tor​proj​ect. org/​tor-​cen​sors​hip-​in-​rus​sia/​. Greenall, R. (2012), “LiveJournal: Russia’s Unlikely Internet Giant”, BBC News, 2 March, www.bbc. com/​news/​magaz​ine-​17177​053. Gunitsky, S. (2015), “Corrupting the Cyber-​Commons: Social Media as a Tool of Autocratic Stability”, Perspectives on Politics 13, 1: 42–​54. Hakim, D. (2014), “Once Celebrated in Russia, the Programmer Pavel Durov Chooses Exile”, The New York Times, 2 December, www.nyti​mes.com/​2014/​12/​03/​tec​hnol​ogy/​once-​cel​ebra​ted-​in-​rus​sia-​pro​ gram​mer-​pavel-​durov-​choo​ses-​exile.html. Heath, A. (2021), “Mark Zuckerberg on Why Facebook is Rebranding to Meta”, The Verge, 28 October,www.theve​rge.com/​22749​919/​mark-​zuc​kerb​erg-​faceb​ook-​meta-​comp​any-​rebr​and?fbc​lid=​ IwAR0F​4XNm​PPMF​SWd0​FXY-​99t​h6Uy​wbB-​v7epl​29vZ​BD9k​fY1o​FGAm​kCfM​WPw. Human Rights Watch (2020), “Russia: Growing Internet Isolation, Control, Censorship”, 18 June, www. hrw.org/​news/​2020/​06/​18/​rus​sia-​grow​ing-​inter​net-​isolat​ion-​cont​rol-​cen​sors​hip. Kolozaridi, P. and D. Muravyev (2020), “Internet posle global’nosti”, Rossiia v globalnoi politike, 9 November, https://​global​affa​irs.ru/​artic​les/​inter​net-​posle-​glob​alno​sti/​. Konradova, N. (2016), “The Usenet Coup: How the USSR Discovered the Internet in 1991”, openDemocracy, 16 August, www.opende​mocr​acy.net/​en/​odr/​use​net-​coup/​. Konstantinova, A. (2022), “My vse mozhem posledovat’ putem Viki’. 28-​letnya peterburgenka okazalas’ v SIZO iz-​za antivoennykh postov v sotssetyakh”, Mediazona, 23 May, https://​zona.media/​arti​cle/​ 2022/​05/​23/​victo​r ia. Kremlin.ru (2021a), “Meeting with We Are Together Campaign Participants”, 4 March, http://​en.krem​ lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​65096. Kremlin.ru (2021b), “Presidential Address to the Federal Assembly”, 21 April, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​ nts/​presid​ent/​news/​65418. Kulikov, V. (2021), “Bolee 40% osuzhdennykh za ekstremizm poluchili prigovory za prizyvy v internete”, Rossiiskaya gazeta, 28 January, https://​rg.ru/​2021/​10/​28/​bolee-​40-​osuz​hden​nyh-​za-​eks​trem​izm-​ poluch​ili-​prigov​ory-​za-​priz​yvy-​v-​intern​ete.html. Kuznetsov, S. (2004), Oshchupyvaia slona. Zametki po istorii russkogo interneta (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie). Levada Center (2016), “Doverie SMI i tsenzura”, 18 November, www.lev​ada.ru/​2016/​11/​18/​dove​r ie-​ smi-​i-​tsenz​ura/​. Litvinenko, A. (2021), “Re-​ Defining Borders Online: Russia’s Strategic Narrative on Internet Sovereignty”, Media and Communication 9, 4: 5–​15. Lunden, I. (2017), “Russia Says ‘Nyet,’ Continues LinkedIn Block after It Refuses to Store Data in Russia”, TechCrunch, 8 March, https://​tec​hcru​nch.com/​2017/​03/​07/​rus​sia-​says-​nyet-​contin​ues-​linke​ din-​block-​after-​it-​refu​ses-​to-​store-​data-​in-​rus​sia/​. Machleder, J. and G. Asmolov (2011), “Social Change and the Russian Network Society”, Internews, https://​intern​ews.org/​wp-​cont​ent/​uplo​ads/​leg​acy/​resour​ces/​Internews_​Res​earc​h_​Ru​ssia​Netw​orkS​ ocie​ty1.pdf. Meduza (2019), “‘So We Aren’t Shaken’”, 18 November, https://​med​uza.io/​en/​feat​ure/​2019/​11/​18/​ so-​we-​aren-​t-​sha​ken. Meduza (2022), “Govorim s Kseniei Boletskoi ob itogakh-​2021 dlia media”, Chto sluchilos’? podcast, 7 January, https://​med​uza.io/​episo​des/​2022/​01/​07/​govo​r im-​s-​ksen​iey-​bolets​koy-​ob-​ito​gah-​2021-​ dlya-​media-​eto-​byl-​otlich​nyy-​god-​dlya-​indust​r ii-​a-​kak-​zhe-​ohota-​na-​it-​g igan​tov-​inoag​ents​tvo-​i-​dru​ gie-​repres​sii. Mirovalev, M. (2021), “Can Navalny’s Smart Voting App Affect Russia’s Election?”, Al-​Jazeera, 15 September, www.aljaze​era.com/​news/​2021/​9/​15/​can-​naval​nys-​smart-​vot​ing-​app-​imp​act-​russ​ias-​ elect​ion. Moyakine, E. and A. Tabachnik (2021), “Struggling to Strike the Right Balance between Interests at Stake: The ‘Yarovaya’, ‘Fake News’ and ‘Disrespect’ Laws as Examples of Ill-​Conceived Legislation

374

375

ICT in Putin’s Russia: 1999–2021 in the Age of Modern Technology”, Computer Law & Security Review 40, https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​ j.clsr.2020.105​512. Navalny, A. (2021), “Putin’s Palace. History of World’s Largest Bribe”, YouTube, 19 January, www.yout​ ube.com/​watch?v=​ipAn​wilM​ncI&t=​6s. Nisbet, E.C. (2015), “Benchmarking Public Demand: Russia’s Appetite for Internet Control”, Internet Policy Observatory, https://​glo​bal.asc.upenn.edu/​app/​uplo​ads/​2015/​02/​Rus​sia-​Pub​lic-​Opin​ion. pdf. Nocetti, J. (2015), “Russia’s ‘Dictatorship-​of-​the-​Law’ Approach to Internet Policy”, Internet Policy Review 4, 4: 1–​19. Oates, S. (2013), Revolution Stalled: The Political Limits of the Internet in the Post-​Soviet Sphere (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Patrikarakos, D. (2017), War in 140 Characters: How Social Media is Reshaping Conflict in the 21st Century (New York: Basic Books). Peters, B. (2016), How Not to Network a Nation: The Uneasy History of the Soviet Internet (Cambridge [MASS]: MIT Press). Pigman, L. (2019), “Russia’s Vision of Cyberspace: A Danger to Regime Security, Public Safety, and Societal Norms and Cohesion”, Journal of Cyber Policy 4, 1: 22–​34. Porter, J. (2021), “Apple Forced to Offer Russian iPhone Users Local Apps at Setup Thanks to New Law”, The Verge, 1 April, www.theve​rge.com/​2021/​4/​1/​22361​762/​iph​one-​rus​sia-​star​tup-​local-​ apps-​yan​dex-​mail-​ru-​law. Proekt (2018), “Telega iz Kremlya”, 28 November, www.pro​ekt.media/​narrat​ive/​teleg​ram-​kan​aly/​. Proekt (2020), “Razgovorchiki v stroiu”, 26 February, www.pro​ekt.media/​narrat​ive/​yan​dex-​i-​kreml/​. Putin, V. (2021), “Artificial Intelligence Conference”, 12 November, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ ent/​news/​67099. Reuters (2013), “Gazprom Expands Russian Media Empire”, 24 November, www.reut​ers.com/​arti​cle/​ us-​gazp​rom-​pota​nin-​idUKBR​E9AP​0CN2​0131​126. RFE/​RL (2010), “In Silicon Valley, Medvedev Looks for Investment Possibilities”, Radio Free Europe/​ Radio Liberty, 23 June, www.rferl.org/​a/​In_​Silicon_​Valley_​Medvedev_​Looks_​F​or_​I​nves​tmen​t_​Po​ ssib​ilit​ies/​2080​747.html. RFE/​RL (2021a), “Russian Lawmakers Introduce Bill to Force IT Giants to Establish Local Branches”, Radio Free Europe/​Radio Liberty, 21 May, www.rferl.org/​a/​rus​sia-​it-​gia​nts-​bill-​local-​branc​hes-​cen​ sors​hip-​inter​net-​law/​31266​791.html. RFE/​ RL (2021b), “ ‘Yandex Novosti’ nachali markirovat’ publikatsii SMI-​ inoagentov”, Radio Free Europe/​Radio Liberty, 15 October, www.svob​oda.org/​a/​yand​eks-​novo​sti-​nach​ali-​mark​irov​atj-​publ​ ikat​sii-​smi-​ino​agen​tov/​31511​393.html. Russian State Duma (2021), “Podderzhany popravki ob operativnoi blokirovke ekstremistskikh materialov v internete”, 9 March, http://​duma.gov.ru/​news/​50902/​. Savin, N., and Solovyeva, O. (2020). “Social Media and Russian Society”, in K. Tsetsura and D. Kruckeberg (eds.), Strategic Communications in Russia (London: Routledge): 167–​76. Schimpfössl E. and I. Yablokov (2017), “Media Elites in Post-​Soviet Russia and Their Strategies of Success”, Russian Politics 2, 1: 32–​53. Scott, S. (2022), “Russian Law Bans Journalists from Calling Ukraine Conflict a ‘War’ or an ‘Invasion’ ”, National Public Radio, 5 March, www.npr.org/​2022/​03/​05/​108​4729​579/​russ​ian-​law-​bans-​jour​nali​ sts-​from-​call​ing-​ukra​ine-​confl​ict-​a-​war-​or-​an-​invas​ion?t=​165367​2311​679. Sherman, J. (2020), “What’s behind Russia’s Decision to Ditch its Ban on Telegram?”, New Atlanticist, 6 June, www.atla​ntic​coun​cil.org/​blogs/​new-​atla​ntic​ist/​whats-​beh​ind-​russ​ias-​decis​ion-​to-​ditch-​its-​ban-​ on-​teleg​ram/​. Shubenkova, A. and P. Kolozaridi (2016), “Internet kak predmet sotsial’noi politiki v ofitsial’nom diskurse Rossii”, Zhurnal issledovanii sotsialnoi politiki 14, 1: 39–​54. Soldatov, A. and I. Borogan (2015), The Red Web: The Struggle Between Russia’s Digital Dictators and the New Online Revolutionaries (New York: Public Affairs). TASS (2020), “Vladimir Putin Still Does Not Use Smartphone, Spokesman Says”, 18 December, https://​ tass.com/​soci​ety/​1237​157. TASS (2021), “Vladimir Kirienko Appointed as New CEO of VK”, 13 December, https://​tass.com/​econ​ omy/​1374​645. The Economist (2012), “Europe’s Great Exception”, 19 May, www.econom​ist.com/​busin​ess/​2012/​05/​19/​ euro​pes-​great-​except​ion.

375

376

Ilya Yablokov and Olga Solovyeva The Economist (2017), “The World’s Most Valuable Resource is No Longer Oil, But Data”, 6 May, www. econom​ist.com/​lead​ers/​2017/​05/​06/​the-​wor​lds-​most-​valua​ble-​resou​rce-​is-​no-​lon​ger-​oil-​but-​data. The Moscow Times (2022), “Russia Duma Passes Law on Fake News”, 27 May, www.the​mosc​owti​mes. com/​2022/​03/​04/​rus​sia-​duma-​pas​ses-​law-​on-​fake-​news-​a76​754. Tufekci, Z. (2018), Twitter and Tear Gas: The Power and Fragility of Networked Protest (New Haven: Yale University Press). Van der Vet, F. (2014), “Holding On to Legalism: The Politics of Russian Litigation on Torture and Discrimination before the European Court of Human Rights”, Social & Legal Studies 23, 3: 361–​81. Vasilyev, A.S., and D.V. Murzin (n.d.), “Trends of Application of Subjective Good Faith in Russian Law: Approaches to Intellectual Property”, Religación. Revista De Ciencias Sociales Y Humanidades 4, 13: 280–​8. Verkhovensky, А.М., M.A. Ledovskyh and A.R. Sultanov (2013), “Ostorozhno, ekstremizm! Analiz zakonodatel’stva o protivodeystvii ekstremistskoi deyatel’nosti i praktiki ego primeneniya”, https://​ mmdc.ru/​none/​ostorozhno_​ekstremizm_​analiz_​zakonodatelstva_​o_​protivodejstvii_​ekstremistskoj_​ deyatelnosti​_​i_​p​rakt​iki_​ego_​prim​enen​iya/​. Wijermars, M. (2021), “Selling Internet Control: The Framing of the Russian Ban of Messaging App Telegram”, Information, Communication & Society, https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​13691​18X.2021.1933​562. Winder, D. (2019), “Putin’s ‘Vulnerable’ Computer: Does the Russian President Really Use Windows XP?”, Forbes, 18 December, www.for​bes.com/​sites/​dave​ywin​der/​2019/​12/​18/​vladi​mir-​putin-​vul​ nera​ble-​compu​ter-​does-​the-​russ​ian-​presid​ent-​rea​lly-​use-​micros​oft-​wind​ows-​xp/​?sh=​3fb15​2ae5​8a1. Yudina, N. (2016), “Got Tagged? Get Fined! Russia’s Battle against ‘Digital Extremism’”, openDemocracy, 24 August, www.opende​mocr​acy.net/​en/​odr/​got-​tag​ged-​get-​fined-​rus​sia-​s-​bat​tle-​agai​nst-​digi​tal-​ extrem​ism/​. Zakharov, A. and K. Churmanova (2021), “How Russia Tries to Censor Western Social Media”, BBC News, 17 December, www.bbc.com/​news/​blogs-​trend​ing-​59687​496.

376

377

33 SYMBOLISM AND THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE NATIONAL HISTORICAL NARRATIVE IN POST-​ SOVIET RUSSIA Olga Malinova

After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russia needed a new symbolism to provide a basis for renewed national identity and a vision of a common past and future. Constructing appropriate symbols became vitally important for cultivating national solidarity and loyalty to the new Russian state. Actually, this task emerged even before the collapse of the Soviet Union, with the crisis of the Soviet symbolic order that culminated during perestroika. Based on the Marxist-​ Leninist ideology, the Soviet regime developed what Graeme Gill called the metanarrative –​a set of images and symbols that rendered this ideology into a form suitable for day-​to-​day life. The metanarrative provided a vision of the society’s trajectory towards the communist future. It encapsulated all spheres of life in the symbolic discourse that it constituted (Gill 2011, 2013). The dissolution of the Soviet metanarrative opened the way for a large number of competing ideologies and political programmes, none of which proposed a complete vision of the society’s future comparable with that of Marxism-​Leninism, even though in the context of ongoing transformation there was a particular need for such a vision. At the same time, many elements of the Soviet symbolic system, such as public holidays, topography, monuments, books, films and songs, were retained even after the metanarrative that they once represented had dissolved. So the new narrative explaining Russia’s present and future goals needed somehow to reinterpret and integrate the symbolic legacy of the Soviet past in order to construct a new national identity, a task complicated by the multiethnic composition of Russian society and the Soviet legacy of the institutionalisation of ethnicity. As “a form of language which gives expression to principles, assumptions, conceptions and ideas which can be very complex” (Gill 2013: 1), symbols are indispensable for any politics. The power of symbolic imagery is used to strengthen people’s compliance with a political authority, as well as to provide orientation and markers of certainty when revolutionary changes take place (Wydra 2012). Studies of symbolism in politics typically explore political rhetoric and styles of leadership, state symbols and public holidays, urban cityscapes and monuments, political settings and the institutional culture embedded in political systems. DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-37

377

378

Olga Malinova

Due to the limited scope, this chapter cannot provide an analysis of all areas of symbolic representation or pay sufficient attention to competing discourses. It describes the major stages of evolution of the symbolic programme developed by the Russian state, with a special focus on transformations of the national historical narrative, meaning a shared template for describing the past of the nation in a way that “explains” its present and future. The historical narratives presented in texts and symbolic practices that are performed on behalf of the state can be considered official. For several reasons, forging a national historical narrative was essential for the transformation of political symbolism in Russia. First, reconsidering Russian history was indispensable for constructing a renewed national identity. Second, reconceptualisation of the national past was the most visible aspect of the post-​Soviet symbolic transformation, as it caused continuous public debates. A revision of Russia’s authoritarian and totalitarian legacy, with a particular focus on the mass repressions and ethnic deportations of Stalin’s time, were in the centre of these debates. Third, while experiencing difficulties in formulating a vision of the future, the Russian leadership tended to focus their political narratives on the past, which made its symbolic programme history centred.

Introducing the new symbolism in the 1990s In 1990–​1, major expectations of change in Russian politics were linked to the figure of Boris Yeltsin, who became chairman of the Supreme Soviet of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic (RSFSR), and then its first president. Yeltsin and his supporters willingly used Russian nationalist rhetoric to challenge Gorbachev’s central power (Tuminez 2003). On 12 June 1990, the First Congress of People’s Deputies of the RSFSR adopted the Declaration of State Sovereignty. This act was justified by the need to push forward the stalled market reforms and to recreate the Soviet Union under new conditions agreed between the republics. Before the Soviet Union collapsed, Russia’s sovereignty was strongly associated with a transition towards democracy and “normality”, which involved a divorce from the Soviet “totalitarian” legacy and a restoration of pre-​revolutionary liberal traditions. These ideas were manifested in new state symbols. The tendency to establish connections between the perestroika democratic movement and pre-​revolution traditions was particularly visible in the struggle for the white-​blue-​red tricolour flag, which was one of the flags of the Romanov empire and a flag of the Provisional Government in 1917. In 1990–​1 it was used at anti-​Communist street rallies, and deputies from the “Democratic Russia” movement struggled for its official adoption. In August 1991, the tricolour became a ready-​made symbol for people who came to defend the White House, Russia’s parliament building, and to support Yeltsin, who led the resistance to the GKChP coup d’état. Manifesting the victory of democratic forces, on 22 August 1991 a decree of the Supreme Soviet of RSFSR declared the tricolour Russia’s “national flag” (Smith 2002). After the dissolution of the Soviet Union on 25 December 1991, the white-​blue-​red tricolour replaced the red flag with the hammer and sickle. Yet its proper legitimisation did not happen until 2000 due to the resistance of left opposition. The other state symbols invented in 1990–​ 1 –​Mikhail Glinka’s “Patriotic Song” as the national anthem and the golden two-​headed eagle on a red background as the national coat of arms –​also functioned on a temporary basis. In the context of the economic difficulties and social dislocation that substantially increased with the beginning of market reforms in 1992, Yeltsin’s rhetoric became even more focused on the negative aspects of the Soviet “totalitarian” legacy, as it helped to explain current problems. In the mid-​1990s pointing to “Soviet crimes” became an instrument of electoral struggle against the Communists (Smith 2002: 131–​57). As a result, while “summoning up images of the past”, 378

379

Symbolism and the national historical narrative

Yeltsin failed “to articulate a coherent vision of a free Russia and to embed it in a convincing narrative” (Gill 2013: 35). The vision of the future was inspired by the abstract ideas of building democracy and a market economy and returning to the “civilised universal values” embodied in the mythical West. Yeltsin’s historical narrative rested on the contrast between the “new” Russia, as a European country building democracy and a market economy, and its “authoritarian” past. The main criticism was addressed to the Soviet period. Although in spite of the tendency to restore the interrupted continuity with the pre-​Soviet past, the roots of many contemporary problems were seen in the tsarist period (Malinova 2018b). Such an approach to re-​ assembling Russian history could not be fruitful (Gill 2013; Smith 2002) because remembering positive aspects of the past is essential for national identity construction, and the Soviet legacy was too important a part of peoples’ lives to be easily rejected. Adoption of the Constitution in 1993, after the dramatic conflict between Yeltsin and the leaders of the Supreme Soviet, became another important step in shaping the symbolism of the new Russian state. As the document establishing the main political institutions and rules of the game, the Constitution had rather ambivalent symbolic effects. On the one hand, it set up the liberal fundamentals of the constitutional system and an impressive list of human rights, which was a sign of Russia’s movement towards freedom and democracy. On the other hand, it founded a political system dominated by the president that facilitated further development of a personalist authoritarian regime. The performance of the new political system reinforced this ambivalence, as, in spite of the high competitiveness of elections in the 1990s, the institutional culture arising from the political practice “consolidated the image of a politics of personality based around the president” rather than that of democratic involvement (Gill 2013: 122). Nonetheless, ambivalent was the way the Constitution defined the identity of a collective body that constituted the Russian state. Following the Soviet practice of identifying “nationality” with ethnicity, the Constitution accorded the role of sovereign to “the multinational people” of the Russian Federation. This could be interpreted both as a supranational identity embracing many “nationalities” or as a civic nation. Notably, the rhetoric of Russian presidents oscillated between these meanings, with temporary deviations to one or another side (Shevel 2011; Goode 2019). Even if Yeltsin favoured civic nationalism, facing the resistance from ethnic elites and Russian nationalists he found it problematic to establish it as a constitutional principle. In the context of newly born ideological pluralism and fierce political struggle, it was difficult to develop a system of symbols capable of supporting an emotional commitment to the new system of governance. During his second presidential term Yeltsin tried to push a national consensus by initiating a search for a new national idea. Yet it resulted in a competition between uncompromising ideological projects and did not form a common vernacular for public life (Urban 1998). But the new symbolism could hardly be introduced exclusively using words. The diffidence of the ruling elite of the 1990s in constructing new symbols is particularly evident in the case of public holidays. On the one hand, all public holidays inherited from late-​Soviet times remained, including the most problematic one, the Day of the October Revolution. It was not officially celebrated but continued to be a day off, which provided a nice opportunity for the Communists’ public actions. In 1996, Yeltsin issued a decree that officially reinterpreted the meaning of the holiday by renaming it the “Day of Conciliation and Consent”, yet it was not followed by new rituals of commemoration. The transformation of the other cornerstone of the Soviet historical narrative –​the victory in the Great Patriotic War –​was more successful. In the new official historical narrative, the victory over Nazism was reinterpreted as a heroic achievement of the Soviet people who defended their Motherland. Their feat was even greater in light of the fact that victory was achieved not due to the Communist leadership but in spite of 379

380

Olga Malinova

the Stalinist repressions. This narrative was flexible enough to allow a partial “rehabilitation” of the Soviet symbols, which was a kind of compromise for the sake of “national consensus”: since 1995, the Red Banner of Victory (a Soviet symbol) became an important part of the official ceremony to celebrate Victory Day. The contemporary canon of commemoration for Victory Day, with the annual military parade on Red Square, was established by Yeltsin. Adding holidays to the calendar that commemorated the more contemporary stage of Russian history was less successful. The official historical narrative focused on the “new Russia” suggested a foundation myth that would be celebrated as a public holiday. The defeat of the August 1991 coup d’état provided a good occasion for crafting a new democratic ceremonial practice. Yet this opportunity had not been used immediately and, after the dramatic events of 1993 that took place in the same location, it was ultimately lost (Smith 2002: 54). The adoption of the declaration of state sovereignty of the RSFSR on 12 June 1990 had been celebrated as a public holiday since 1992. However, it did not become popular because many people re-​ evaluated this event after the collapse of the Soviet Union and the ruling elite failed to root it in specific rituals. Constitution Day commemorating the referendum of 12 December 1993 also did not garner much enthusiasm. In the 1990s, the Russian ruling elite did not create a consistent symbolic system providing distinct orientations for the society, partly because it lacked a clear vision of the future and relied too much on criticism of the Soviet past and partly because it was insufficiently assertive in institutionalising new symbols in public practices, but also because, by taking an uncompromising side in the binary opposition with the Communists, it could not gain hegemony in the pluralistic ideological environment.

Transformations of the state’s symbolism in 2000–​08 National consolidation in post-​Soviet Russia was impeded by the ideological conflicts that had divided society. With Vladimir Putin’s coming to the presidency in 2000, the ruling elite strove to stimulate unity and consent by taking under control the most important media outlets, which gave impetus to the transformation of the nascent democratic media system developed under Gorbachev and Yeltsin into a neo-​authoritarian one. In such systems, some pluralism in media is tolerated, but not for issues of central importance to the regime (Becker 2004). The state-​controlled media actively translated the new official discourse, which combined ideas from different parts of the ideological spectrum into an eclectic mix that was expected to unite the society around the new leader. Being free from Yeltsin’s burden of opposing the Communists, Putin was able to mobilise some symbols of the Soviet past that were taboo for the Democrats. The first step in this direction was the adoption of the law on official state symbols in 2000. The law established the tricolour state flag, a state hymn based on the “old” melody of the Soviet hymn, the golden two-​headed eagle as the national coat of arms and the Red Banner of Victory for the Russian army. Putin himself explained this compromise by the need to focus on positive aspects of national history instead of negative ones (Putin 2000), thus articulating the approach to the political usage of history he adhered to during his first two presidential terms. This revealed itself in changes to the official historical narrative. The theme of “the new” Russia breaking with its authoritarian past was substituted by that of the “thousand-​year-​long” Russia. The Russian state, regardless of any evaluation of its actual policy in different periods, became represented as the central element of national identity. This implied a reassessment of the collapse of the Soviet Union, which simultaneously was the “foundation act” of the new Russian state. Although as early as 1999 Putin had expressed an opinion that “it would be a 380

381

Symbolism and the national historical narrative

mistake not to see and moreover to reject the undoubted achievements” of the Soviet time (Putin 1999), during his first presidential term he did not challenge Yeltsin’s interpretation of the collapse of the Soviet Union as a positive, if difficult, event. However, Putin’s famous 2005 description of it as “a major geopolitical disaster of the century” (Putin 2005) was the signal for a final break with Yeltsin’s historical narrative. The main aspect of the cherished legacy was the idea of the “great” powerful state that was able to overcome many difficulties, to pursue modernisation and to become a leading player in world politics. Totalitarian features, such as state violence and political repression, were bracketed out of this picture. As a result, the official narrative became totally focused on the glorification of the Russian state and people, so the “dark pages” of history tended to be neglected. With such a shift to self-​glorification, the Great Patriotic War appeared the most usable element of the “thousand-​year-​long” history. According to some scholars, it became a real foundational myth for Putin’s Russia (Koposov 2011: 163). The memory of the war was reframed in a triumphalist tune and cleansed of any negative aspects associated with the Soviet regime. Instead of double victimhood at the hands of the Nazi and Soviet regimes, the theme of mass heroism and suffering as the “enormous price” paid for victory became a central element of the official canon of commemoration. This made the figure of Stalin as both the leader of the much-​praised Great Victory and the culprit of mass repression particularly ambiguous (Sherlock 2016). The victory in the Great Patriotic War and the post-​war success of the Soviet Union as a world superpower became the central elements of the new official historical narrative. Yet such framing collided with the narratives of WWII developed in Eastern European countries, resulting in the “memory wars” that started in the mid-​2000s (Mälksoo 2009; Miller 2020). In 2004, the calendar of public holidays was reformed. The anniversary of the October Revolution was abolished by federal law; although it remained in the list of festive days as the Day of the October Revolution, it ceased to be a holiday. The same happened to Constitution Day. National Unity Day on 4 November, commemorating an episode in the struggle against Polish invaders in 1612, was established as a substitute for the Day of Conciliation and Consent, for which 7 November was regarded as an improper occasion. This invention was not successful, as the meaning of the new holiday was vague, and no mass rituals comparable with those for Victory Day appeared. However, for several years it was successfully exploited by nationalists who organised “the Russian march” rallies in Moscow and other cities and towns. Over time, cancelling the commemoration of the October Revolution as a public holiday mitigated passions about this event. However, while being discarded from official symbolic practices, the Revolution was not reframed in such a way as to be integrated into the official historical narrative (Malinova 2018a). It appeared a problem in 2017 when the state consciously avoided an official commemoration of the centenary of the Revolution (Laruelle 2019). The victory over Nazi Germany became the most cherished element of the national symbolic system. It was institutionalised in popular symbolic practices, such as the tradition of wearing the Ribbon of St George as a sign of commemoration of those who fought for the victory. This tradition was invented in 2005 on the initiative of the NGO Studencheskaia obshchina, with the support of the news agency RIA Novosti (Kolstø 2016). Initially, it was a solution to the public debates about the relevance of Soviet symbols to commemorate the war that had continued since the 1990s. Wearing the Ribbon of St George enabled solidarity with the fallen heroes without praising the Soviet regime. Yet being actively promoted by the state, over time the ribbon became a patriotic symbol and even a sign of support for the Russian government, which made it controversial. 381

382

Olga Malinova

The Great Patriotic War was not the only mnemonic pillar of legitimation for Putin’s regime. The negative framing of the Yeltsin period was another one. Since his first electoral campaign in 2000, Putin shaped an image of a strong leader who helped his compatriots to leave the difficulties of the 1990s in the past. He clearly contributed to constructing the sharp distinction between “the hard 1990s” and “the stable 2000s” (Malinova 2021). By providing an official recognition of the traumatic experience of the audience, he established an emotional resonance that facilitated legitimation of his policy (Sharafutdinova 2020). Constructed largely in the early 2000s, the negative framing of the Yeltsin decade became central to the legitimation of Putin’s regime. It informed public expectations about the regime’s performance, emphasised its achievements and helped to marginalise its critics by pointing to the supposed destabilisation that could result from an alternative political course. In the sphere of foreign politics, the contrast between Russia’s weakness in the 1990s and Putin’s assertive policy in the 2000s fed into the popular meme about Russia rising from its knees. Resentment at the lost great power status and the quest to regain it was central to Putin’s foreign policy vision (Taylor 2018: 7). It created a tension with the continuing discourse about democratisation, which presented Russia as trying to catch up to “the most developed” states. In the mid-​2000s, the concept of “sovereign democracy” was coined to resolve this tension. On the one hand, it implied that democracy is a value that is not imposed from outside, thus rejecting any attempts at a colour revolution. On the other hand, it legitimised the peculiar features of Russia’s political development, such as the political reforms of the 2000s that made Russian politics less competitive. This ideological construction was short lived, as Putin’s chosen successor as president, Dmitry Medvedev, did not favour it. However, it ably demonstrated the difficulties in the symbolic adaptation of democracy, which remained a part of the official rhetoric, for a political regime evolving in an authoritarian direction (Malinova 2022). In the 2000s, the symbolism constructed in the 1990s was considerably revised. The evolution of the official historical narrative that now became the story of the “thousand-​year-​ long” great Russian state was the most visible manifestation of this revision. The new frame opened the way for the selective reintegration of positive elements of the Soviet symbolic legacy but without its comprehensive reinterpretation. As a result of unwillingness to discuss the dubious aspects of the national past, the renewed symbolic system eclectically combined ideas and symbols from different historical periods and ideological repertoires. It was conducive to broadening Putin’s support but not to constructing a consistent symbolic system.

Amplifying the state’s symbolism during the Medvedev-​Putin tandem During the presidency of Dmitry Medvedev, this tendency towards deliberate eclecticism was amplified as both President Medvedev and Prime Minister Putin continued to express their views. However, Medvedev’s discourse differed slightly from that of Putin, as the new president was generally more positive about democracy, less negative about the 1990s, and more critical of the Soviet experience, including the issue of Stalin’s repression. The most remarkable symbolic innovation of this period was the concept of “modernisation” that was used to refer to the political course that Medvedev announced in 2009. Modernisation was presented as based on the achievements of Putin’s stabilisation. It was contrasted with the previous modernisations of Peter the Great and the Soviet one that “unleashed ruin, humiliation and resulted in the deaths of millions of our countrymen” (Medvedev 2009). However, the meaning of the term was vague. On the one hand, it primarily presumed technological innovations and overcoming the Russian economy’s dependence on the export of raw materials. On the other hand, Medvedev (but not Putin) often talked about “a comprehensive” and 382

383

Symbolism and the national historical narrative

“systemic” modernisation and, on some occasions, hinted at gradual political reforms, which raised some hopes of further democratisation. Even if those hopes were not strong, the decision for Putin to again become president frustrated the liberal minority and triggered the protest movement in major cities in 2011–​12. During Medvedev’s presidency, official memory policy became strongly influenced by the international environment. Reacting to the OSCE Assembly Resolution “Divided Europe Reunited: Promoting Human Rights and Civil Liberties in the OSCE Region in the 21st Century” that equated Stalinism with Nazism, Medvedev launched the Presidential Commission of the Russian Federation to Counter Attempts to Falsify History to the Detriment of Russia’s Interests. This decision was widely perceived as a symbolic sign of the state’s intention to control the public discourse on history. However, the commission did nothing significant and was cancelled without much fuss in February 2012. But this was not because the idea of controlling the public discourse on history was discarded, but because other methods were chosen for it.

The symbolism of Putin’s regime in the 2010–​20s Putin’s third presidential campaign took place in the context of the abovementioned protests that seemed to undermine the hegemony of the authorities’ discourse. It was clear that, to mobilise the loyal majority against the protesting minority, the authorities needed a more consistent ideology. Presentations of the liberal opposition as pro-​Western and anti-​national that had been practised since the mid-​2000s became institutionalised by the “foreign agents” law in 2012. The law imposed the obligatory status of foreign agent on NGOs that participated in politics and received foreign financing. It required them to indicate their foreign agent status in all public appearances and to provide additional reports about their activities to the Ministry of Justice. After being extended to media and journalists in 2017, the legislation on foreign agents became a major repressive tool against dissenters. Putin’s flirtation with liberalism in the 2000s was now in the past. The Kremlin’s symbolic course became explicitly more conservative. It revealed itself not only in rhetoric but also in legislation that protected “traditional values” by such things as banning homosexual propaganda, harshening penalties for insulting the feelings of religious believers and banning the adoption of Russian children by US citizens, as well as in the emphasis on patriotic propaganda and education. Quite predictably, the issues of historical memory appeared at the heart of this policy. Initially the state focused on further consolidation of the official narrative. A major instrument of this was work to create a “common” history textbook initiated by Putin in 2013. This was not the first attempt of this kind, as in 2006–​7 the Kremlin administration was suspected of sponsoring the infamous textbook A History of Russia 1945–​2006 edited by Alexander Filippov that re-​evaluated the concept of “totalitarianism” as a tool for the interpretation of Stalin’s regime. However, this time the Kremlin administration launched a special working group that discussed the intended “common logic” of Russia’s history. In spite of all fears, this work largely consisted of professional discussions of the most controversial events and figures and resulted in the teaching of history in secondary schools for which two to three alternative series of textbooks were prepared. However, there were concerns for this incipient pluralism because a general tightening of state ideology applied to the teaching process. Another consequence of the state’s efforts to consolidate the official historical narrative was some diversification of the repertoire of the “usable past” that had remained largely focused on the Soviet period and was anchored in the symbolic infrastructure of such things as public 383

384

Olga Malinova

holidays, memorials, films and songs. In the 2010s many new monuments were constructed in Russian cities under the auspices of the Russian Military Historical Society, a state-​sponsored NGO created in 2012. It became an important agent of the state’s policy in the field of public history along with the Russian Historical Society, also launched in 2012. Every new monument drew public attention, thus saturating the idea of “the thousand-​year-​old Russian state” with specific content. Putin participated in the unveiling of many of these monuments with appropriate speeches. A visible consequence of the “conservative turn” that was consolidated in the context of the annexation of Crimea in 2014, the war in Ukraine and Western economic sanctions was the securitisation of the state-​centred historical narrative (Siddi 2017). For the most part it affected memory of the Great Patriotic War as the major pillar of Russian identity. In April 2014 the State Duma adopted a law to counter attempts to infringe on historical memory in relation to the events of World War II. There were several cases of the persecution of scholars and journalists who expressed ideas that were at odds with the official interpretation of the national past (Edele 2017). In 2021, Putin was personally involved in the discussions on the proper interpretation of history by publishing articles on the most burning issues –​falsifications of the history of the war and the historical unity of Russians and Ukrainians. In the 2010s the practices of commemorating Victory Day were supplemented by a new public ritual –​the Immortal Regiment parade on 9 May. It appeared from the need to refocus the commemoration from glorifying the state to those who fought in the war, a perspective aggravated by the thinning numbers of veterans. Invented in 2012 in Tomsk, the ritual, which consisted of carrying portraits of one’s family members who participated in the war, quickly proliferated to other places. Like the case of the Ribbon of St George, at first it was a civic initiative that arose from a revival of public activity during the protest campaign of 2011–​12, but it soon became actively promoted by the state. From 2015 until 2020, when the COVID-​19 pandemic converted the Immortal Regiment to online actions (Beshkinskaya and Miller 2020), Putin took place in the parade carrying his father’s portrait. Paradoxically, the state’s activity in the field of memory opened up some opportunities for commemorating Soviet mass repression. In August 2015, the Russian government adopted the Conception of the State Policy on Commemorating the Memory of Victims of Political Repression, which facilitated the activity of local actors involved in commemorating the victims of repression. In October 2015 Putin participated in the unveiling of the new memorial to victims of political repression in Moscow and gave a speech in which he emphasised that this page of history should not be forgotten (Smith 2019). In the same month, the Museum of the Gulag was opened in central Moscow (Sherlock 2016). However, this progress should not be exaggerated, as it was accompanied by shifts in the opposite direction (Goode 2020). The latter became particularly visible in December 2021, when Russia’s Supreme Court ordered the International Historical, Educational, Charitable and Human Rights Society “Memorial”, the oldest and most respected mnemonic actor in this field, to close. After being designated a foreign agent in 2016, in 2021 “Memorial” was accused of repeatedly violating the country’s foreign agents law. During the court hearing, the public prosecutor interpreted commemorating repressions as anti-​patriotic activity. Taking into account the tendency for the securitisation of public memory, this could be a sign of the curtailment of the regime’s reluctant support for the commemoration of the victims of repression. Probably the most important symbolic act of Putin’s fourth term was amending the Constitution in 2020. Until that time the ruling elite had avoided making significant changes to this document; the political reforms of 2000–​10s had been introduced mostly by federal laws. Constitutionally unable to be legally re-​elected in 2024, Putin decided to use amendments 384

385

Symbolism and the national historical narrative

to the Constitution as a means of resetting his previous terms to zero, although this was not made clear at the beginning. Of course, “nulling” Putin’s terms had the most important symbolic effect, as it signalled the consolidation of the personalist authoritarian regime in Russia, thus making the official pseudo democratic rhetoric irrelevant. Yet there were also other symbolic changes. During the discussions of the special working group convened by the Kremlin administration to aggregate public proposals regarding amendments, the list of changes initially proposed by Putin was supplemented by several amendments reflecting core “traditional values”. As soon as it was decided not to touch the core chapters of the Constitution that could not be amended by the parliament, the amendments symbolising the “conservative turn” were added mostly to the articles discussing the competence of federal authorities, which looked rather artificial. By this method, the Constitution was supplemented by a mention of God and the historical continuity between the Russian Federation, the Soviet Union and the Russian empire, and the “state-​forming Russian people” (though, among the new elements of the Constitution, “the guarantees of ethnic and linguistic pluralism” were also mentioned). It was specifically emphasised that, in the field of family protection, the state considered marriage as a union between a man and a woman. All these ideas were part of the agenda of Russian nationalists, Communists and conservatives. Bringing them into the Constitution signalled their support by the state. Adding them to the liberal ideas of the core chapters that remained untouched has resulted in a rather eclectic combination. Also, several amendments aimed at strengthening state sovereignty, rejecting the alienation of the state’s territory and declaring the superiority of the Russian Constitution over international law were added. A distinctive system of symbols, myths and rituals based on the official historical narrative about the great Russian state and vaguely determined “traditional values” has been constructed. It was not exclusively a result of the state’s efforts, as some of its elements emerged from bottom-​up initiatives. Yet the state has played a major role in the post-​Soviet symbolic transformation, particularly since the 2010s, as it invented or endorsed symbols, provided resources, used the propaganda machine for injecting “proper” ideas and exercised coercion against those actors who articulated “improper” ideas. However, contemporary Russian symbolism remains eclectic. It combines some pre-​revolutionary traditions with selected elements of the Soviet legacy and inherits some inventions of the 1990s in spite of a predominantly critical attitude towards this period. Russia’s new symbolism is not as comprehensive nor as unreservedly accepted as the Soviet metanarrative was. However, it provides some basis for post-​Soviet Russian identity and some legitimacy for the current political regime.

Postscript The military invasion of Ukraine on 24 February 2022 dramatically changed the symbolic landscape in Russia. The ruling elite’s efforts to neutralise resistance to the war by criminalising public oppositional activity made it illegal for media outlets to articulate anti-​war discourses and completely marginalised the anti-​Putin minority. It became embedded linguistically as the prescription, on penalty of prosecution, to describe the invasion as a “special military operation”, creating a visible barrier between the official public sphere and the unofficial one accessible only through VPN services. The Latin letter “Z”, initially employed as a technical marking on military hardware, became the symbol of “the operation”. It has been used in propagandist billboards, the mobilisation of flash mobs, and on social networks to express support for Putin’s policy. However, this augmenting of official symbols clearly does not exhaust the impact of the “special military operation” in Ukraine on Russia’s symbolic politics. The whole earlier 385

386

Olga Malinova

structure of symbols and narratives appears open to reinterpretation in the new context and will require further scholarship.

References Becker, J. (2004), “Lessons from Russia. A Neo-​ Authoritarian Media System”, European Journal of Communication 19, 2: 139–​63. Beshkinskaya, V.S. and A.I. Miller (2020), “The 75th Anniversary of the Victory of Russian Memory Politics: Preliminary Conclusions”, Russia in Global Affairs 18, 3: 200–​32. Edele, M. (2017), “Fighting Russia’s History Wars: Vladimir Putin and the Codification of World War II”, History & Memory 29, 2: 90–​124. Gill, G. (2011), Symbols and Legitimacy in Soviet Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Gill, G (2013), Symbolism and Regime Change in Russia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Goode, J.P. (2019), “Russia’s Ministry of Ambivalence: The Failure of Civic Nation-​Building in Post-​ Soviet Russia”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 35, 2: 140–​60. Goode, J.P (2020), “Patriotism without Patriots? Perm’-​36 and Patriotic Legitimation in Russia”, Slavic Review 79, 2: 390–​411. Kolstø, P. (2016), “Symbol of the War –​But Which One? The St. George Ribbon in Russian Nation-​ Building”, Slavonic and East European Review 94, 4: 660–​701. Koposov, N.Ye. (2011), Pamyat’ strogogo rezhima. Istoriya i politika v Rossii (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie). Laruelle, M. (2019), “Commemorating 1917 in Russia: Ambivalent State History Policy and the Church’s Conquest of the History Market”, Europe-​Asia Studies 71, 2: 249–​67. Malinova, O. (2018a), “The Embarrassing Centenary: Reinterpretation of the 1917 Revolution in the Official Historical Narrative of Post-​Soviet Russia (1991–​2017)”, Nationalities Papers 46, 2: 272–​89. Malinova, O. (2018b), “Constructing the ‘Usable Past’: the Evolution of the Official Historical Narrative in Post-​Soviet Russia”, in N. Bernsand and B. Törnquist-​Plewa (eds.), Cultural and Political Imaginaries in Putin’s Russia (Leiden: Brill): 85–​104. Malinova, O. (2021), “Framing the Collective Memory of the 1990s as a Legitimation Tool for Putin’s Regime”, Problems of Post-​Communism 68, 5: 429–​41. Malinova, O. (2022), “Legitimizing Putin’s Regime: The Transformations of the Narrative of Russia’s Post-​Soviet Transition”, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies 55, 1 (forthcoming). Mälksoo, M (2009), “The Memory Politics of Becoming European: The East European Subalterns and the Collective Memory of Europe”, European Journal of International Relations 15, 4: 653–​80. Medvedev, D. (2009), “Go Russia!”, 10 September, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​tran​scri​ pts/​5413. Miller, A. (2020), Russia and Europe in Memory Wars, NUPI Working Paper 884, www.nupi.no/​nupi_​eng/​ Publi​cati​ons/​CRIS​tin-​Pub/​Rus​sia-​and-​Eur​ope-​in-​mem​ory-​wars. Putin, V. (1999), “Rossiya na rubezhe tysyacheletii”, Nezavisimaya gazeta, 30 December,www.ng.ru/​polit​ ics/​1999-​12-​30/​4_​mi​llen​ium.html. Putin, V. (2000), “Ne zhech’ mosty, ne raskalyvat’ obschestvo”, Rossiiskaya gazeta, 6 December. Putin, V. (2005), Annual Address to the Federal Assembly of the Russian Federation, 25 April, http://​en.krem​ lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​tran​scri​pts/​22931 Sharafutdinova, G. (2020), The Red Mirror: Putin’s Leadership and Russia’s Insecure Identity (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Sherlock, T. (2016), “Russian Politics and the Soviet Past: Reassessing Stalin and Stalinism under Vladimir Putin”, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies 49, 1: 45–​59. Shevel, O. (2011), “Russian Nation-​building from Yel’tsin to Medvedev: Ethnic, Civic or Purposefully Ambiguous?”, Europe-​Asia Studies 63, 2: 179–​202. Siddi, M. (2017), “The Ukraine Crisis and European Memory Politics of the Second World War”, European Politics and Society 18, 4: 465–​79. Smith, K.E. (2002), Mythmaking in the New Russia. Politics and Memory during the Yeltsin Era (Ithaca; London: Cornell University Press). Smith, K.E. (2019), “A Monument for our Times? Commemorating Victims of Repressions in Putin’s Russia”, Europe-​Asia Studies 71, 8: 1314–​44.

386

387

Symbolism and the national historical narrative Taylor, B.D. (2018), The Code of Putinism (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Tuminez, A. (2003), “Nationalism, Ethnic Pressures, and the Breakup of the Soviet Union”, Journal of Cold War Studies 5, 4: 81–​136. Urban, M. (1998), “Remythologizing the Russian State”, Europe-​Asia Studies 50, 6: 969–​92. Wydra, H. (2012), “The Power of Symbols –​Communism and Beyond”, International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society 25, 1/​3: 49–​69.

387

388

34 THE POLITICS OF MEMORY Alexey Golubev and Feodor Nikolai

Introduction The Russian invasion of Ukraine on 24 February 2022 took most of the international academic community by surprise despite persistent warnings from US intelligence because it made little sense strategically, politically, and especially economically. The justification for the invasion was outlined in two speeches by Vladimir Putin, one on 21 February 2022 and the other on the opening day of the invasion. The first –​and the longer –​speech deprioritised the perceived threat of NATO expansion; instead, Putin went to great lengths communicating his visions of Ukrainian history as inseparable from the history of Russia, and of Ukrainian independence as a historical aberration. Speaking in a pidgin of social constructivism (Ukrainian identity as an artificial construct) and essentialism (references to the historical “unity” of Russian and Ukrainian people), Putin declared that one of the main crimes of the Ukrainian Western-​ oriented politicians was “that they started building the [Ukrainian] statehood by negating everything that unites us, sought to distort the historical consciousness, historical memory of millions of people, entire generations that lived in Ukraine” (Putin 2022). Historical memory became a household concept among scholars of Russian studies in the first two decades of the twenty-​first century. This was initially caused by persistent references to historical memory in the political vocabulary of Vladimir Putin from the first year of his presidency as well as among other top Russian officials (Putin 2000; Gryzlov 2007). The official discourse of historical memory soon translated into political developments such as the establishment of the Presidential Commission of the Russian Federation to Counter Attempts to Falsify History to the Detriment of Russia’s Interests in May 2009, several amendments of the Russian criminal and civil codes that introduced legal responsibility for “falsifications of history” of World War II (Federalnyi zakon 2014), and state-​sponsored attempts to produce a school textbook representing a unified version of Russian national history. Putin’s invocation of memory and history as the principal justification for the 2022 invasion of Ukraine is a tragic reminder of how important the politics of memory are for the current Russian political establishment. In response to these claims of state sovereignty over historical narratives, multiple political actors, mainly representing centre-​right or social-​liberal political agendas, have claimed that state intrusion in historical memory was part of the gradual slide into autocracy. As many public intellectuals have argued, building a sustainable democratic culture and civil society in Russia 388

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-38

389

The politics of memory

is impossible without confronting the historical experience of state violence. The attempts of Russian officials to impose a state-​controlled version of historical memory were consequently interpreted as a threat to this process (Etkind 2013; Epple 2020). It was these political debates that became reflected directly or indirectly in the ever-​g rowing body of scholarship on the politics of memory and history and historical myth-​making in Russia. This chapter examines how different political actors in Russia deploy historical memory as a political concept to articulate their concerns about national politics and build public support for their political positions and initiatives. The central question in the debates about historical memory in Russia is the legacy of the Soviet era, most importantly the Bolshevik Revolution, state violence under Stalinism, Soviet involvement in World War II, and perestroika and the collapse of the Soviet Union. Yet history is not just a symbolic resource to which different political actors appeal in their struggle over the hearts and minds of Russian voters. The fact that historical memory became such a popular concept in Russia suggests that some forms of engagement with the historical experience are perceived by political and public actors in Russia as more authentic than others. References to memory are appealing for politicians, ideologists, and their audiences because they seek to establish authentic connections with the past. Finally, the imperial Russian and Soviet historical legacy provokes powerful affective responses among many Russian political actors and audiences, such as pride for past achievement, shame for state crimes, nostalgia for imperial power, and others. Historical memory as a political concept thus gives us insights into political emotions in contemporary Russian society that have fuelled imperialist resentment among broad swathes of its population and political leadership and culminated in the invasion of Ukraine.

The Yeltsin era The period of the 1990s saw an unprecedented withdrawal of federal-​level government actors from the domain of historical knowledge production. The “parade of sovereignties” that resulted in declarations of sovereignty being passed in many regions of the Russian Federation at the turn of the decade had its epistemological and performative dimensions in new historical narratives, commemorative practices, and monuments. Against the background of the late Soviet memorial calendar and landscape that prioritised the Bolshevik Revolution and especially the Great Patriotic War (Boltunova 2017), NGOs, new regionalist movements, and some political parties as well as the Russian Orthodox Church contributed to a new tragic narrative of Soviet history centred around state violence and repression with a particular focus on the Great Purge of 1937–​8 (Miller 2013; Bogumił et al 2015). This narrative included an explicit political agenda –​namely, that a recognition of the Russian nation’s troubled past in the twentieth century was the only way to the successful and sustainable democratisation of the public sphere. Germany with its post-​World War II denazification policy was often praised as a successful model that the Russian state and society had to follow (Novodvorskaya 1998: 187–​8, 292–​3). The Memorial Society (established in 1989 and closed by a court order in 2021) and the Sakharov Center (established in 1996) were the two most notable non-​profit organisations in Russia seeking to promote research and education about Soviet state violence through an active research and publication agenda, public debates, sponsorship of school events, and other forms of public engagement. These efforts were additionally supported by international organisations such as the Open Society Institute, the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, the Heinrich Böll Foundation, and others. The visibility of new narratives and commemorative initiatives during the Yeltsin era was so prominent that one scholar even hailed “the loss of 389

390

Alexey Golubev and Feodor Nikolai

the [Great Patriotic] war cult” that allegedly opened possibilities for an “authentic” memory to emerge (Tumarkin 1994: 225). This optimism was, however, short lived, as throughout the 1990s Russian political elites became increasingly concerned with the perceived loss of epistemic sovereignty over the national historical narrative and the consequent inability to use history for political mobilisation. A radical shift in the Russian state’s memory politics was consequently triggered by the election of Vladimir Putin as president of Russia in 2000.

2000s: Epistemic concerns While the content of Putin’s annual addresses to the Federal Assembly of the Russian Federation underwent significant changes throughout his presidential terms, one theme has been invoked again and again in surprisingly repetitive terms beginning with his very first address in 2000: that of the common history and memory presumably shared by all Russian citizens and their importance for national unity. In his first address, Putin claimed that “Russia’s unity is cemented by patriotism that is inherent for our people, by cultural traditions, by the shared historical memory … This is doubtless –​or so is my firm opinion –​the beginning of a new spiritual progress” (Putin 2000). In 2016, a year before the centennial of the Bolshevik Revolution, his address included a reference to the revolution as “our common history [that] should be treated with respect … We need history lessons, first of all, for the [national] reconciliation, for the strengthening of a social, political, civil consensus that we have managed to achieve” (Putin 2016). Moreover, following the Russian annexation of Crimea, the focus of Putin’s speeches grew to imply that a common history –​and hence historical memory –​were shared by Russians and Ukrainians across the border, a claim that eventually morphed into denials of the Ukraine’s right to an independent statehood (Putin 2022). Underlying these statements was a political position that equated an effective and strong state with an implicit claim that historical knowledge had to be curated and censored to prevent a repetition of the circumstances that led to the collapse of the Soviet Union and a dismemberment of the national body, a historical precedent that drives these epistemic concerns of the Russian political establishment. Putin’s first presidential term (2000–​4) was still characterised by a relative non-​involvement of the federal government in historical politics. While some scholars claimed an increased difficulty in accessing formerly open archives due to new restrictions very early on (Blyum 2000; Petrov 2005), it was not until 2004 that the state authorities began regularly employing metaphors of historical memory as a basic precondition for national unity, but also as something to be protected against the presumed desire of outside forces to discredit the Russian past in order to weaken the Russian state. At least three factors made 2004 a watershed year: the enlargement of the European Union that involved most Eastern European countries of the former socialist bloc, the admission to NATO of the three Baltic states (Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania) that brought the alliance even closer to Russia’s borders, and the so-​called Orange Revolution in Ukraine that brought to power a bloc of pro-​EU and NATO parties and movements headed by Viktor Yushchenko. Both in the Baltic states and Ukraine, the movement towards European and Atlantic integration went hand in hand with accepting as official those historical narratives that interpreted the Soviet period as an experience of oppression, occupation, and –​in the Ukrainian case –​a genocide through the famine of 1932–​3 (Astrov 2012; Kas’ianov 2016). The Russian political establishment responded by accusing Eastern European politicians of “historical revisionism” aimed at pleasing both Western partners and nationalist audiences within their own countries. For example, in 2006, the Ukrainian Verkhovna Rada passed a law that classified the Soviet famine of 1932–​3 as an intentional genocide of the Ukrainian people, declared its denial as 390

391

The politics of memory

illegal and a “desecration of the memory” of its victims, and outlined a series of measures to “restore and preserve the national memory” about this tragedy. The law also included an explicit reference to the 1948 Genocide Convention that some Russian political commentators interpreted as preparing the ground for an international legal action against Russia (Sabov 2006). In response, the Russian State Duma passed a resolution entitled “Commemorating the victims of the famine of the 1930s in the territory of the USSR,” which claimed that the “memory of the victims” belonged to all nations of the former Soviet Union, thereby confronting the particularist discourse of Ukrainian national history (Gosudarstvennaya duma 2008). The first decade of the twenty-​first century thus highlighted the international aspect of memory politics, or what many commentators and scholars called “memory wars” to emphasise how developments in international relations in Eastern Europe were informed by conflicting interpretations of the past (Bordyugov 2011; Laruelle 2021). The high visibility of post-​socialist states in the Russian political and cultural sphere ensured a strong public reaction to the efforts of Eastern European politicians to present the shared history of state socialism as an experience of Russian occupation. In 2005, when several Eastern European governments refused to send their representatives to the sixtieth anniversary commemorations of victory over Nazi Germany, there was a public outcry throughout the entire political spectrum and across large segments of Russian society (Miller 2020a: 11). Similarly, when in 2006 the Estonian authorities declared their intention to relocate a Soviet World War II memorial (the so-​called Bronze Soldier) from central Tallinn to the Tallinn Military Cemetery, it caused a year-​long yet eventually futile attempt by much of the Russian-​speaking community of Estonia, as well as Russian government agencies and nationalist organisations, to stop what they interpreted as the “vandalization of memory” and “historical amnesia” (Sovet Federatsii 2007; Gryzlov 2007). These successful public campaigns appealing to the emotions of indignation at and fear of an alleged revival of “neo-​Nazism” in some of the former Soviet republics stood in stark contrast to failures of the Russian authorities in some other areas of memory politics, most prominently in their inability to replace 7 November, the former October Revolution Day known as the Day of Accord and Reconciliation between 1996 and 2004, with Unity Day on November 4 to commemorate the liberation of Moscow from Polish-​Lithuanian occupation by a militia force in 1612. Perceiving the Bolshevik Revolution as too divisive, a vision that also precluded any large-​scale commemoration of its centennial in 2017 (Kalinin 2017), the Russian political establishment sought to replace it with a narrative of national unity in the face of an external threat. This trend also revealed itself in the 2008 TV series Name of Russia on the state-​owned channel Rossiya, where voting was manipulated to create a shortlist consisting almost exclusively of statesmen famous for confronting the “Western” threat and eventually to crown Alexander Nevsky the winner, a medieval Russian prince famous for victories over Swedish and Teutonic forces in the thirteenth century (Borusyak 2008). Name of Russia became emblematic of the renewed state effort to use history for the broad communication of an autocratic statist narrative that prioritised stability over radical change and ascribed positive developments both “yesterday” and “today” to strong leaders capable of consolidating the nation against external and internal enemies. By the end of the decade, historical memory became an established term in the vocabulary of the Russian political establishment, with the ruling party United Russia initiating its “Historical Memory” programme in 2007, the pro-​government NGO Historical Memory established in 2008 with the explicit goal of countering anti-​Russian historical narratives produced in Eastern Europe, and the Russian government’s increasingly visible agenda to shape a dominant historical narrative as well as to control –​and, if necessary, sanction –​deviations from it. The same decade demonstrated that, while many events in Russian history remained 391

392

Alexey Golubev and Feodor Nikolai

socially divisive, such as the Bolshevik Revolution, or left the public largely indifferent due to the long historical distance, such as the Polish-​Lithuanian occupation of Moscow in the early seventeenth century, the victory over Nazi Germany still resonated across the social and political spectrum. As a result, at the turn of the 2010s, Russian parliamentarians and state officials launched a campaign “against the falsification” of the history of World War II that was waged under the banner of “historical memory preservation.”

2010s: Epistemic control The concerns of the Russian political establishment that history could be manipulated to damage their project of national mobilisation and to stir up political instability translated into increasingly persistent measures to use the concept of historical memory to control, classify, censor, and purge certain historical narratives. An early –​indecisive and eventually fruitless –​effort to create an organisation responsible for enforcing these measures came in 2009, when President of Russia Dmitry Medvedev signed a decree establishing the Presidential Commission of the Russian Federation to Counter Attempts to Falsify History to the Detriment of Russia’s Interests. Headed by his Chief of Staff Sergei Naryshkin, the commission was mainly composed of government officials and a few token historians to provide an official commentary on disputed historical topics. The same year saw the first attempt by several Russian parliamentarians, most importantly Irina Yarovaya, to introduce a so-​called “memory law” imposing criminal liability for “violations of historical memory” related to Russia’s contribution to the victory over Nazi Germany. Taking place at a time when the Russian government was looking for a political “reset” in relations with the West, including an official recognition of the Katyn massacre as a Stalinist crime (Gosudarstvennaya duma 2010), both initiatives came to nothing. Yarovaya’s 2009 bill and several of its revisions failed to get any traction in the State Duma before 2014, while the Presidential Commission was dissolved in 2012 after only a few meetings that, according to Alexei Miller, “left no notable trace other than reputation damage” (Miller 2020b: 17). Both initiatives, however, marked an important shift in the politics of memory in Russia, with its object expanding to include, in addition to presumably hostile foreign forces, those domestic actors that challenged the emerging statist master narrative of Russian history. Unsurprisingly, political commentators associated with centre-​right politics interpreted this change in the Russian politics of memory as a turn to authoritarianism (Koposov 2014). The turn from epistemic concerns to epistemic control in Russia was intensified by two key events of the first half of the 2010s: large-​scale protests that started in Russia in December 2011 against the State Duma election results and spilled into 2013, and the annexation of Crimea and Russia’s involvement in the Eastern Ukrainian conflict in 2014. In both cases, the Russian political establishment sought to deploy “usable pasts” against its domestic and international critics. The failure of Mikhail Gorbachev’s perestroika to revitalise the Soviet economy and politics, the subsequent collapse of the Soviet Union, and the experience of economic impoverishment and social and military conflicts of the 1990s were used by the pro-​establishment forces to discredit the political protests of 2011–​13 as detrimental to the interests of Russian society due to the political destabilisation they could cause (Reut and Teterevleva 2014: 158–​61). To explain why the protests attracted youth in large numbers, pro-​establishment commentators used the metaphors of memory to argue that young people had been manipulated into joining the protest because they “did not remember” or “forgot” the social disaster of the Yeltsin era (Sokolov-​Mitrich 2014). With the 2014 Ukrainian revolution, and again with the 2022 Russian invasion of Ukraine, the politics of memory in Russia acquired even greater importance. To mobilise public 392

393

The politics of memory

support against the Ukrainian government, which had taken a decisive pro-​European integration course, on both occasions the Russian authorities, state-​owned media, and nationalist groups and organisations represented the revolution as a resurgence of neo-​Nazism in Ukraine, drawing on the widespread public association of mid-​twentieth-​century Ukrainian nationalism with the Nazi German occupation regime. This enabled them to interpret the actions of the Russian government in annexing Crimea and providing support to anti-​government separatist groups in the Donbas region in 2014, and invading Ukraine in 2022, as the protection of Russian-​speaking communities from violence and a genocide allegedly in the making (Kondrashov 2015; Fedor et al 2017: 15–​17; Putin 2022). The “memory war,” however, went both ways: for example, in 2014, the Russian government’s position vis-​à-​vis Ukraine was compared with Nazi Germany’s annexation of the Sudetenland, a comparison invoked by Prince Charles of the UK, German Finance Minister Wolfgang Schäuble, and Russian opposition politicians and commentators Andrei Illarionov, Viktor Shenderovich, Andrei Zubov, and others. To consolidate public opinion in Russia against such statements and their authors, who were delegitimising the annexation of Crimea through historical comparisons with Nazi Germany, the Russian political establishment used the centrality of World War II in both official and family narratives to develop a new set of tools for epistemic control under the disguise of the “protection of historical memory.” First of all, the long-​delayed bill sponsored by Irina Yarovaya that aimed to “counter the attempts to undermine historical memory related to the events of World War II” was quickly passed by the State Duma in April 2014 and signed into law by Putin on 5 May 2014. From now on, people making public statements that questioned the verdicts of the Nuremberg Trials, disseminated “knowingly false” information about the Soviet Union in World War II, and promoted “disrespectful” interpretations of Russian military history could be sentenced to a hefty fine or up to three years in prison (Edele 2017). At the same time, the actual use of this law so far has been sporadic at best: some of the most famous alternative historical narratives of the Soviet Union in World War II such as Viktor Suvorov’s revisionist books about Joseph Stalin’s planned conquest of Europe that was only stopped by a pre-​emptive strike by Nazi Germany –​an example of “knowingly false” information par excellence –​have never been targeted by law enforcement and remain easily available in bookstores and online. It suggests that Russian authorities are concerned that any straightforward application of this law might only arouse public interest in censored narratives at a time when they are easily accessible on the internet, preferring to have the 2014 “memory law” as a powerful deterrent regulating the production of historical narratives in the Russian public space, especially as the text of the law gives vague formulations of what constitutes “knowingly false” and “disrespectful” information (Kurilla 2014). As of the 2022 invasion, the Russian public sphere had immediately become saturated with textual references and visual imagery equating the Red Army of the 1940s with the Russian Army of the 2020s, on the one hand, and Nazi Germany with independent Ukraine, on the other. In addition to censoring historical narratives in the public sphere, Russian authorities sought to reinforce the master narrative of national history as a process of building and maintaining a strong state as allegedly the only force capable of preventing Russian society from descending into the chaos, violence, and eventual disintegration associated with radical reforms and revolutions as well as external threats. This master narrative is regularly voiced by Russia’s political leaders, starting with Putin himself. As the only true version of “national memory,” it has also been promoted by several NGOs that are formally independent yet have strong connections in the senior levels of the Russian government and receive state funding. One of these is the Russian Historical Society headed by Sergei Naryshkin, Chairman of the State 393

394

Alexey Golubev and Feodor Nikolai

Duma from 2011 to 2016 and Director of the Foreign Intelligence Service since 2016; another is the Russian Military Historical Society headed by Vladimir Medinsky, Minister of Culture from 2012 to 2020. With patriotic education as their main goal, both societies saturate Russian cultural and political space with statist narratives that make claims of historical truth through references to the preservation of “genuine” historical memory as well as by building an extensive memory infrastructure (Malinova 2019; Lapin 2020). The concept of historical memory has proved itself a useful tool for the epistemic control of Russian society, as it enables Russian politicians to circumvent the scholarly community in the production of truth-​statements about Russian history. Suggesting –​although never delivering –​an authentic connection with the past that does not need scholarly mediation, historical memory limits the possibility for the production and dissemination of new alternative historical narratives and marginalises existing ones. Unsurprisingly, in his conflict with the professional historical community over his attempts at creating a coherent, non-​contradictory version of Russian history that would reconcile “Peter I, Nicholas II, [and] Stalin” in one grand narrative, Minister of Culture Vladimir Medinsky appealed to historical memory as the justification that a “[good] citizen’s perspective of history” only marginally needs scholarly interpretations of Russian history and should, instead, follow “the values of patriotism and service to the [Russian] people” (Medinsky 2018). Most importantly, this concept allowed the Russian political establishment to capitalise on the most important symbolic resource of Russian history: the legacy of the Great Patriotic War against Nazi Germany.

The conflicted legacy of the Soviet era Any attempt at using the Russian (or any other) historical experience to create a coherent master narrative inevitably encounters the problem of controversial events –​those that escape any straightforward interpretation and thus have the potential to divide society by encapsulating different political and social visions. In modern Russian political culture, the most important of these controversial events belong to the Soviet era –​the Bolshevik Revolution, the First Five-​ Year Plan with its collectivisation and industrialisation campaigns, the Great Purge and ethnic deportations, the Sovietisation of Eastern Europe, and perestroika followed by the dissolution of the USSR. Appeals to historical memory represent ideologically motivated efforts to overcome the radically controversial and fragmented nature of this historical experience by transforming it into a set of stories with an explicit and easily extractable moral. For the statist agenda pursued by both the ruling political establishment and the Communist Party of the Russian Federation (KPRF), it is the Great Patriotic War –​which is how the Soviet Union’s war against Nazi Germany from 1941 to 1945 is known –​that has become the central historical event consolidating historical memory as a grand narrative of the Russian people’s self-​sacrifice for the national good. The story of the Immortal Regiment, a public civil event commemorating Victory Day and a namesake NGO, offers a good example of how the Russian establishment coopted a grassroots initiative to connect its visions of patriotic history with family stories of suffering, sacrifice, and triumph in the war against Nazi Germany. The event represents a parade on Victory Day where people carry portraits of relatives who fought in the Great Patriotic War, an act linking one’s personal and national history. Launched by a group of independent journalists in Tomsk in 2012, the Immortal Regiment became extremely popular throughout Russia as well as the global Russian-​speaking diaspora; soon it had the full support of the Russian authorities and, in 2015, Vladimir Putin headed the parade in Moscow, signalling the incorporation of the Immortal Regiment into the state-​sponsored and state-​promoted repertoire of memorial rituals (Arkhipova et al 2017; Gabowitsch 2018; Rogova 2022). In the 394

395

The politics of memory

case of the Immortal Regiment, civic enthusiasm conflated with official interests because both were preoccupied with historical continuities and uninterrupted genealogies by emphasising the feeling of an authentic connection with the past both individually, through photographs, and nationally, through collective action that transcended ethnic, religious, social, regional, and even state boundaries. For the centrist and centre-​r ight opposition, historical memory is an equally important and usable concept that allows the questioning of the dominant master narrative by presenting a different genealogy of contemporary Russian society as presumably haunted by the experience of state violence. Politicians and scholars from this camp claim a direct connection between the failure of democratic reforms in Russia after 2000 and a historical “amnesia” that is presumably nurtured by the state authorities (Etkind 2013; Vol’noe istoricheskoe obshchestvo 2017). In their interpretation of historical memory in Russia, the triumphalist narrative of the Great Patriotic War is foreshadowed by the Great Purge and other instances of state violence against its citizens, a systematic violation of the most basic human rights that, from the perspective of the liberal theory, criminalises the Soviet government. To the epistemic control of the Russian state, they respond with their own memorial practices and sites such as public recitals of the names of the victims of the Stalinist terror, usually the day before or during the Day of Remembrance of the Victims of Political Repressions (October 30). Just as with the Immortal Regiment, many civic initiatives conflate with and reinforce this ideological agenda, making it more affective through personal histories of victimhood (Epple 2020). Yet despite the claims by the politicians and political commentators in this camp that their version of historical memory is more authentic than the official one because it gives a voice to the victims of state violence, it nevertheless performs the same consolidating function of uniting Russian citizens into a national community of mourning and reconciliation with its difficult past (Oushakine 2009). The only part of the political spectrum that has largely avoided involvement in the politics of memory, with its essentialisation of the nation and national symbolism, is the Russian left (excluding the KPRF). Left-​wing movements and critics in Russia and abroad have remained sceptical about the recent “memory boom”, treating it as a tool that the political and intellectual elites use to maintain existing hegemonies (Kalinin 2013; Traverso 2016; Golubev 2017). Yet the weakness of the Russian left has prevented it from developing any prominent form of counter-​memory (Foucault 1977) capable of countering the hegemonic historical narratives that fuelled the imperialist resentment in Russia throughout the 2010s and 2020s and eventually justified the 2022 invasion of Ukraine. Without counter-​hegemonic narratives capable of questioning the dominant hierarchies and claims of historical coherence, the politics of memory will most likely remain an integral part of Russian political life in the decades to come.

References Arkhipova, A., D. Doronin, A. Kirzyuk, D. Radchenko, A. Sokolova, A. Titkov and Ye. Yulai (2017), “Voina kak prazdnik, prazdnik kak voina: performativnaya kommemoratsiya Dnya Pobedy”, Antropologicheskii forum 33: 84–​126. Astrov, A. (2012), “Istoricheskaya politika i ‘ontologicheskaya ozabochennost’’ malykh tsentral’no-​ evropeiskikh gosudarstv (na primere Estonii)”, in A. Miller and M. Lipman (eds,), Istoricheskaya politika v XXI veke (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie): 184–​213. Blyum, A. (2000), “Kakoe miloe u nas tysyacheletie na dvore, ili ‘Mit’ka, kruti kino obratno’”, Posev 8 (2000): 18–​21. Bogumił, Z., D. Moran and E. Harrowell, (2015), “Sacred or Secular? ‘Memorial’, the Russian Orthodox Church, and the Contested Commemoration of Soviet Repressions”, Europe-​Asia Studies 67, 9: 1416–​44.

395

396

Alexey Golubev and Feodor Nikolai Boltunova, Ye.M. (2017), “‘Prishla beda, otkuda ne zhdali’: kak voina poglotila revolyutsiyu”, Neprikosnovennyi zapas 6: 109–​28. Bordyugov, G. (2011), “Voiny pamyati” na postsovetskom prostranstve (Moscow: AIRO-​XXI). Borusyak, L. (2008), “Proekt ‘Imya Rossii’ kak novyi uchebnik istorii”, Vestnik obshchestvennogo mneniya 5: 58–​66. Edele, M. (2017), “Fighting Russia’s History Wars: Vladimir Putin and the Codification of World War II”, History and Memory 29, 2: 90–​124. Epple, N. (2020), Neudobnoe proshloe: pamyat’ o gosudarstvennykh prestupleniyakh v Rossii i drugikh stranakh (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie). Etkind, A. (2013), Warped Mourning: Stories of the Undead in the Land of the Unburied (Stanford: Stanford University Press). “Federalnyi zakon o vnesenii izmenenii v otdelnye zakonodatelnye akty Rossiiskoi Federatsii” (2014), http://​publ​icat​ion.pravo.gov.ru/​Docum​ent/​View/​00012​0140​5050​051. Fedor J., S. Lewis and T. Zhurzhenko (2017), “Introduction: War and Memory in Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus”, in J. Fedor, M. Kangaspuro, J. Lassila and T. Zhurzhenko (eds.), War and Memory in Russia, Ukraine and Belarus (London: Palgrave Macmillan): 1–​40. Foucault, M. (1977), “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History”, in M. Foucault (ed.), Language, Counter-​Memory, Practice (Ithaca: Cornell University Press): 139–​64. Gabowitsch, M. (2018), “Are Copycats Subversive? Strategy-​ 31, the Russian Runs, the Immortal Regiment, and the Transformative Potential of Non-​Hierarchical Movements”, Problems of Post-​ Communism 65, 5: 297–​314. Golubev, A. (2017), “Analitika zakanchivaetsya, i ostaetsya odna politika”, Indicator.ru, https://​indica​tor. ru/​human​itar​ian-​scie​nce/​interv​iew-​golu​bev.htm. Gosudarstvennaya duma (2008), “Pamyati zhertv goloda 30-​kh godov na territorii SSSR”, Resolution of the State Duma of the Russian Federation, 2 April, http://​duma.gov.ru/​news/​1293/​. Gosudarsvennaya duma (2010), “O Katynskoi tragedii i ee zhertvakh”, 26 November, http://​duma.gov. ru/​news/​5093/​. Gryzlov, B. (2007), “Pozdravlenie s Dnem Pobedy”, Address by the Chairperson of the State Duma, 8 May, http://​duma.gov.ru/​news/​601/​. Kalinin I. (2013), “Proshloe kak ogranichennyi resurs: istoricheskaya politika i ekonomika renty”, Neprikosnovennyi zapas 2: 200–​14. Kalinin, I. (2017), “Prizrak yubileya”, Neprikosnovennyi zapas 111: 11–​20. Kas’ianov, G.V. (2016), “Istoricheskaya politika i memorial’nye zakony v Ukraine. Nachalo XXI v.”, Istoricheskaya ekspertiza 2: 28–​55. Kondrashov, A. (2015), Krym. Put’ na Rodinu, VGTRK, http://​rus​sia.tv/​brand/​show/​brand​_​id/​59195. Koposov, N. (2014), “Pamyat’ v zakone”, Russkii zhurnal 8, www.russ.ru/​Mirov​aya-​poves​tka/​Pam​yat-​v-​ zak​one. Kurilla, I. (2014), “Istoriya i pamyat’ v 2004, 2008 i 2014 godakh”, Otechestvennye zapiski 3: 36–​43. Lapin, V. (2020), “Rossiiskoe istoricheskoe obshchestvo (RIO) i Rossiiskoe voenno-​ istoricheskoe obshchestvo (RVIO) kak instrumenty istoricheskoi politiki pervoi chetverti XXI veka”, in A. Miller and D. Efremenko (eds.), Politika pamyati v sovremennoi Rossii i stranakh Vostochnoi Evropy: aktory, instituty, narrativy (St Petersburg: EU SPb Press): 74–​95. Laruelle M. (2021), Is Russia Fascist? Unraveling Propaganda East and West (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Malinova, O. (2019), “Kto i kak formiruet ofitsialnyi istoricheskii narrativ? Analiz rossiiskikh praktik”, Politiya 3: 103–​26. Medinsky, V. (2018), “S velikim proshlym –​v velikoe budushchee”, Izvestiya, 5 February, https://​iz.ru/​ 704​149/​vladi​mir-​medins​kii/​s-​veli​kim-​prosh​lym-​v-​veli​koe-​bud​ushc​hee. Miller A. (2013), “Rol’ ekspertnykh soobshchestv v politike pamyati v Rossii”, Politiya 4 (2013): 114–​26. Miller, A. (2020a), Russia and Europe in Memory Wars (Oslo: Norwegian Institute of International Affairs). Miller, A. (2020b), “Vvedenie. Bolshie peremeny. Chto novogo v politike pamyati i ee izuchenii”, in A. Miller and D. Efremenko (eds.), Politika pamyati v sovremennoi Rossii i stranakh Vostochnoi Evropy: aktory, instituty, narrativy (St Petersburg: EU SPb Press): 8–​25. Novodvorskaya, V. (1998), Nad propast’yu vo lzhi (Moscow: AST). Oushakine, S.A. (2009), The Patriotism of Despair: Nation, War, and Loss in Russia (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Petrov, N. (2005), “Arkhivnaya kontrrevolyutsiya”, Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie 74: 375–​87.

396

397

The politics of memory Putin, V. (2000), “Kakuyu rossiyu my stroim”, Ezhegodnye poslaniya prezidenta RF federal’nomu sobraniyu 1994–​2005 (Novosibirsk: Sibirskoe universitetskoe izdatel’stvo, 2006): 303–​18. Putin V. (2016), “Poslanie Prezidenta Federal’nomu Sobraniyu”, 1 December, www.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​ presid​ent/​tran​scri​pts/​messa​ges/​53379. Putin, V. (2022), “Obrashchenie Prezidenta Rossiiskoi Federatsii”, 21 February, http://​krem​lin.ru/​eve​ nts/​presid​ent/​news/​67828. Reut, O. and T. Teterevleva (2014), “Reprezentatsii perestroiki v protestnom diskurse rossiiskogo segmenta interneta”, in O. Malinova et al (eds.), Simvolicheskaya politika. Vypusk 2: spory o proshlom kak proektirovanie budushchego (Moscow: INION RAN): 146–​63. Rogova, A. (2022), “Protectors of the Great Victory: Commemoration of World War II in the Russian Community of Toronto”, Anthropologica 64, 1, https://​doi.org/​10.18357/​anthro​polo​gica​6412​0221​008. Sabov, A. (2006), “Golodnaya pravda (interv’yu s V.B. Zhiromskoi”, Rossiiskaya gazeta, 6 December, https://​rg.ru/​2006/​12/​06/​golodo​mor.html. Sokolov-​Mitrich, D. (2014), “Yeltsina na vas net!”, Pravoslavie.ru, https://​prav​osla​vie.ru/​75238.html. Sovet Federatsii (2007), “Dvesti pervoe zasedanie Soveta Federatsii”, http://​coun​cil.gov.ru/​eve​nts/​news/​ 23028/​. Traverso, E. (2016), Left-​Wing Melancholia: Marxism, History, and Memory (New York: Columbia University Press). Tumarkin, N. (1994), The Living and the Dead. The Rise and Fall of the Cult of World War II in Russia (New York: Basic Books). Vol’noe istoricheskoe obshchestvo (2017), “Kakoe proshloe nuzhno budushchemu Rossii”, https://​ komite​tgi.ru/​analyt​ics/​3076/​.

397

398

35 CIVIL SOCIETY AND THE STATE Leah Gilbert

Civil society in the form of voluntary associations constituted an important part of public life in Tsarist Russia. After 1917 Bolshevik policies gradually eliminated most independent groups while requiring participation (or at least membership) in state-​sponsored profession-​ based organisations. This changed in the second half of the 1980s, leading some observers to accord “the return of civil society” a major role in ending Communist rule. In the Gorbachev years, Russia experienced a classic pattern of mobilisation to remove an authoritarian regime followed by rapid demobilisation. In the twenty-​first century, the Russian government has pursued a contradictory policy towards non-​governmental organisations (NGOs), in which it has passed a number of restrictive laws to limit civil society, especially those with international connections and funding, while simultaneously expanding the resources available to NGOs perceived to further government agendas. This state of affairs accelerated after Vladimir Putin’s return to the presidency in 2012 and seems likely to continue in the future, even as aspects of the Kremlin’s approach towards dissent become even more overtly repressive. There are many ways to analyse and define civil society in Russia. Inclusive definitions of civil society encompass informal organisations and social movements (Evans et al 2006; Greene 2014; Henderson 2003; Uhlin 2006), while more restrictive interpretations emphasise associational life (Fish 1995; Howard 2003). Some scholars question whether “civil society” is a useful concept in non-​democratic contexts, a crucial issue considering Russia’s political history (Weigle 2000: 29–​33) and its post-​Soviet transformation from a more open polity with competitive elections under Yeltsin to one under Putin where “elections are held regularly, but they do not provide an opportunity to transfer power, only to legitimize it” (Krastev 2006: 53). This chapter focuses on non-​commercial voluntary organisations orientated towards public ends that are independent of the state. It also considers an alternative tradition, going back to Hegel and Marx, emphasising the state’s role. State-​led civil society may offer a potential short-​cut to creating civil society, but it poses a serious danger of co-​option or state domination.

Historical overview –​Tsarist Russia and the Soviet Union Russia’s history supports both pessimistic and optimist assessments regarding a “usable” civil society past (Gilbert 2009). The Tsarist regime distrusted independent associations, but its 398

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-39

399

Civil society and the state

institutional and financial weakness necessitated relying on society for many public goods. Voluntary associations proliferated and played a growing role in public life in the second half of the nineteenth century (Bradley 2009), as did less formal groups (Lindenmeyr 1996). A vibrant “middle sphere” emerged in late imperial Russia and forced political change in 1905 (Balzer 1996; Clowes et al 1991). The situation changed dramatically after the October revolution. The Soviet regime gradually eliminated independent associations while demanding that people join state-​sponsored organisations (Balzer 1996; Evans 2006: 38). Children belonged to the Young Pioneers and most graduated to membership in the Komsomol, the Communist youth organisation. Working adults paid dues to official trade unions and marched with their co-​workers on official holidays. Mandatory participation during the Soviet era resulted in a negative impact on many individuals’ view of social organisations after the demise of communism (Howard 2003). After 1985, under the rubric of perestroika and glasnost, new space was created for public engagement and discourse. “Informal” groups emerged across the Soviet Union (Tolz 1990). Such groups built upon independent social activity in a host of chess, gardening, auto, and other hobbyist groups that managed to exist during the earlier Soviet era. Ecology movements in many Soviet republics morphed into popular fronts with broader political and soon pro-​ independence agendas (Dawson 1996). Hosking (1990: 64) estimates that as many as 60,000 informal groups existed in the Soviet Union by 1990.

Post-​Soviet civil society: The Yeltsin era Rapid growth of informal organisations generated optimism that a flourishing civil society would take root in Russia (Starr 1988). Henry and Sundstrom (2006: 4) suggest that scholars viewed the re-​emergence of civil society as an explanation for peaceful regime transitions in Eastern Europe and Russia and saw a growing civil society as an essential element in the future consolidation of democracy. The end of Communist Party rule was followed by a period of “demobilisation”, as informal groups struggled to reorient themselves in a fluid political environment (Weigle 2002: 199–​223). Russia’s 1993 Constitution and the 1995 Law on Public Associations established a legal basis for independent organisations, instititutionalising the fledgling third sector. Foreign funding from private and governmental donors served as a major source of financing for NGOs during these years due to a scarcity of domestic resources. Financial support from foreign sources produced mixed results in Russia (Henderson 2003; Sperling 1999; Sundstrom 2006a). When administered well, foreign support enhanced an organisation’s professionalism and resources. But in a resource-​scarce environment with few donors, groups are incentivised to focus their activity on matching donor expectations and priorities rather than emphasising local concerns (Henderson 2003). In some instances, foreign funding fosters competition rather than coordination among civil society groups (Sperling 1999). Between 1993 and 1997 the number of registered organisations increased from an estimated 50,000 to nearly 66,000 (Weigle 2002: 123). This trend was reflected in cities as diverse as Moscow, Barnaul, and Novosibirsk. However, the character and strength of civil society varied greatly across Russia’s regions, reflecting local socio-​political environments (Sundstrom 2006a; Weigle 2000). In addition, despite the growing number of organisations, by the end of the 1990s scholars downplayed the impact of civil society in Russia (Evans 2002: 325). Statistical analyses of average voluntary association membership across countries showed the relative weakness of civil society in post-​communist Europe, including Russia, compared with other world regions (Howard 2003). There are a variety of explanations for this pattern, with most 399

400

Leah Gilbert

centred on institutions, including a state-​centred economy (Fish 1995), attitudinal and behavioural legacies from forced participation in Soviet associations (Howard 2003), or an incoherent and unpredictable state (Greene 2014) to name only a few. While civil society in the Yeltsin years did not exert significant influence on policy or create the underpinnings for a sustainable democracy, some organisations did manage to attract attention to their concerns. Groups established to protect the rights of uniformed servicemen were among the most active and influential (Caiazza 2002; Sundstrom 2006b). Organisations with agendas as varied as environmental protection, women’s rights, and support for the disabled also managed to achieve some of their goals (for case studies, see Evans et al 2006; Henry 2010).

Putin’s first two terms and the Medvedev presidency When Vladimir Putin became president, he pledged to collaborate with civil society, noting the contribution it made to building democracy in Russia (Weigle 2002; Richter 2009). However, a key feature of Putin’s first two presidential terms is the contradictory nature of state policy towards NGOs. Contrasting with Yeltsin’s policy of benign neglect (Henderson 2011), Putin sought to reassert centralised control over the growing third sector to manage the pluralism (Balzer 2003) that the administration inherited from Yeltsin. This reassertion of control produced contradictory results. There is considerable evidence that these policies constrained civil society by narrowing the space for independent activism. However, they also opened new avenues for activism perceived to be in line with the state’s goals and demonstrated limits to the state’s control. Such contradictory tendencies continued with modifications during Medvedev’s presidency. When analysing the contradictory policies towards civil society during the early Putin period, the colour revolutions stand out in their import. The colour revolutions refer to a series of popular protests around national elections that contributed to the defeat of illiberal incumbents in Yugoslavia (2000), Georgia (2003), Ukraine (2004), and Kyrgyzstan (2005). A variety of civil society groups played visible roles in each of these colour revolutions (Bunce and Wolchik 2011). While Russia did not experience large-​scale protests around elections during this time, authorities were concerned about the prospect of a colour revolution taking place in Russia (Finkel and Brudny 2012; Horvath 2013). The authorities turned to a variety of policy tools in order to attempt to stop the spread of colour revolutions, a process often referred to as “diffusion proofing” (Koesel and Bunce 2013). One diffusion proofing strategy was to further tighten the legal regulations for groups that receive foreign funding. The 2006 NGO Law is noteworthy in this regard, as it was part of a broader global trend among non-​democratic regimes to erect greater legal regulatory barriers for NGOs in their attempt to prevent oppositional mobilisation following the colour revolutions (Gilbert and Mohseni 2018). Among other changes to the legal regulatory environment that enhanced the supervisory power of the Russian state over organisations, this law requires NGOs to report all funds received from foreign sources and how they are used (Bourjaily 2006). Analyses of the impact of the law on diverse social organisations demonstrate how groups perceived by authorities to be more adversarial or independent experienced greater regulatory burdens (Crotty et al 2014; Gilbert 2016). For example, such groups had to expend greater time and effort filling out paperwork about their funding sources or responding to detailed audits rather than conducting their work. Nonetheless, while documenting how the law contributed to skewing the organisational landscape towards state sanctioned groups, Graeme Robertson (2011: 214–​15) asserts that the law also contained an element of genuine information exchange and promoted the professionalisation of groups. 400

401

Civil society and the state

Measures such as the 2006 NGO law also reflect a broader security rationale that began to take shape in both rhetoric and policy towards civil society under Putin as officials sought to draw a connection between NGOs that receive foreign funding or have international connections and threats to Russia’s national security. Often a basis for this view is the belief that international organisations or groups that receive foreign funding are an exogenous element of Russian civil society because there is necessarily a transactional relationship between donor and sponsor (see Putin’s 2004 state of the union address for a clear example [Putin 2004]). This view further holds that this relationship can enable such NGOs (wittingly or not) to become instruments of Russia’s foreign adversaries, who seek to spy on, weaken, or destabilise Russia. (Gilbert and Hanets 2019: 3). Often, such claims were made with reference to protecting Russian sovereignty by preventing a domestic colour revolution. Another diffusion proofing strategy during this period was the formation and sponsoring of pro-​government organisations, so-​called “GONGOs”. The paradigmatic example is the pro-​ Putin youth movement Nashi (“Ours”), which operated from 2005 until 2012 and had close financial and organisational ties to the presidential administration (Hemment 2020). Robertson (2011) characterises Nashi as an “ersatz social movement” that was part of the Putin regime’s strategy to control not only the ballot boxes but also the streets after the colour revolutions. He demonstrates a variety of ways that Nashi was used as a tool to reduce the space for opposition to Putin. While clearly state directed, there were limits to this control. For example, Julie Hemment (2020) finds instances in which Nashi pursued its own agenda and notes how the organisation was constantly rebranding itself in an attempt to maintain its relevance. Alongside these types of diffusion proofing strategies, during this period the state influenced civil society by establishing a variety of consultative bodies that incorporate civil society input. Foremost of these is the Public Chamber (obshchestvennaya palata), which aims to further include the voice of society in policy making at the federal level and oversees competitions for grants awarded from the federal budget. These grants represented a sizable new funding source for groups, as RUB 1 billion ($33 million) was awarded per year until 2010 (Laruelle and Howells 2020: 39). In-​depth analyses of the Public Chamber by Alfred Evans (2008) and James Richter (2009) uncover evidence that it is not a mere puppet of the government, as the chamber brought public attention to important issues and particular cases and even at times criticised government policy. However, the organisation’s weak institutional structure incentivises members to pursue their own personal agendas rather than working as a unified body to respond to demands from below in a systematic way. As Richter (2009: 62) incisively concludes: “Rather than modeling civil society, then, the Public Chamber instead will likely reproduce the patterns of Russian officialdom that is was supposed to monitor and control.” The contradictory nature of civil society’s development continued during the “tandemocracy”, when Putin served as prime minister and Medvedev as president (2008–​12). During this period, some of the more restrictive policies towards civil society, such as the 2006 NGO law, were relaxed (RIA Novosti 2009). However, the main elements of Putin’s programme remained in place. At the same time, reflecting a trend that was already visible during the latter part of Putin’s presidency, local grassroots protests flourished around topics of everyday living (Chebankova 2013; Evans 2012; Gabowitsch 2017; Greene 2014). With examples ranging from urban infill construction in Chelyabinsk (Gabowitsch 2017) to the building of a major highway through Khimki forest near Moscow (Evans 2012), such activism drew on local attachments and networks to engage people in addressing concrete problems in their community. Distinctly political protests also increased to counter greater centralised political control during the late Putin and Medvedev years (Robertson 2011). Despite significant state repression, these protests 401

402

Leah Gilbert

helped build bridges across opposition groups spanning the ideological spectrum and lead to the use of increasingly innovative tactics and frames to mobilise support (Smyth 2021a: 84–​5). Thus, growing activism took place alongside restrictive controls.

Putin’s return to the presidency In September 2011, Medvedev announced that he would not seek another presidential term but that Putin would. This announcement and the ensuing Duma election in December 2011 and presidential election in March 2012 mark a major moment of mobilisation in Russia not seen since the end of the Soviet Union. The series of protests focusing on election fraud from 2011 to 2012, which became known as the “For Fair Elections” (FFE) movement, presented a major challenge to the political status quo and significantly influenced the shape of state-​ society relations in the years that followed. Societal activism, and the authorities’ response to this activism, further intensified the contradictory trends of civil society’s development already present during Putin’s first two terms. Authorities turned to increasingly repressive tools to limit the space for opposition to the state while simultaneously enacting policies to facilitate the work of groups perceived to be aligned with state goals, particularly those in social service delivery. While protests were never absent in post-​Soviet Russia, the protests associated with the FFE movement were remarkable for their size. People never before involved with street activism joined the protests, galvanised by information about electoral fraud spread on popular social media platforms (Beissinger 2017). The organisation of this new movement was significantly influenced by established NGOs working in the areas of elections, transparency, and human rights (Greene 2013: 50). And the form, style, and political geography of previous protests in the late Putin and Medvedev years laid the groundwork for the FFE movement (Robertson 2013: 12). When assessing the impact of the protests on civil society in Russia, scholarship has highlighted a number of positive developments and challenges for civil society. Positive developments include how the FFE movement created a site of newfound community and solidarity with important social, emotional, and cognitive effects for participants (Gabowitsch 2017: 255); helped bring together a broad civic network (Greene 2013); allowed a growing number of citizens to obtain increased motivation and resources for activism (Robertson 2013); and helped foster subsequent social and political activism (Smyth 2021a). In contrast, Mark Beissinger (2017) asserts that, in the years prior to the FFE movement, Russia gained an increasingly robust “virtual” civil society, but that this transformation took place in the context of a weak “conventional” civil society. Beissinger argues that, as a result, while it is more likely for there to be new levels of protest challenging autocratic authority, this situation can also “reinforce already weak political organisation, breed a false sense of representativeness, dilute collective identities within oppositions, and render oppositional mobilization over extended periods of time more difficult” (Beissinger 2017: 352). Virginie Lasnier (2017: 772) additionally finds that the FFE movement was unable to significantly improve two long-​standing challenges for Russian civil society groups: cooperation among different groups and the broadening of these groups’ appeal outside a small group of supporters. The complex impact of the protests for civil society development was further accentuated by the state’s subsequent attempts to disrupt and dismantle oppositional activism. A key part of this strategy was expanding legal restrictions on foreign funding and international organisations through the 2012 “foreign agents” law and the 2015 “undesirable foreign organisations” law. The 2012 “foreign agents” law requires groups that receive foreign funding and take part in 402

403

Civil society and the state

vaguely defined “political activities” to be registered as “foreign agents” and to include this designation on all public materials. As succinctly explained by the late veteran human rights activist Lyudmila Alexeeva (2013), the “foreign agents” label carries social stigma as it is connected to understandings of “spy” or “traitor” in Russia. The language of the “foreign agents” law thus further enshrined key notions of the security rationale into government policy. In addition to reputation loss, groups on the register of “foreign agents” are subject to additional audits and reporting requirements, as well as fines for noncompliance (Plantan 2022: 9). While organisations initially resisted registering under this law, in 2014 the law was changed to enable the Ministry of Justice to register groups without their consent (BTI 2020). Elizabeth Plantan (2022: 9) has created a comprehensive dataset of organisations listed as “foreign agents” as of 1 December 2020 and finds that, at its height, 181 organisations appeared on the list. She finds the largest share of organisations were those working on broadly described “rights” (human rights, LGBTQ rights, women’s rights, electoral rights, prisoners’ rights, and others), followed by the environment (Plantan 2022: 9–​10). As further explained by Plantan (2022: 9), the number of groups on the list has fluctuated over time because many groups decided to liquidate their legal entity, while a much smaller share were able to successfully appeal their status. The 2015 “undesirable foreign organisations” law represented a further tightening of the legal regulatory environment for international groups and funding, as the law enables the Prosecutor General to place foreign or international organisations on a list of “undesirable organisations” if they are deemed a threat to the national security of Russia. In addition to organisations on the list being prohibited from operating in Russia, anyone determined to be working with or participating in a listed organisation can face administrative and criminal penalties (ICNL 2020). The first groups placed on the list were non-​profit foundations that received funds from US government sources or from the philanthropist George Soros (The Moscow Times 2021); however, the list now includes 49 groups representing a variety of types of organisations (Ministry of Justice 2022). Following the law’s enactment, many internationally based organisations that had historically funded Russian NGOs ceased operations in Russia (Tysiachniouk et al 2018: 616). At the same time that authorities enacted various measures to restrict civil society, they also undertook initiatives to further develop and cooperate with it. Foremost among these initiatives are the grants and expanded status that have been extended to socially oriented non-​governmental organisations (SONGOs), as defined in law by the 2010 Federal Law No. 40-​FZ, among other legislation (Cook et al 2021). According to Linda Cook et al (2021: 120) SONGOs “developed mainly from self-​help groups that had formed during the 1990s, and continued to provide services and advocacy for vulnerable populations –​troubled families, people with disabilities, elderly, etc.” Since 2010, the role of SONGOs in social service delivery has gradually been expanded as part of reforms by the federal government aimed to lower costs and improve the quality of social services (Cook et al 2021). In this way, the government is intentionally using SONGOs as an agent to promote core state goals. In order to help expand their role in social services across the country, the Federal Ministry of Economic Development, along with regional administrations, directed a competitive grant programme for SONGOs from 2011 to 2016 (Cook et al 2021; Skokova et al 2018; Tarasenko 2018). The number of regional administrations that have organised grant competitions for SONGOs increased over time, yet there was significant regional diversity in implementation (Tarasenko 2018; Cook et al 2021). This regional programme ended in 2016 in favour of a centralised one within the presidential administration as part of the presidential grant competition for NGOs (Skokova et al 2018). 403

404

Leah Gilbert

The use of SONGOs to deliver social services was also promoted through an enhanced legal status that enables them to receive government tenders. In 2013, Federal Law No. 442 recognised NGOs as potential service providers (Skokova et al 2018: 544), and in 2015 this law was amended to require regions to open provider registries to SONGOs that qualified through an application process and to conclude contracts with qualifying SONGOs (Cook et al 2021: 124). New amendments in 2017 created the status of “providers of publicly beneficial services”, which gives new opportunities for groups to receive state support such as additional grants and preferential access to media (Skokova et al 2018: 544). The impact of this government sponsorship is significant, as summarised by Andrei Semenov and Vsevolod Bederson (2020: 4): “The annual amount of funds disbursed via all programs rose from 4.8 billion rubles in 2012 to 12.2 billion in 2018. The Ministry of Economic Development –​the major operator of the governmental subsidies for SONGOs –​reported in 2019 that 3,804 organisations received financial help from the state and their services were delivered to more than 60 million Russians.”

Conclusion Scholarship on civil society in Putin’s Russia highlights the many contradictions in government policy.1 In particular, it emphasises how government policy seeks to promote “desirable” civil society while simultaneously constraining “undesirable” civil society. Recognising this tension and seeking to clearly identify those groups targeted by different state policies in both Russia and China, Plantan (2022) developed a cohesive framework that enables comparative analysis both within and across countries. In line with literature that focuses on how civil society can enable the “upgrading of authoritarianism”, Plantan contends that authorities in authoritarian regimes are engaged in a complex balancing act in which they seek to maximise the benefits of civil society for governance, such as when they may solve information problems or provide public services, while simultaneously seeking to minimise the political risk posed by groups, such as when they may challenge the state’s monopoly on information or organise against the state (Plantan 2022: 3). This desire to maximise benefits while minimising risks yields choices for authorities beyond simple repression and also includes encouraging, neglecting, channelling, or co-​opting civil society groups (Plantan 2022: 4). Plantan’s (2022) analysis further highlights how the regimes in both Russia and China have engaged in the selective application of relevant NGO laws. She finds that only certain NGO activities combined with foreign funding are considered risky and repressed. In the case of Russia, these activities are primarily the protection of rights and the environment. Interestingly, while authorities in both countries repress rights protection organisations, China differs from Russia in that it generally attempts to encourage or channel, rather than repress, environmental organisations. Plantan asserts that this difference is because Russian authorities view environmental groups as high risk and low benefit, due to these groups’ past connection with regime-​ threatening protest in the late Soviet period, and the threats they currently pose to existing political and economic structures (Plantan 2022: 18). In so doing, her scholarship helps reveal how authorities’ assessments of the benefit or risk of certain types of groups can vary across non-​democratic regimes. While there is broad agreement about the complex nature of government policy, scholarship is divided over the extent to which these policy choices have encouraged or hindered the development of civil society as a whole. This debate has roots in the developments during the 2000s and the contradictory policies during that era (Gilbert and Balzer 2012). Debra Javeline and Sarah Lindemann-​Komarova (2020) assert that scholarship has been overly focused on the struggles of organisations that historically received foreign funding. 404

405

Civil society and the state

While acknowledging and documenting the real challenges experienced by these groups, they assert that foreign funding has its own problems and caution against overly broad assessments of the effects of “foreign agents” legislation, noting, for example, that “[t]‌he one or two hundred NGOs directly affected by the laws represent a small percentage of the 225,000 or so registered organisations” (Javeline and Lindemann-​Komarova 2020: 653). Javeline and Lindemann-​Komarova further call for greater attention on how domestic funding has diversified and expanded in Russia since the enactment of these laws, which they contend offer opportunities for civil society to develop more closely aligned with local needs and demands. In particular, they document increases in different types of government funding and donations from businesses, foundations, and individuals and argue that insufficient resources, rather than repression, constitutes the greatest challenge for Russian civil society organisations (Javeline and Lindemann-​Komarova 2020: 646). A majority of scholars are less sanguine about the impact of government policy on civil society’s development as a whole. For example, Geir Flikke (2018) asserts that laws such as the 2012 “foreign agents” law and 2015 “undesirable foreign organisations” law are discriminatory and have not only harmed those groups directly on the respective register but have broad implications for governance due to their arbitrary implementation. Similarly, Yulia Skokova et al (2018) analyse in-​depth interviews with government officials, regional experts, and NGOs across eight regions in Russia and find that the negative effects of the new legislation go well beyond just those groups specifically targeted by the law. For example, they emphasise how the laws contributed to a tarnishing of the image of the entire sector. They also document a decline in the solidarity of the sector, as groups in different regions varied considerably in their assessment of the legitimacy and necessity of the “foreign agents” law. The authors conclude that the new programmes to support socially oriented NGOs “did not outweigh the negative impacts of repressive legislation” (Skokova et al 2018: 556). Debates about the future development of civil society seem certain to continue and will likely reflect several central challenges and opportunities for civil society in Russia. On the one hand, authorities have recently increased the techniques used to curtail individuals and groups who openly criticise the authorities. The “foreign agents” law has been amended and expanded over the years and now includes media companies and even individuals (Kim 2021). The attempted assassination and jailing of Aleksei Navalny (Smyth 2021b) –​as well as the designation of his Anti-​Corruption Foundation and its affiliates, first as “foreign agents” in 2019 then banned as “extremist” in 2021 (Golosov 2021) –​are other examples of enhanced repression, as are the unprecedented numbers of people who were jailed after mass protests took place in January and February 2021 (McCarthy 2021). Even more recently, Memorial International, the oldest human rights organisation in Russia, was shut down after years of formal and informal government harassment of the group (Light 2021). However, it is notable that, despite these significant efforts to limit oppositional activism, there have nonetheless been several large protest waves over the past five years (McCarthy 2021), and the 2021 protests surrounding the arrest of Navalny were some of the largest since the end of the Soviet Union (Smyth 2021b). Also, in different regions of Russia groups of concerned citizens continue to gather to advance a variety of local causes and are strengthening their organisations to make an impact (Toth-​Czifra 2021). Several studies highlight a variety of survival strategies that organisations use to cope with the change in the operating environment for groups (Fedorenko 2019; Henry and Plantan 2021; Javeline and Lindemann-​Komarova 2020; Moser and Skripchenko 2018; Stuvøy 2020; Tysiachniouk et al 2018). These include re-​registering as a commercial organisation, working informally without registration, avoiding activities that could be construed as political, operating solely on domestic sources, operating while in exile abroad, and/​or acquiring foreign 405

406

Leah Gilbert

funding from new sources. However, no matter how creatively groups attempt to adapt while still pursuing their core mission, the stress and challenge posed by such high levels of uncertainty affect groups’ ability to plan for the future (Bogdanova et al 2018). And different survival strategies are not without their trade-​offs. For example, a group’s decision to further embed itself in international networks can reduce its agency vis-​à-​vis its international donors, while a group that decides to self-​censor its activities based on the views of the government faces a different form of loss of agency (for case studies of such trade-​offs, see Moser and Skripochenko 2018 and Stuvøy 2020). Finding adequate funding to realise their goals also continues to be a challenge for groups. Although domestic funding sources have expanded, they have not yet reached the previous amounts available through foreign funding (Javeline and Lindemann-​Komarova 2020). Similarly, while individual giving has expanded in Russia, NGOs are in general less likely to be the beneficiary of these donations, and NGOs whose focus makes them most impacted by the “foreign agents” legislation are among the least likely to be the recipients of such domestic donations (Zasimova and Kolosnitsyna 2018). There is also continued concern about state domination when the government is such a major source of financing. For example, analysis of the effects of state policies towards SONGOs shows adverse trends such as growing bureaucratisation of groups as well as greater dependence on regional authorities. However, these trends were more visible in regions with weak non-​profit sectors or for groups that were small or newly established (Skokova et al 2018: 554). Despite a challenging context, Russian civil society continues to adapt and organise. While the state has forced certain groups to shut down, various kinds of organisations have demonstrated remarkable dexterity in continuing their work. This trend has been further demonstrated during the COVID-​19 pandemic, which saw civil society groups almost immediately organise to help provide various forms of aid (Semenov and Bederson 2020). And the state recognised the unique abilities of civil society organisations during this period of crisis by offering significant financial relief to help groups. But, repeating a familiar pattern, only certain kinds of NGOs were able to benefit from this aid (Semenov and Bederson 2020). The war in Ukraine will add significant challenges on top of the COVID-​19 pandemic for civil society in Russia. While the situation was a very dynamic one, trends such as economic decline, growing isolation from the West, and increased government repression were soon visible in Russia after the wide-​scale invasion of Ukraine by Russian troops. This is on top of the devastating human toll that the war has had. In such a context, it will be even more difficult for civil society to thrive, even as demand for the services that civil society can provide are likely to increase. While civil society remains vital for Russia to respond to a variety of challenges going forward, it faces significant limitations.

Note 1 The title of the introductory essay in a Europe-​Asia Studies special issue on civil society is indicative: “The Carrot or the Stick? Constraints and Opportunities of Russia’s CSO Policy” (Bogdanova et al 2018).

References Alexeeva, L. (2013), “Vladimir Putin’s Goal is to Destroy Russian Civil Society”, The Guardian, 24 May, www.theg​uard​ian.com/​commen​tisf​ree/​2013/​may/​24/​vladi​mir-​putin-​goal-​russ​ian-​civil-​soci​ety. Balzer, H. (ed.) (1996), Russia’s Middle Class: The Professions in Russian History (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe).

406

407

Civil society and the state Balzer, H. (2003), “Managed Pluralism: Vladimir Putin’s Emerging Regime”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 19, 3: 189–​226. Beissinger, M. (2017). “ ‘Conventional’ and ‘Virtual’ Civil Societies in Autocratic Regimes”, Comparative Politics 49, 3: 351–​71. Bogdanova, E., L.J. Cook and M. Kulmala (2018), “The Carrot or the Stick? Constraints and Opportunities of Russia’s CSO Policy”, Europe-​Asia Studies 70, 4: 501–​13. Bourjaily, N. (2006), “Some Issues Related to Russia’s New NGO Law”, International Journal of Not-​For-​ Profit Law 8: 5–​6. Bradley, J. (2009), Voluntary Associations in Tsarist Russia: Science, Patriotism, and Civil Society (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press). BTI (2020), Russia Country Report, Bertelsmann Transformation Index, https://​bti-​proj​ect.org/​en/​repo​ rts/​coun​try-​rep​ort/​RUS. Bunce, V. and S. Wolchik (2011), Defeating Authoritarian Leaders in Postcommunist Countries (New York: Cambridge University Press). Caiazza, A. (2002), Mothers and Soldiers: Gender, Citizenship, and Civil Society in Contemporary Russia (New York: Routledge). Chebankova, E. (2013), Civil Society in Putin’s Russia (London: Routledge). Clowes, E.W., S.D. Kassow and J.L. West (eds.) (1991), Between Tsar and People: Education Society and the Quest for Public Identity in Late Imperial Russia (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Cook, L.J., E. Iarskaia-​Smirnova and A. Tarasenko (2021), “Outsourcing Social Services to NGOs in Russia: Federal Policy and Regional Responses”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 37, 2: 199–​236. Crotty, J., M. Hall and S. Ljubownikow (2014), “Post-​Soviet Civil Society Development in the Russian Federation: The Impact of the NGO Law”, Europe-​Asia Studies 66, 8: 1253–​69. Dawson, J. (1996), Eco-​Nationalism: Anti-​Nuclear Activism and National Identity in Russia, Lithuania, and Ukraine (Durham: Duke University Press). Evans, A.B. (2002), “Recent Assessments of Social Organisations in Russia”, Demokratizatsiya 10: 322–​42. Evans, A.B. (2006), “Civil Society in the Soviet Union?”, in A.B. Evans, L. Henry and L.M. Sundstrom (eds.), Russian Civil Society: A Critical Assessment (Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe): 28–​54. Evans, A.B. (2008), “The First Steps of Russia’s Public Chamber: Representation or Coordination?”, Demokratizatsiya 16, 4: 345–​62. Evans, A.B. (2012), “Protest and Civil Society in Russia: The Struggle for the Khimki Forest”, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies 45, 3-​4: 233–​42. Evans, A.B., L.A. Henry and L.M. Sundstrom (eds.) (2006), Russian Civil Society: A Critical Assessment (Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe). Fedorenko, I. (2019), “Embedded Activism 2.0: Re-​shaping the Space for Civil Society in Russia and China”, Europe-​Asia Studies 71, 8: 1367–​89. Finkel, E. and Y. Brudny (2012), “No More Color! Authoritarian Regimes and Color Revolutions in Eurasia”, Democratization 19, 1: 1–​14. Fish, S. (1995), Democracy from Scratch: Opposition and Regime in the New Russian Revolution (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Flikke, G. (2018), “Conflicting Opportunities or Patronal Politics? Restrictive NGO Legislation in Russia 2012–​2015”, Europe-​Asia Studies 70, 4: 564–​90. Gabowitsch, M. (2017), Protest in Putin’s Russia (Cambridge: Polity Press). Gilbert, L. (2009), “Civil Society and Social Capital in Russia”, in H.K. Anheier and S. Toepler (eds.), International Encyclopedia of Civil Society (New York: Springer), https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​978-​0-​387-​ 93996-​4_​638. Gilbert, L. (2016), “Crowding Out Civil Society: State Management of Social Organisations in Putin’s Russia”, Europe-​Asia Studies 68, 9: 1553–​78. Gilbert, L. and H. Balzer. (2012), “Civil Society in Russia”, in G. Gill and J. Young (eds.), Routledge Handbook of Politics and Society (London: Routledge): 364–​74. Gilbert, L. and M. Hanets. (2019), “Enemy of the State? The Security Rationale for NGO Legislation in Russia”, American Political Science Association Conference, Washington, D.C. Gilbert, L. and P. Mohseni. (2018), “Disabling Dissent: The Colour Revolutions, Autocratic Linkages, and Civil Society Regulations in Hybrid Regimes”, Contemporary Politics 24, 4: 454–​80. Golosov, G.V. (2021), “The September 2021 Duma Elections: Mission Overdone?”, Russian Analytical Digest 271: 2–​4.

407

408

Leah Gilbert Greene, S. (2013), “Beyond Bolotnaia: Bridging Old and New in Russia’s Election Protest Movement”, Problems of Post-​Communism 60, 2: 40–​52. Greene, S. (2014), Moscow in Movement: Power and Opposition in Russia (Stanford: Stanford University Press). Hemment, J. (2020), “Occupy Youth! State-​Mobilized Movements in the Putin Era (or, What Was Nashi and What Comes Next?)”, in G. Ekiert, E.J. Perry, and Y. Xiaojun (eds.), Ruling by Other Means: State Mobilized Movements (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press): 166–​92. Henderson, S. (2003), Building Democracy in Contemporary Russia: Western Support for Grassroots Organizations (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Henderson, S. (2011), “Civil Society in Russia: State-​Society Relations in the Post-​Yeltsin Era”, Problems of Post-​Communism 58, 3: 11–​27. Henry, L. (2010), Red to Green: Environmental Activism in Post-​Soviet Russia (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Henry, L. and E. Plantan (2021), “Activism in Exile: How Russian Environmentalists Maintain Voice after Exit”, Post-​Soviet Affairs, https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​10605​86X.2021.2002​629. Henry, L. and L.M. Sundstrom (2006), “Introduction”, in A.B. Evans, L.A. Henry and L.M. Sundstrom (eds.), Russian Civil Society: A Critical Assessment (Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe): 3–​8. Horvath, R. (2013), Putin’s Preventative Color-​Revolution: Post-​Soviet Authoritarianism and the Spectre of Velvet Revolution. (New York: Routledge). Hosking, G. (1990), The Awakening of the Soviet Union (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press). Howard, M.M. (2003), The Weakness of Civil Society in Post-​Communist Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). ICNL (2020), “‘Russia’ Civic Freedom Monitor”, International Center for Not-​For-​Profit Law, www. icnl.org/​resour​ces/​civic-​free​dom-​moni​tor/​rus​sia. Javeline, D. and S. Lindemann-​Komarova (2020), “Financing Russian Civil Society”, Europe-​Asia Studies 72, 4: 644–​85. Kim, L. (2021), “Russia’s ‘Foreign Agent’ Law Targets Journalists, Activists, Even Ordinary Citizens”, National Public Radio, www.npr.org/​2021/​07/​31/​102​1804​569/​russ​ias-​fore​ign-​agent-​law-​targ​ets-​ jour​nali​sts-​activi​sts-​even-​ordin​ary-​citiz​ens. Koesel, K., and V. Bunce (2013), “Diffusion Proofing: Russian and Chinese Responses to Waves of Popular Mobilizations against Authoritarian Rulers”, Perspectives on Politics 11, 3: 753–​68. Krastev, I. (2006), “Democracy’s Doubles”, Journal of Democracy 17, 2: 52–​62. Laruelle, M. and L. Howells (2020), “Ideological or Pragmatic? A Data-​Driven Analysis of the Russian Presidential Grant Fund”, Russian Politics 5: 29–​51. Lasnier, V. (2017), “Demobilisation and Its Consequences: After the Russian Movement Za chestnye vybory”, Europe-​Asia Studies 69, 5: 771–​93. Light, F. (2021), “Russian Court Orders Closure of Renowned Rights Group Memorial”, The Moscow Times, 28 December, www.the​mosc​owti​mes.com/​2021/​12/​28/​russ​ian-​court-​ord​ers-​clos​ure-​of-​ renow​ned-​r ig​hts-​group-​memor​ial-​a75​674. Lindenmeyr, A. (1996), Poverty is Not a Vice: Charity, Society, and the State in Imperial Russia (Princeton: Princeton University Press). McCarthy, L. (2021), “Post-​Protest Legal Encounters and the Development of DIY Lawyering in Russia”, PONARS Eurasia Policy Memo No. 701. Ministry of Justice of the Russian Federation (n.d.), “Perechen’ inostrannykh i mezhdunarodnykh nepravitel’stvennykh organizatsii, deyatel’nost’ kotorykh priznana nezhelatel’noi na territorii Rossiiskoi Federatsii”, https://​minj​ust.gov.ru/​ru/​docume​nts/​7756/​. Moser, E. and A. Skripchenko (2018), “Russian NGOs and Their Struggle for Legitimacy in the Face of the ‘Foreign Agents’ Law: Surviving in Small Ecologies”, Europe-​Asia Studies 70, 4: 591–​614. Plantan, E. (2022), “Not All NGOs are Treated Equally: Selectivity in Civil Society Management in Russia and China”, Comparative Politics, 54, 3: 501–​24, https://​doi.org/​10.5129/​00104​1522​X162​ 5837​6563​887. Putin, V. (2004), “Annual Address to the Federal Assembly of the Russian Federation”, 26 May, http://​ en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​tran​scri​pts/​22494. RIA Novosti (2009), “Medvedev Approves Simpler Rules for NGOs”, 20 July. Richter, J. (2009), “The Ministry of Civil Society? The Public Chambers in the Regions”, Problems of Post-​Communism 56, 6: 39–​65. Robertson, G. (2011), The Politics of Protest in Hybrid Regimes (New York: Cambridge University Press).

408

409

Civil society and the state Robertson. G. (2013), “Protesting Putinism: The Election Protests of 2011–​2012 in Broader Perspective”, Problems of Post-​Communism 60, 2: 11–​23. Semenov, A. and V. Bederson (2020), “Organizational Resilience: Russian Civil Society in the Times of COVID-​19”, PONARS Eurasia Policy Memo No. 663. Skokova, Y., U. Pape and I. Krasnopolskaya (2018), “The Non-​profit Sector in Today’s Russia: Between Confrontation and Co-​optation”, Europe-​Asia Studies 70, 4: 531–​63. Smyth, R. (2021a), Elections, Protest, and Authoritarian Regime Stability. Russia 2008–​2020 (New York: Cambridge University Press). Smyth. R. (2021b), “A Year After Navalny’s Return, Putin Remains Atop a Changed Russia”, The Conversation, https://​thec​onve​rsat​ion.com/​a-​year-​after-​naval​nys-​ret​urn-​putin-​rema​ins-​atop-​a-​chan​ ged-rus​sia-​174​836. Sperling, V. (1999) Organizing Women in Contemporary Russia: Engendering Transition (New York: Cambridge University Press). Starr, S.F. (1988), “A Civil Society”, Foreign Policy 70, (Spring): 26–​41. Stuvøy, K. (2020), “‘The Foreign Within’: State–​Civil Society Relations in Russia”, Europe-​Asia Studies 72, 7: 1103–​24. Sundstrom, L.M. (2006a), Funding Civil Society: Foreign Assistance and NGO Development in Russia (Stanford: Stanford University Press). Sundstrom, L.M. (2006b), “Soldiers’ Rights Groups in Russia: Civil Society through Russian and Western Eyes” in A.B. Evans, L.A. Henry and L.M. Sundstrom (eds.), Russian Civil Society: A Critical Assessment (Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe): 178–​196. Tarasenko, A. (2018), “Russian Non-​Profit Organisations in Service Delivery: Neoliberal and Statist Social Policy Principles Intertwined”, Europe-​Asia Studies 70, 4: 514–​30. The Moscow Times (2021), “How Do Russia’s ‘Undesirable Organizations’ and ‘Foreign Agents’ Laws Work?”, 16 July, www.the​mosc​owti​mes.com/​2021/​07/​16/​how-​do-​russ​ias-​unde​sira​ble-​organi​zati​onsand-​fore​ign-​age​nts-​laws-​work-​a74​547. Tolz, V. (1990), The USSR’s Emerging Multiparty System (Washington DC: CSIS). Toth-​Czifra, A. (2021), “Russia’s (Cancelled) Ecological Referenda”, RIDDLE Russia, www.ridl.io/​en/​ russ​ias-​cancel​led-​eco​logi​cal-​refere​nda/​ Tysiachniouk, M., S. Tulaeva and L. Henry. (2018), “Civil Society under the Law ‘On Foreign Agents’: NGO Strategies and Network Transformation”, Europe-​Asia Studies 70, 4: 615–​37. Uhlin, A. (2006), Post-​Soviet Civil Society: Democratization in Russia and the Baltic States (New York: Routledge). Society Relations in the Transition from Communism Weigle, M.A. (2000), Russia’s Liberal Project: State-​ (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press). Weigle, M.A. (2002), “On the Road to the Civic Forum: State and Civil Society from Yeltsin to Putin”, Demokratizatsiya 10, 2: 117–​46. Zasimova, L. and M. Kolosnitsyna (2018), “Charitable Giving and the Future of NGOs in Russia: What Can We Learn from Individual Data?”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 34, 6: 412–​29.

409

410

36 INFORMAL POLITICS Alena Ledeneva

Informal is only one of many terms referring to the non-​transparent, invisible, grey zones in Russian politics. Informal politics does not translate well, as politics and policy are the same word in Russian (politika). The term that best encompasses informal politics for Russians is, per­ etwork-​ haps, sistema, as depicted in Andrei Zvyagintsev’s movie Leviathan and theorised as a n based system of governance (Ledeneva 2013a; Pavlovsky 2016). In Western academic discourse, there are several overlapping concepts aimed at capturing the complex phenomena that can be associated with informal politics. Taking stock of these concepts can help us to reflect on the complexity of informal politics, to reduce it to manageable levels of analysis, and to characterise methods needed for identifying both universal and specific patterns of human forms of cooperation that constitute the workings of informal politics. As I stated in the 2012 edition of this handbook, “given the importance of informal ways of getting things done in Russia and the role informal practices played in the post-​Soviet transition more generally, research into the field of informality has been slow to develop” (Ledeneva 2012: 375). Ten years on, things have changed dramatically. There is a renewed interest in the subject of informality, and a new generation of scholars has produced fantastic work in the field (Polese 2021). The disciplinary divide in studying informal institutions, networks, and practices has been partially overcome through cross-​discipline teamwork, network expertise, and large-​ scale funding for surveys and comparative research (Ledeneva et al 2018). In what follows, I outline four trends in critical thinking that have shaped informal politics as a field: 1) overcoming the rationalist perspective; 2) transcending the transition paradigm; 3) relativising the normative perspective; and 4) balancing off state-​centric concepts of governance. I provide an overview of concepts essential for capturing the elusive workings of informal politics. I propose to include a participants’ perspective on the workings of the networks-​ based system of governance (sistema) in Russia. Finally, I offer a model of informal governance, informed by the cross-​disciplinary and cross-​area studies expertise of the Global Informality Project (GIP).

Informal politics in the context of the global democratic recession Several factors have put informality more prominently on the global intellectual agenda. The global crises (financial, migration, and pandemic) have prompted a search for novel ways 410

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-40

411

Informal politics

of problem-​solving. A critical review of hegemonial discourses –​decolonisation and woke culture –​has questioned assumptions about formal institutions and raised concerns over the enforcement of formal rules. The normative analyses that had previously side-​lined informality as marginal and detrimental to the effectiveness of formal institutions have themselves been called into question by the need to assess the role of the informal in the context of the transformations of the twenty-​first century: the crisis of liberal ideology, the emergence of the gig economy and AI-​based services, and the rise of social media and political polarisation (Harari 2018). A focus on resilience and resistance capacity vis-​à-​vis ecological and other governance crises has transformed the angle on matters of informality from “usually suspect/​ borderline corrupt” to “the new normal” and potentially constructive, with problem-​solving potential.

Overcoming the rationalist perspective In economics, the idea that strong institutions lead to strong and generally prosperous states remains dominant (Acemoglu et al 2001, 2002) and drives attempts to establish strong institutions in the course of liberal reforms and democratisation. Evidence of the backpedalling, or backsliding, of democracies in Central and Eastern Europe since their accession to the European Union, however, has presented a challenge. Fukuyama explains the challenges of the transferability of institutional design in the process of building state capacity (strong institutions) with reference to “norms and other a-​rational sources of behaviour, which have important behavioural consequences” (Fukuyama 2004: 49). Social anthropologists have long addressed the effects of cultural and social norms on governance structures and questioned the rationality of decision-​making in the context of peer pressure and community-​driven interests. Organisational theory posits that agents’ actions and rationales reflect the norms pervading their workplace, and so the principal-​agent models of the public sector must integrate collective action theory (Ahn and Ostrom 2002; Marquette and Peiffer 2015). The mostly unsuccessful attempts to transplant effective institutional designs to contexts with underdeveloped institutions in the 1990s–​early 2000s further undermined the rationalist vision of reforms and left individuals to rely on informal institutions, networks, and practices. The latter compensated for the failures of the state but posed a new set of questions about the role of cultural norms and collective behaviour. In order to make sense of the realities bypassing or developing parallel to the state and integrate them in policy design, scholars in economics, management, and political science alike have turned to behavioural economics, experimental methods, and nudge-​driven policy approaches (Ahn and Ostrom 2002; Hodgson 2022; Thaler and Sunstein 2008; Sunstein and Reisch 2017).

Transcending the transition perspective Like many countries, Russia has not followed the three-​stage process of democratisation –​ opening, breakthrough, and consolidation –​into its third stage. Rather, it has entered what Thomas Carothers characterises as a political “gray zone” (2002: 7–​8). According to Carothers, of the hundred countries that could be identified as transitional, fewer than twenty are on a path to a well-​functioning democracy. The majority of the third-​wave countries do not appear to be consolidating, and some have regressed into explicit authoritarianism (2002: 9–​10). The sheer frequency with which adjectives such as “formal”, “weak”, “illiberal”, “sovereign”, “managed”, “pseudo”, or “virtual” are used to describe these democracies points to a problem 411

412

Alena Ledeneva

with the key assumption of the transition paradigm: transition can be attempted at the will of political elites, regardless of the country’s predisposition. With time, the “no-​predisposition” approach gave way to comparative analyses that identified patterns of governance fundamental for understanding the grey zones of political regimes exiting from, or returning to, authoritarianism. These patterns are referred to as “patronal politics” (Hale 2015), “subversive institutions”, “stubborn structures”, or “informal institutions” (Bunce 1999; Gel’man 2012; Magyar and Madlovics 2019; Lauth 2000; Helmke and Levitsky 2004, 2006), or “informal governance” (Gel’man 2012; Ledeneva 2013b; Baez-​Camargo and Ledeneva 2017). In the thirty years since the end of communism in Europe, scholars from different disciplines have joined forces to develop more balanced perspectives and reflect upon the pathways of post-​communist transitions (Douarin and Havrylyshyn 2021) and subsequent “democratic backsliding” (Cianetti et al 2020). New conceptual frameworks for dealing with the path-​ dependence of post-​communist regimes (Magyar and Madlovics 2020) and critical reviews of their legacies and lessons have benefited wider intellectual frameworks (Slater and Wilson 2004; Kubik and Linch 2013; Duncan and Schimpfössl 2019), especially in the field of informal politics.

Relativising the normative perspective The normative perspective on informality, especially when associated with poverty, underdevelopment, and the informal sector, has colonial roots. Curiously, a normative perspective on informality has been applied to the studies of informal economy in the Soviet Union uncritically, despite acknowledgement of the oppressiveness of the Soviet political system. In Gregory Grossman’s bibliography on the informal economy in socialist countries, we find multiple analyses of the unofficial, underground, black, coloured, undercover, illegal, shadow, or second economy (Grossman et al 1985), predominantly assessed through a normative lens by Western researchers. In later academic literature, informality is likewise not given any benefit of the doubt, being associated with corruption, bad governance, and the siphoning out of resources from the formal sector. As Gretchen Helmke and Steven Levitsky point out, the term “informal” appears in the context of a “dizzying array of phenomena, including personal networks, clientelism, corruption, clans and mafias, civil society, traditional culture, and a variety of legislative, judicial, and bureaucratic norms” (Helmke and Levitsky 2004: 726–​7). From the normative perspective, informality is associated with being subversive, bad, and obsolete, if not outright corrupt and illegal. Such dichotomic, normative thinking fails to capture the ambivalent nature of informality: it resolves issues even as it creates problems.

Balancing off a-​historic, state-​centric thinking In most sources, the prerequisites enabling one to govern are associated with the power to act and the authority to do so. Governing is usually associated with a government and hence with the formal institutions of a modern state. Historically, however, the modern state and its governing institutions are a relatively recent phenomenon, bound to specific factors facilitating their emergence and global dominance. This practical and ideological hegemony has led to a loaded understanding of non-​Western, non-​formalised processes of government, culminating in a rather naïve belief in the linear triumph of modernity over tradition.

412

413

Informal politics

The typology of informal institutions produced by Helmke and Levitsky is a classic example of the formal-​centric approach, where informal institutions are defined as “socially shared rules, usually unwritten, that are created, communicated and enforced outside officially sanctioned channels” (Helmke and Levitsky 2004: 727). These authors have developed a four-​way typology of informal institutions that takes the (in)effectiveness of formal governance institutions as an independent variable and qualifies the outcomes of formal/​informal institutions as convergent or divergent. The types of informal institutions are thus the dependent variables, performing a residual function for the formal governance framework. In today’s turbulent world, this belief has been fundamentally disrupted, triggered by the relative waning of the economic and political power of the (Western) nation-​state. The notion of informal governance can be relevant for a wider range of organisational and international contexts if conceptualised in more neutral terms (Christiansen and Neuhold 2012; Christiansen and Piattoni 2003). The editors of the International Handbook of Informal Governance elaborate that the “informal” sphere tends to be identified on the basis of either contraposition or mirroring vis-​à-​vis the formal. This results in a situation where “the adjective ‘informal’ is attached to a wide range of themes and concepts such as politics, arrangements, networks, institutions, organisations, norms, rules, activity or influence, with a consequent lack of consensus on what informal governance means and its resulting, ‘inflationary’ usage” (Christiansen and Neuhold 2012: 7). They distinguish at least three distinct areas where the “informal” has received attention: first, the designation of the framework within which decisions are taken (institutions, organisations, networks); second, the identification of the process or procedure through which policies are made as being informal (politics, arrangements, activity); and, third, the classification of the outcome of any such process as being informal (rules, norms, influence) (Christiansen and Neuhold 2012: 4).

Three tests for a better understanding of informal politics: Crossing over disciplines, area studies, and the formal/​informal divide Informal politics is difficult to study. Its hidden character makes its measurement problematic and its research dependent predominantly on qualitative methods. Data collection relies on a participant’s willingness and ability to articulate what they do. Insiders’ biases can distort observers’ interpretations. To ensure that an understanding of informal politics is adequate, one can apply three tests to reflect on one’s own research findings.

Test 1: Cross-​disciplinarity Although informal politics falls within the domain of political studies, it is not possible to capture it without a combination of cross-​disciplinary perspectives. The diagram in Figure 36.1 includes a number of key concepts essential for understanding informal politics, which are themselves often used with the adjective “informal”. The cross-​discipline test allows us to reflect on the choice of conceptual tools used for approaching the complex set of phenomena associated with the interplay of formal and informal in politics. None of the disciplinary divides are as clear-​cut as depicted in Figure 36.1. The overlaps and crossovers are illustrated by the arrows that represent the idea of bridging the disciplines and the need to use mixed methods when tackling complex subjects (Ledeneva 2010). In my own research into informality in Russia, I had to rely on most of these concepts and explore various disciplinary angles. For example, to understand blat –​the use of personal

413

414

Alena Ledeneva

Political science: Institutions Social anthropology:

Sociology: Networks

Practices

Behavioural economics:

Social theory: Governmentality

Trust

Social psychology:

Organisational theory:

Influence

Power Management: Governance

Figure 36.1  Key concepts and disciplines for the formal/​informal interplay in politics.

networks for getting things done –​one has to grasp its history, its political significance and the ideological nature of bargaining powers, economic functions, and the social skills and social divisions behind blat, as well as the anthropological aspects of the informal exchange of favours. A cross-​disciplinary analysis of blat networks, practices, exchanges, and relationships was necessary to conceptualise this everywhere-​and-​nowhere phenomenon (Ledeneva 1998). In turn, research on blat was found to be relevant for the study of social capital, consumption, labour markets, entrepreneurship, trust, mobility, migration, remittance economies, and gender in informal politics (Johnson 2017).

Test 2: Context sensitivity Informal institutions, networks, and practices are often regarded as representations of social and cultural norms –​that is, the context for the workings of formal political institutions. However, when the focus shifts to the hidden, under-​researched, or non-​articulated matters of informal politics, such as fake news or character assassination, the formal frameworks (legal, bureaucratic, official) become contextual. Awareness of the context, or context sensitivity, is best achieved 414

415

Informal politics

by comparative analysis that helps assess the formal/​informal balance. For example, a comparative study of blat in Russia and guanxi in China highlighted similarities and differences in the functionality of seemingly parallel practices and pointed to the complex interplay between formal and informal (Ledeneva 2008). A comparative examination of informal institutions, networks, and practices in Russia and China led to the conclusion that even when focusing on the informal, its formal counterpart is part and parcel of the comparative analysis. While local settings often shape formal/​informal interactions, they tend to be disregarded in a comparative framework. To acquire a comparative outlook without losing the local contexts of the compared entities has been a challenge. However, the cross-​discipline and cross-​area approaches to assembling data on informality undertaken for The Global Encyclopaedia of Informality allowed us to cluster forms of human cooperation, identify their patterns, and distinguish universal and specific features of informal institutions, networks, and practices in a context-​sensitive way (Ledeneva et al 2018; Polese 2021). Interestingly, experiments by behavioural economists did not find any cultural variation in people’s predisposition to game the system by lying. This finding also indicates the key importance of the context (not necessarily the same as the “country”), peer pressure, and what has come to be called “quantitative morality”, whereby people cheat, but within limits and as “appropriate”, so that they can preserve their positive self-​image (Gerlach et al 2019). Scientifically speaking, the norms of bending the rules are defined much more by one’s social circle and context than by geographical borders. However, accepting this without caveats would be just as misleading as believing socially construed stereotypes, such as “Russia is a kleptocracy” or “Switzerland’s informal norm is to follow the formal rules”. Context sensitivity helps navigate the grey zones between sociability and instrumentality in relationships, distinguish need from greed in corrupt exchanges, and identify double standards and double motives predominant in politics.

Test 3: The formal/​informal interaction test –​Integrating the opposites The tension between the formal and informal constitutes the very terrain upon which the forces of informal politics play out. Although this conclusion may appear trivial, it has important implications. If studying the informal is not possible without the formal, the reverse is also true. When researching formal institutions, networks or practices, their informal underpinnings should be kept in focus, if only for their potential for problem-​solving. For example, research into informal networks in the field of organisational behaviour revealed that the informal networks are both a cause of the ineffectiveness of multinational organisations in local settings and a solution for this problem (Horak et al 2020). In the sociological literature, informality is conceptualised as the opposite of formality, following Erving Goffman’s conception of “role distance” and frontstage/​backstage dichotomy. In the frontstage, actors are to perform according to their scripts; in the backstage, they can relax and use backstage language. Barbara Misztal distinguishes the main formal modes of interaction from the informal as ideal types, depicted in Table 36.1 (2002: 71). These ideal types of formal and informal interactions are a useful reminder to students of informal politics, whichever conceptual focus –​power or governance, networks or practices, institutions or social norms, rules or relationships –​such an enquiry may rest upon. The idea of a symbiotic co-​existence of formal institutions and informal networks has become a foundation for the conceptualisation of Russia’s sistema, or a network-​based system of governance, where Putin’s personalised power networks pervade formal institutions and serve the purpose of implementing modernisation projects in Russia (Ledeneva 2013a). The paradox 415

416

Alena Ledeneva Table 36.1  Integrating the opposites Informal realms of politics

Formal realms of politics

Face-​to-​face, intimate relationships Personalised modes of social control Reliant on tacit knowledge and ability to “go on” in a certain context Private, fluid, opportunist Communal

Impersonal, transparent, and explicit Social distance and structures of power Reliant on official and legal roles Public, procedural, reliant on legal codes Contractual

of putting formal institutions to an informal use is central to the working of informal politics, described as the “unrule of law” (Gel’man 2004: 1028) or “rule by law” (see, for instance, Chin 2014) undermining the key principles of equality vis-​à-​vis the law and of the fairness/​predictability of the legal system. An essentially symbiotic perspective of formal and informal in Russian politics can be found in Geoffrey Hosking’s vision of patronage and state (2000) and Henry Hale’s conception of patronalism, a social equilibrium in which personal connections dominate, collective action happens primarily through individualised punishments and rewards, and trends in the political system reflect changing patterns of coordination among nationwide networks of actual acquaintances that typically cut across political parties, firms, nongovernmental organisations, and even the state (Hale 2019). The patronal, or patron-​client, vertically integrated networks help advance our understanding, but the Russian case does not seem to be unique. There are informal networks, unwritten rules, and hidden practices in all countries. The evidence from the Global Informality Project suggests that certain contexts produce similar practices in different political regimes. The obvious cases include closed institutional environments such as boarding schools, nursing homes, prisons, armies, and security services. In other words, the rigid hierarchies increase the scale and diversity of the hidden practices but so do the missing constraints, so there is no simple formula to capture the context-​bound nature of the formal/​ informal interplay. The formalisation of constraints has so far been the trend in the efforts to improve the systems of governance, but it is not a panacea and often brings unexpected outcomes. You can outlaw the underwater part of the iceberg but for the iceberg to continue to float, you must work out the role of the informal practices and create alternatives, or floating devices, for the tip of the iceberg to stay in place. Integrating informality into policy-​making is often complex, as the change in formal constraints transforms the informal practices that circumvent them, and not necessarily to the best. Understanding the informality that one might like to reform or change is a step in the right direction. To do so, one needs to see it from the perspective of the participants.

The case of Russia’s sistema Sistema in contemporary Russia is a shorthand term for a “system of governance” that usually refers to open secrets or governance matters that must not be named. The non-​articulation or non-​admittance is central to the workings of informal politics. Fittingly, the term itself remains elusive. Outsiders find it too general to mean anything in particular. Insiders are not ordinarily bothered with definitions of sistema –​they intuitively know it when they experience “the system made me do it” pressure. The unarticulated nature of sistema, or insiders’ lack of distance from it, can only be revealed by those who have made their exit. One exile in London explains: 416

417

Informal politics

“You cannot choose to join or not join sistema –​you fall into it from the moment you are born. There are of course sistema’s mechanisms to recruit, to discipline and to help reproduce itself. In the Soviet Union that was the consolidated party state, whereas now it is impossible to disentangle the state from a network of private interests. Modern clans are complex. It is not always clear who is behind which interests” (Ledeneva 2013a: 19). It is these non-​transparent interests and non-​hierarchical, network-​based aspects of governance that are missing in most conceptions of Russia’s systems of governance. Even when informal influence, connections, clans, and other types of informal alliances within the elites are identified, the social networks that generate “informal power” are not seen as intrinsic to the concept of governance. It is often assumed that power networks shadow formal positions of power, but this is not how informal power operates; there is little regularity about it. In addition, the networks that channel informal influence function in an ambivalent fashion: they both support and subvert the existing governance model. Personalised power networks enable leaders at all levels to mobilise and to control, yet they also lock politicians, bureaucrats, and businessmen into informal deals, mediated interests, and personalised loyalties. This is the “modernisation trap of informality”: one cannot use the potential of informal networks without triggering their negative long-​term consequences for institutional development. It would be misleading to associate sistema with corruption, dysfunctional government, or a failed state. Sistema benefits from corruption but also restricts it with its inner channels of checks and balances. It sustains informal control over assets and appointees and reserves informal leverage for re-​negotiating property rights and positions. The vulnerability of individuals, their dependence on contacts and networks, and the ambivalence of legal constraints (that can turn out both ways) are at the core of the effectiveness of sistema. Sistema is complex, anonymous, unpredictable, and seemingly irrational, but it serves to glue society together, to distribute resources, and to mobilise people; it contributes to both stability and change; and it ensures its own reproduction. The power of sistema rests not only on control but also on the capacity of mobilising people, recruiting youth, and creating opportunities. It continues to incite people to work by offering effective incentives. When it comes to individual recruitment, offers that come from the authorities are difficult to refuse and are often accepted with enthusiasm and selflessness. Power networks enable their leaders to receive support and to trust others (inner circle), to access resources (useful friends), to mobilise cadres for solving problems (core contacts), and to reduce risks and mitigate uncertainty (mediated contacts). All these functions are not without strings attached, but they effectively serve similar purposes to the functions of formal governance: nomination of agents, creation of rules for their actions, and communication with the key stakeholders. It is amazing how much does get done in Russia despite its infrastructural problems and institutional inefficiencies, and the explanation lies in the effectiveness of networks and relationships. Importantly, leaders (or patrons) rely on informal networks to achieve their goals but are also limited, if not imprisoned, by them. They can apply sanctions to particular members and weaken specific networks, but they cannot radically modify their own dependence on informal governance. The more leaders try to change sistema, the more they have to rely on the informal means of execution of power outside formal procedures. The more they rely on them, the more they become entangled in and eventually tied up with sistema’s power networks. The more reliant on institutions, and thus less interventionist, leaders are, the less credit they receive for their leadership. It is almost as if informal leadership is the key characteristic of leadership in Russia, unachievable without instruments of informal governance. 417

418

Alena Ledeneva

The embeddedness of informality in Russia means that there is no clearly defined gap between formal rules and informal practices. Many informal practices are closely associated with formal rules, past or present. In medieval Russia, for example, the system of kormlenie (feeding) legally obliged taxpayers to “feed” the representatives of supreme power governing them, thereby freeing the state from the burden of paying the officials’ salaries. The abolition of this legal norm in the sixteenth century did not, however, eliminate the practice. Kormlenie has become an unwritten rule defining the relationship between the authorities and the population, associated with a cultural tradition of tribute and gratitude. While it would be an oversimplification to assume that corruption in modern Russia is derived from the practice of kormlenie, the embeddedness of “feeding” and its association with weak property rights certainly helped set the stage for large-​scale corruption in today’s Russia. The subordination of individual rights to group interests in Russia surfaces in the norms of krugovaya poruka (mutual surety), whereby state taxation, military recruitment, and punishment are exercised collectively rather than individually, something de-​legalised only at the beginning of the twentieth century. The religious roots of sobornost reinforce the collectivist norms further. Historians who scrutinised the Muscovite folkways prior to Soviet times concluded that Russia is not “predisposed to autocracy” but has a preference for “oligarchic and collegial rule” (Keenan 1986: 118), exercised via patron-​client networks (Hosking 2000: 301–​2, 305) reproduced at the regional levels of governance in large dictatorships (Gorlizki and Khlevniuk 2020). In today’s Russia, clientelist governance continues to persist via three key power centres: business oligarchs, regional political machines, and the siloviki (Hale 2019: 207–​8). Informal practices do not, however, simply “inherit” the features of former legal norms; they also engage with existing laws. Paradoxically, informal arrangements now widespread in the Russian economy exist not in spite of, but in strict accordance with, the letter of the law. These include practices such as kickbacks (otkat), manipulation of bankruptcy proceedings (zakaznoe bankrotstvo), corporate raiding (reiderstvo), and customs duty allowances (tamozhenniye l’goty), all found in the Global Informality Encyclopaedia online (www.in-​formal​ity.com). For example, Russia’s notorious bankruptcy law of 1998 triggered the manipulative use of the law by virtue of the very low threshold it laid for instigating bankruptcy charges. Similarly, the Russian authorities in 1996 freed the National Sports Federation and the Russian Orthodox Church from the obligation to pay taxes and excise duty on imports of alcohol and cigarettes; this cost the Russian budget trillions of rubles but enriched the officials who had lobbied for the measures. The practices in question had nothing to do with smuggling, but everything to do with the award of legal privileges to import. The paradoxical notion of legal corruption has become central since some transnational giants (such as Google, Amazon, and Starbucks) have been fined for legally avoiding profit taxes and offshore holdings became visible thanks to the leak of the Panama papers.

A model of informal governance based on cross-​discipline, cross-​area studies and a formal/​informal symbiotic perspective The case of Russia’s sistema is in no way unique. Network-​based systems of governance can be found in Chirac’s France and Berlusconi’s Italy and are replicated well beyond the level of personalised patronal networks. Where the outcomes of informal politics or political informality are accepted as a norm rather than a deviation, we conceptualise this as informal governance. The model of informal governance on the basis of a comparative, context-​sensitive analysis of Russia, Tanzania, and Mexico aims to supersede the limitations of the binary

418

419

Informal politics

distinctions between formal and informal and suggest novel ways of analysing informal governance (Ledeneva 2013b; Baez-​Camargo and Ledeneva 2017). The 3Cs informal governance model highlights the key patterns of informal governance –​ co-​optation, control, and camouflage –​occurring within the remit of legal frameworks and not necessarily contradicting them. Having said that, there may be circumstances under which resorting to informal governance is the default, namely in areas afflicted by violence, crises, and pandemics. Patterns of co-​optation, control, and camouflage have been found in all three cases of network-​based governance and observed in three modalities: top-​down, horizontal, and bottom-​up, as illustrated in Table 36.2.

Table 36.2  The 3Cs model of informal governance (Baez-​Camargo and Ledeneva 2017) Actors

Co-​optation

Control

Camouflage

Direction

Objects/​means

Political elites –​elites Top-​down /​ to be prebendal

Political elites –​ interest groups

Horizontal /​ reciprocal

Private (local) networks –​public officials

Bottom-​up /​ grassroots

Old elites –​newly recruited elites

Top-​down

Peer-​to-​peer (within a network or community)

Horizontal

Private (local) networks –​public officials Insiders –​outsiders

Bottom-​up

Top-​down

Horizontal

Bottom-​up

419

Function (expected result)

Public offices/​access to Strong bonds state capacity are given in of trust, exchange for unconditional reciprocity, support (patronage) and loyalty Influence over legislation, resources, state procurement (corporate responsibility and electoral campaign financing) Public support (voting during elections) in exchange for receiving favours (clientelism) Selective law enforcement Ensuring (direct) and suspended discipline punishment (kompromat) within the power Lock-​in effect (krugovaya network poruka) of belonging to power networks, mutual vigilance, and sanctioning deviation Enacting reputational damage (vote loss) in case of non-​ delivering to the community Hidden constitutions (minding Protecting the the gap between formal and network de facto powers) Creative façades (Potemkin villages) including political rituals, anti-​corruption campaigns, party politics Fluid identities (gaming the system by adjusting and appropriating hegemonic discourses)

420

Alena Ledeneva

The co-​optation pattern underpins practices of recruiting strategically relevant actors into a network. Co-​optation often involves an informal re-​distribution of resources at the expense of outsiders to the network. Personal relationships are highly relevant in accounting for who gets to be co-​opted, so the relationships between the co-​opting party and the co-​opted, as well as among the members of the network, rely on trust, loyalty, and reciprocity rather than explicit impersonal rules. The co-​optation pattern is ambivalent: it serves the co-​opter but also the co-​opted; it gives (resources, opportunities), but it also takes (independence). Top-​down co-​optation stands for power sharing arrangements effective in promoting elite cohesion. Usually, as long as their support for the ruling network remains unfaltering, the members of the network can exploit rents associated with their appointment, some of which may be selectively distributed among their respective network constituencies. In a peer-​to-​peer modality, reciprocal co-​optation can be illustrated by collaboration that helps promote the respective groups’ interests. An example of this type of horizontal co-​optation involves political elites reaching out to private sector actors for help, whereby financial contributions to political campaigns or support for unpopular reforms are exchanged for access to substantial government contracts, informal tax exemptions, and similar perks (Boris Johnson’s post-​COVID scandals in the UK illustrate this pattern well). In a bottom-​up modality, the co-​optation of public officials on the part of grassroots networks generates social pressure, such that informal network obligations override the duties of the public office (Baez-​Camargo and Ledeneva 2017: 61). The pattern of control is complementary to co-​optation and essential to network maintenance. Informal controls enforce discipline, avert clashes of interests, and keep those keen to dissent from destabilising the network. Instruments of informal control contrast with formal sanctioning because the criteria for disciplining may be fluid, unpredictable, and rely on tacit knowledge, yet they ensure the network’s stability. Strains in personal relationships, such as breaches of trust, loyalty or solidarity and failure to reciprocate, can be sufficient to trigger the imposition of some form of punishment. A pattern of informal control may also surface in more subtle ways, involving informal signals, the monitoring of key network actors, and veiled threats. The majority of the examples compiled in The Global Encyclopaedia of Informality (part IV) point to the manipulated use of the law and state institutions (courts or hospitals), media, and security services (invasion of privacy via dirt books in the UK, kompromat in Russia, songbun in North Korea, or Zerzetzung in the German Democratic Republic) for informal control. Where rules are not transparent and universal, no one is safe, and so-​called “suspended punishment” promotes self-​censorship and ensures loyalty to (and discipline within) the network (Ledeneva 2011). In the top-​down modality, instances of show trials and convictions of former insiders can work as forms of exemplary punishment that send a message and reinforce discipline across the entire network. In the horizontal modality of informal governance, control across networks takes place through mechanisms of mutual monitoring, collective responsibility, and peer pressure. Such peer-​control-​based mechanisms for monitoring and extra-​legal enforcement are particularly functional where the rule of law is weak, where communities are closed or isolated geographically or socially, and where elite networks turn into closed clubs. In any event, the lock-​in effect experienced by individual members hinges on the obligation for an individual to sustain (or prevent the demise of) the entire group. The pattern of camouflage refers to the institutional façades covering the practices of informal governance. Practices associated with camouflage perform functions of protecting and legitimising the network in question vis-​à-​vis its outsiders. Just like co-​optation and control, the pattern of camouflage is functionally ambivalent: it aligns with the formal façades of the legal framework but subverts them in practice. Top-​down camouflage involves a variety of “creative façades”, ranging from the election campaigns for a designated candidate 420

421

Informal politics

and cover-​ups for under-​performance by those in positions of power to outright staged elections. Camouflage can involve strategies of manipulating statistics, creative accounting, or other misreporting, as well as the instrumental use of anti-​corruption campaigns to punish a dissenting insider or a competitor. The discrepancies between formal façades and de facto influence are facilitated by the blurred boundaries in power jurisdiction, where the ruling party and the state spheres of authority overlap, thus making public officials elected to executive positions accountable to those party leaders closely involved in policy-​making. Camouflage strategies aimed at protecting peers and allies involve an arsenal of legal means for “sanitising” informal transactions available to the political elites. Thus, repaying business interests for financial support during elections may be presented as a government bailout to rescue distressed industries, or an official tender tailored to ensure that only a certain provider can meet the eligibility criteria to submit a bid. None of the three patterns in the 3Cs model of informal governance, even where they serve parallel functions of distributing resources, recruiting people, setting goals and rules, enforcing checks and balances, and maintaining values, can be presumed to be simply a hidden part of the formal government. The symbiosis of formal and informal complicates the analysis and reinforces the practical norms that are neither formal nor informal. Such practical norms are context-​bound and difficult to pin down in empirical research due to their ambivalence (Ledeneva et al 2018).

References Acemoglu, D., S. Johnson and J.A. Robinson (2001), “The Colonial Origins of Comparative Development: An Empirical Investigation”, The American Economic Review 91, 5: 1369–​401. Acemoglu, D., S. Johnson and J.A. Robinson (2002), “Reversal of Fortune: Geography and Institutions in the Making of the Modern World Income Distribution”, The Quarterly Journal of Economics 117, 4: 1231–​94. Ahn, T.K. and E. Ostrom (2002), “Social Capital and the Second-​Generation Theories of Collective Action: An Analytical Approach to the Forms of Social Capital”, in Annual Meeting of the American Political Science Association, 29 August. Baez-​Camargo, C. and A. Ledeneva (2017), “Where Does Informality Stop and Corruption Begin? Informal Governance and The Public/​Private Crossover in Mexico, Russia and Tanzania”, Slavonic & East European Review 95, 1: 49–​75. Bunce, V. (1999), Subversive Institutions: The Design and the Destruction of Socialism and the State (New York: Cambridge University Press). Carothers, T. (2002), “The End of the Transition Paradigm”, Journal of Democracy 13, 1: 5–​21. Chin, J. (2014), “‘Rule of Law’ or ‘Rule by Law’? In China, a Preposition Makes All the Difference”, The Wall Street Journal, 20 October, https://​blogs.wsj.com/​chinar​ealt​ime/​2014/​10/​20/​rule-​of-​law-​ or-​rule-​by-​law-​in-​china-​a-​prep​osit​ion-​makes-​all-​the-​dif​f ere​nce/​. Christiansen, T. and C. Neuhold (eds.) (2012), International Handbook on Informal Governance (Aldershot: Edward Elgar Publishing). Christiansen, T. and S. Piattoni (eds.) (2003), Informal governance in the European Union (Aldershot: Edward Elgar Publishing). Cianetti, L., J. Dawson and S. Hanley (eds.) (2020), Rethinking “Democratic Backsliding” in Central and Eastern Europe (London: Routledge). Douarin, E. and O. Havrylyshyn (eds.) (2021), The Palgrave Handbook of Comparative Economics (Cham: Springer Nature). Duncan, P.J. and E. Schimpfössl (2019), Socialism, Capitalism and Alternatives: Area Studies and Global Theories (London: UCL Press). Fukuyama, F. (2004), State-​Building: Governance and World Order in the 21st Century (London: Profile Books). Gel’man, V. (2004), “The Unrule of Law in the Making: The Politics of Informal Institution Building in Russia”, Europe-​Asia Studies 56, 7: 1021–​40.

421

422

Alena Ledeneva Gel’man, V. (2012), “Subversive Institutions, Informal Governance, and Contemporary Russian Politics”, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies 45, 3-​4: 295–​303. Gerlach, P., K. Teodorescu and R. Hertwig (2019), “The Truth about Lies: A Meta-​Analysis on Dishonest Behavior”, Psychological Bulletin 145, 1: 1. Gorlizki, Y. and O. Khlevniuk (2020), Substate Dictatorship: Networks, Loyalty, and Institutional Change in the Soviet Union (New Haven: Yale University Press). Grossman, G., V.G. Treml and N. Malyshev (1985), The Second Economy in the USSR and Eastern Europe: A Bibliography (Durham: Duke University Press). Hale, H.E. (2015), Patronal Politics: Eurasian Regime Dynamics in Comparative Perspective (New York: Cambridge University Press). Hale, H.E. (2019), “The Continuing Evolution of Russia’s Political System”, in R. Sakwa, H.E. Hale and S. White (eds.), Developments in Russian Politics 9 (London: Bloomsbury Publishing): 261–​76. Harari, Y.N. (2018), 21 Lessons for the 21st Century (New York: Random House). Helmke, G. and S. Levitsky (2004), “Informal Institutions and Comparative Politics: A Research Agenda”, Perspectives on Politics 2, 4: 725–​40. Helmke, G. and S. Levitsky (eds.) (2006), Informal Institutions and Democracy: Lessons from Latin America (Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press). Hodgson, G.M. (2022), “Culture and Institutions: A Review of Joel Mokyr’s ‘A Culture of Growth’”, Journal of Institutional Economics 18, 1: 159–​68. Horak, S., F. Afiouni, Y. Bian, A. Ledeneva, M. Muratbekova-​Touron and C.F. Fey (2020), “Informal Networks: Dark Sides, Bright Sides, and Unexplored Dimensions”, Management and Organization Review 16, 3: 511–​42. Hosking, G. (2000), “Patronage and the Russian State”, The Slavonic and East European Review 78, 2: 301–​20. Johnson, J.E. (2017), The Gender of Informal Politics: Russia, Iceland and Twenty-​First Century Male Dominance (Cham: Springer). Keenan, E.L. (1986), “Muscovite Political Folkways”, The Russian Review 45, 2: 115–​81. Kubik, J. and A. Linch (eds.) (2013), Postcommunism from Within: Social Justice, Mobilization, and Hegemony, Vol. 8 (New York: NYU Press). Lauth, H.J. (2000), “Informal Institutions and Democracy”, Democratization 7, 4: 21–​50. Ledeneva, A.V. (1998), Russia’s Economy of Favours. Blat, Networking and Informal Exchange (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Ledeneva, A.V. (2008), “Blat and guanxi: Informal Practices in Russia and China”, Comparative Studies in Society and History 50, 1: 118–​44. Ledeneva, A.V. (2010), “Créer des ponts entre les disciplines. Institutions, réseaux, pratiques”, in L. Fontaine and F. Weber, Les paradoxes de l’économie informelle. A qui profitent les règles? (Paris: Editions Karthala): 23–​49. Ledeneva, A.V. (2011), “Telephone Justice in Russia: An Update”, EU-​Russia Centre Review 18: 4–​22. Ledeneva, A.V. (2012), “Informality and Informal Politics”, in G. Gill and J. Young (eds.), Routledge Handbook of Russian Politics and Society (London: Routledge): 375–​85. Ledeneva, A.V. (2013a), Can Russia Modernise? Sistema, Power Networks and Informal Governance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Ledeneva, A.V. (2013b), “Russia’s Practical Norms and Informal Governance: The Origins of Endemic Corruption”, Social Research: An International Quarterly 80, 4: 1135–​62. Ledeneva, A. et al (eds.) (2018), The Global Encyclopaedia of Informality, Volume 1: Towards Understanding of Social and Cultural Complexity (London: UCL Press). Magyar, B. and B. Madlovics (2019), “Stubborn Structures: A Path-​Dependence Explanation of Transitions in the Postcommunist Region”, Social Research: An International Quarterly 86, 1: 113–​46. Magyar, B. and B. Madlovics (2020), The Anatomy of Post-​Communist Regimes: A Conceptual Framework (Budapest: Central European University Press). Marquette, H. and C. Peiffer (2015), Corruption and Collective Action. (London: DLP Research Paper). Misztal, B. (2002), Informality: Social Theory and Contemporary Practice (London: Routledge). Pavlovsky, G. (2016), “Russian Politics under Putin: The System Will Outlast the Master”, Foreign Affairs 95, 3: 10–​127.

422

423

Informal politics Polese, A. (2021), “What is Informality? (Mapping) ‘the Art of Bypassing the State’ in Eurasian Spaces –​and Beyond”, Eurasian Geography and Economics, https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​15387​216.2021. 1992​791. Slater, W. and A. Wilson (eds.) (2004), The Legacy of the Soviet Union (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). Sunstein, C.R. and L.A. Reisch (2017), The Economics of Nudge (London: Routledge). Thaler, R.H. and C.R. Sunstein (2008), Nudge: Improving Decisions about Health, Wealth, and /​Happiness (New Haven: Yale University Press).

423

424

37 CORRUPTION AND ORGANISED CRIME IN POST-​S OVIET RUSSIA 1 Leslie Holmes

Introduction In 2011 Luke Harding published Mafia State based on his time as a journalist in Putin’s and Medvedev’s Russia. The title might appear to imply that the Russian state was run by organised crime (OC). But this was not Harding’s argument. Rather, he maintained that the state itself was now operating like an OCG (OC gang or group). In fact, in a chapter published some three years later, Vadim Volkov (2014) argued that the Russian Mafia –​sometimes called the mafiya to distinguish it from Sicilian OC (e.g. Handelman 1995) –​had been a one generation phenomenon that had virtually disappeared. While this claim needs unpacking (see below), Volkov’s position is compatible with Harding’s, in that much of the violent protection-​related OC that emerged during the 1990s had substantially declined by the mid-​2010s. But while OC protectionism has almost disappeared, it has largely been replaced by protectionism exercised by corrupt public officials. This change is captured well in Mark Galeotti’s (2018a) argument that “under Putin, gangsterism on the streets has given way to kleptocracy in the state”. This observation leads to the underlying arguments of this ­chapter –​that corruption is now more of a problem than OC within Russia; that the boundary between corruption and OC is sometimes difficult to discern; and that the two phenomena exist in a symbiotic relationship. Before proceeding, note that any suggestion that OC has disappeared from Russia is wishful thinking: as V. Eminov and S. Maksimov (2019: Kindle loc. 258) argue, “organised crime … has not only not disappeared, but has, on the contrary, ‘strengthened’ its position in the economy, acquired the legal forms and possibilities to exert direct and indirect influence on all spheres of social life” (see, too, Orlova 2019: 143). Meanwhile, Volkov (2014: 176) himself acknowledged the continued existence of “traditional” OC in areas such as drug trafficking and gambling. This chapter examines both corruption and OC and is divided into five sections: definitional issues; the problem of corruption and OC; causes of corruption and OC; countering corruption and OC; conclusions.

424

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-41

425

Corruption and organised crime in post-Soviet Russia

Definitional issues Despite a long debate on the meaning of corruption, there is still no agreed definition. However, the most common one remains “the abuse of public office for private gain”. This definition is not entirely unproblematic. For example, the concept of “public office” can become blurred in the (dying?) era of neoliberalism, while it must be acknowledged that “private” can refer to a group (for example, a police unit or a political party) as well as to an individual. Nevertheless, it suffices for our purposes. At least as problematic is the concept of OC, largely because both of its component parts are context-​specific. For instance, gambling and sex work are legal in some jurisdictions but crimes in others. Even homicide is less clearcut a crime than usually assumed, given diverse cultural attitudes towards and laws on honour killings, killing during warfare, and abortion. Turning to “organised”, W. Richard Scott (1981) has argued that there are three main types of organisation –​organisations as rational systems (formal structures, hierarchic, highly regulated, having clear goals); organisations as natural systems (informal structures, less hierarchic, more responsive to feedback from stakeholders, having complex goals); and organisations as open systems (very flexible structures, responsive to context, flexible goals). OC is too often treated as being exclusively the first of these types, whereas OCGs nowadays straddle all three. For our purposes, OC is defined as illegal activities carried out by a group of at least three people on an ongoing basis, primarily for the purposes of material gain and typically involving actual or threatened violence. Given our focus on Russia, note that the official approach to corruption is in Article 1 of the 2008 law “On combating corruption”, where it is defined as “the abuse of an official position” (Konsul’tantPlyus 2021a), while the official definition of OC (from Article 210 of the 1996 Criminal Code, as amended in 2019) is “[t]‌he organisation of a criminal community (a criminal organisation) or participation in it” (Konsul’tantPlyus 2021b). But in analysing the Russian situation, we need to adopt a broad interpretation of OC to include certain groups of corrupt officials and the state itself acting like an OCG.

Is there a problem? It is impossible to obtain accurate and comprehensive data on the scale of either corruption or OC in Russia or anywhere else. This problem has been recognised by Russian leaders. For instance, Dmitry Medvedev acknowledged during his presidency that official statistics on corruption in Russia were “just the tip of the iceberg” (Medvedev 2010). However, official data on both phenomena have in recent years become more readily available and consistent, if not yet optimally disaggregated. According to Russia’s General Procuracy, the number of corruption cases recorded in the first six months of 2021 was 22,441, representing an increase of 18.9 percent over the same period in 2020 (GPRF 2021a: 8, 20, 34), and was the highest figure in eight years (Koval’ 2021); bribery was the most prevalent form of corruption. The registered number of bribe takers 2010–​21 declined from 7,747 in 2010 to 3,188 in 2017, but then began to increase again to 4,480 in just the first ten months of 2021 (GPRF 2021b). While it is possible that the higher numbers reflect more effective policing –​an explanation provided by Kremlin spokesperson Dmitry Peskov (TASS 2020) –​this is a moot point.

425

426

Leslie Holmes

In addition to legal statistics, estimates of the pecuniary scale and impact of corruption are sometimes published in the Russian media. For example, an advisor to the Minister of Internal Affairs announced in 2008 that the income of corrupt officials through bribes equated to more than one third of the value of the Russian budget (RIA Novosti 2008); since much of this is then laundered and sent overseas, the negative impact on the Russian economy is clear. Even if this figure is an exaggeration –​and it likely is –​the fact that it was delivered by a high-​ ranking official and published renders it significant. More recently, the Procurator General’s Office announced in 2021 that the damage caused by corruption amounted to more than 32 billion rubles in 2020 but had shot up to almost 40 billion just in the first six months of 2021 (Oreanda 2021). Obtaining official legal data on OC is at least as difficult. The number of preliminary investigations into serious and very serious crimes committed by OCGs declined from 19,964 in 2010 to 10,734 in 2016 but has since been rising again, reaching 17,304 in just the first ten months of 2021 (GPRF 2021b). Furthermore, the high numbers of serious and very serious crimes “undisclosed” (ne raskryto) –​increasing slightly from 307,031 in 2010 to 312,079 in 2020 (GPRF 2021b) –​suggest that the scale of OCG activity is much larger than the number of preliminary investigations suggests. Limited data on the number of OCGs identified by the Russian authorities are also available. Thus, there were 485 in 1989 and 8,222 in 1995 (Eminov and Maksimov 2019: Kindle loc. 278) –​a near 17-​fold increase in just six years. By 2016, the Ministry of Internal Affairs claimed there were now only 158 OCGs (Ponars Eurasia 2018), though it is not clear whether the same criteria were being used for identifying an OCG as in the earlier period and whether the average size of an OCG had grown. The number of crimes identified as committed by OCGs also declined between 1997 (28,497) and 2002 (20,125), although it had crept back up to approximately the 1997 figure by 2005. In 2017, the number of crimes identified as committed by OCGs was 13,232 –​less than half the figure of twenty years earlier (Eminov and Maksimov 2019: Kindle locs. 355, 429, 478). Meanwhile, the number of identified members of OCGs stood at 8,770 in 2010; after a slight decline, they began to increase again from 2013, reaching 9,764 by 2020 and 10,337 for the first ten months of 2021 (GPRF 2021b). One reason for incomplete data common to both corruption and OC is inadequate reporting and identification. Typically, neither side in an illicit bilateral exchange has an interest in reporting the other: a motorist stopped by the police for speeding often finds it cheaper, quicker, and simpler to pay a bribe than a fine, while drug addicts may fear losing their supply if they report their OC source. Furthermore, some forms of corruption (for example embezzlement) have no readily identifiable victim other than the abstractions of “the state” and “society”, and hence no one to report them. In the case of OC, many victims fear reprisals if they report OCGs (UNODC 2010: 25). Finally, many citizens still do not trust the police, considering them incompetent, indifferent, or corrupt (Shlapentokh 2006: 157, 160–​1), although the level of trust has improved in recent years (Levada Center 2020a). Given the deficiencies in –​and potentially misleading nature of –​official legal and economic data on both corruption and OC, alternative methods have been devised for assessing their scale. The most common is perceptual and experiential surveys. For corruption, the most frequently cited is Transparency International’s (TI’s) Corruption Perceptions Index (CPI). This is nowadays based primarily on the perceptions of businesspeople and country experts and has, since 2012, been scaled 0–​100, with higher scores representing lower perceived levels of corruption. Russia’s performance since first being assessed in 1996 can be seen in Table 37.1. The 2012 figure is included largely because that was the last year of Medvedev’s presidency.

426

427

Corruption and organised crime in post-Soviet Russia Table 37.1  Russia’s scores in TI’s CPI (selected years) 1996

2000

2005

2008

2010

2011

2012

2015

2020

26

21

24

21

21

24

28

29

30

Source: TI 2021 Note: The CPI was scaled 0–​10 until 2012, when it was changed to 0–​100: for ease of comparison, all pre-​2012 scores have been converted to the present scaling system.

Table 37.2  Russians’ experience of corruption –​bribery rates (Global Corruption Barometer or GCB, percentage, select years) 2004

2007

2009

2010–​11

2016

21

17

31

26

34

Sources: 2004 –​Hodess and Wolkers 2004: 22; 2007 –​TI 2007: 21; 2009 –​Riaño et al 2009: 32; 2010–​ 11 –​ TI 2011; 2016 –​Pring 2017: 18. Note: The percentages refer only to those respondents who had come into contact with eight or nine agencies specified by TI. Although Russia was surveyed for the 2013 GCB, the bribery rate was not published.

Table 37.1 reveals that the corruption situation was perceived to have improved only marginally in the 25 years between 1996 and 2020. This result is disappointing, given that both Putin and especially Medvedev have claimed over many years that the fight against corruption is a top priority. Table 37.1 further suggests that the situation improved quite noticeably during Medvedev’s presidency (2008–​12) and has remained relatively stable since then. Nevertheless, corruption has been a constant problem in post-​communist Russia. Critics of such perception indices maintain that perceptions may be seriously at odds with reality. Partly in response to such criticisms, experiential surveys –​i.e. projects designed to uncover rates of actual bribe paying –​have been conducted. A large-​scale experiential survey of some 34,000 respondents, initiated by President Medvedev and conducted in 2008, found that 29 percent of Russians had paid a bribe (the period is not specified in the publicly available reports) –​a figure that climbed to 42 percent in Moscow and a staggering 56 percent among entrepreneurs (Chernega 2008). These figures compare with just 30 percent of Muscovites –​ though 33 percent of all Russians –​in the last year of the Yeltsin presidency, according to a June 1999 survey (Petrova 1999). Thus, the situation across Russia had improved marginally between 1999 and 2008 but had deteriorated significantly in the capital. What of the more recent situation? Table 37.2 suggests there was a marked increase between 2004 and 2016 (the most recent year of available data on Russia from the GCB) in the number of Russians paying bribes. While this is a cause for concern, the situation might be far worse, and not only because some respondents will not admit to having paid a bribe when they have, surveyors’ assurances of anonymity notwithstanding. Thus, while bribery rates might appear to be a better method for assessing corruption than perception-​based surveys, the data really only detect low-​level corruption. If there is much corruption at the top of the system, this will not be revealed in experiential surveys given that ordinary members of the public and most businesspeople rarely if ever come into contact with members of the senior elite. Since it is this high-​level corruption 427

428

Leslie Holmes

that typically exerts a more significant negative influence on economies and societies, our current inability to measure this is a serious lacuna. While none of the methods used for measuring the scale of corruption in any country are without problems, most specialists nowadays agree that multi-​angulation –​using as many methods as possible and comparing the results –​is likely to yield the most reliable results: if all point more or less in the same direction, we can be reasonably confident about our overall assessment. Using this approach demonstrates that Russia is still a highly corrupt society. While there was certainly plenty of corruption during the communist era (Holmes 1993), the situation has apparently deteriorated in the post-​communist era. Turning to OC, while not mentioned in the Soviet media or academic analyses until the late 1980s (Orlova 2019: 145), OC certainly existed during the communist era, notably in the form of the so-​called thieves-​in-​law (Razinkin 1995; Galeotti 2018b). But the thieves-​in-​ law differed significantly from the new gangs that emerged from the late 1980s (for a detailed chronology of OC activity from the late 1980s to the early Putin era, see Karyshev 2008), notably in adhering to a strict code among themselves: most of the new OCGs of the 1990s were relatively undisciplined (Gurov 1995). This is one area in which there appears to have been real improvement: Russian OC has been less violent in the 2000s than it was in the 1990s. Obtaining perceptual and experiential data on OC is particularly difficult. Whereas ordinary members of the Russian public may well experience petty corruption, they are much less likely to encounter OCGs. If they do, it will often be in the form of access to illegal goods or services, which helps to explain why reliable data on Russian OC are so scarce: customers are usually breaking the law themselves, and hence do not report their interaction. Most available data on the Russian public’s perceptions or experiences of OC are by now rather dated. When asked in a September 2003 survey by VTsIOM of 1,600 respondents: “To whom does power belong in contemporary Russia?”, 15 percent opted for OC (Golov 2003). While there are no more recent pan-​Russian data on OC from the Levada Center, some of its surveys of Muscovites provide more up-​to-​date insights into the perceptions of the capital’s population at least. When asked to name the five to six problems that concern them most, it emerges that OC has become far less salient under Putin: whereas 15 percent of Muscovites (N =​1,000) nominated “OC and banditry” in June 1999, that figure had almost halved –​to 8 percent –​by August 2007 and had halved again to a relatively modest 4 percent by April 2016 (Levada Center 2016). Turning to the business community’s perceptions of OC in Russia, Table 37.3 summarises businesspeople’s responses when asked: “To what extent does organized crime (mafia-​oriented racketeering, extortion) impose costs on businesses in your country?” Although Table 37.3 suggests a slight improvement in the Russian business community’s experience of OC between 2008 and 2019, quite why the Russian OC situation appears to have improved over recent years is open to debate. But two major factors are that corrupt public

Table 37.3  OC’s impact on business according to the Global Competitiveness Report 2008

2010

2015

2019

4.3

4.3

4.2

4.6

Sources: 2008 –​Schwab and Porter 2008: 376; 2010 –​Schwab 2010: 380; 2015 –​Schwab 2015: 307; 2019 –​ Schwab 2019: 483. Notes: Scaling =​1–​7 (higher figures represent less of an OC problem).

428

429

Corruption and organised crime in post-Soviet Russia

officials have often replaced OCGs in running protection rackets, and that the Putin regime has turned a blind eye to most Russia-​based cybercrime as long as the criminals do not attack Russian or CIS targets (BBC News 2017; Canales 2021). A new ranking of the OC situation in all 193 member states of the UN –​the Global Organized Crime Index –​was published in September 2021. This assesses countries on two basic variables –​criminality level and resilience level. Russia is classified in the worst overall category: “High criminality, low resilience” (GIATOC 2021: 107). In terms of revenue, in 2014 Fortune magazine rated the Russian Solntsevskaya Bratva OCG as the world’s second wealthiest (after Japan’s largest Yakuza group), having allegedly generated some $8.5 billion by that year, mainly from drug and human trafficking (Matthews 2014). Despite a marked decline in the type of violent OC that mushroomed in the 1990s, it would be wrong to assume that Russian OC has virtually disappeared. There has been a substantial rise in Russian online OC, with a 2021 New York Times editorial (The New York Times 2021) noting that most ransomware attacks globally originate in Russia –​a claim endorsed by the head of the UK’s National Cyber Security Centre (Sabbagh 2021) and Microsoft (Williams 2021). In short, Russian OC –​which is largely tolerated by a corrupt state –​is a global problem.

Causes Many of the causes of corruption and OC in Russia are basically the same as elsewhere, and both phenomena can be explained via the numerous general theories of criminality and anti-​ social behaviour, such as cultural theories, rational choice theory, and strain theory. To explore even one or two of these adequately would require more space than is available. The focus here is therefore on explanations specific to Russia or post-​communist states. One factor often noted is Russian culture and traditions. In early 2008, Dmitry Medvedev argued that the Russian centuries-​old lack of respect for the law is the main cause of corruption in Russia: he related this “legal nihilism” (as he called it) to Russian historical experience (Medvedev 2008a, 2008b), which was compounded by the moral and ideological vacuum that emerged after the collapse of both Soviet communism and the USSR, and that has been acknowledged by Putin (TASS 2013). Among the many teething problems of early post-​communism was legislative lag: Russia was no exception. Almost overnight, the country had to consider changes to policies and legislation across a vast range of issues, including the electoral process, property rights, and welfare. Not only was the sheer range of required changes –​“the multiple and simultaneous transition” –​daunting, but the problem of producing new high-​quality legislation was compounded by the fact that decades of communism meant there was no tradition of political compromise. Consequently, new laws were often slow to be adopted and were sub-​optimal compromises when they did eventually emerge. One reason why the collapse of communist systems was relatively peaceful was that the elites offered little resistance. This was partly because many had seen the writing on the wall: communism had been relatively effective at modernising many countries but had run its course. Rather than attempt to defend the old system, many apparatchiki were more interested in securing a comfortable position in the new polity. Thus emerged nomenklatura privatisation, whereby former Communist officials promoted and supported new property laws, but only to the point at which their own ownership position was maximised. They then blocked further reform if this would have subjected them to greater market competition (see Hellman 1998). This approach was a major stimulus to corruption in the 1990s, which in turn established a culture of corruption that has proven difficult to reverse. The problem might have been partly 429

430

Leslie Holmes

overcome had the Russian government pursued a policy of lustration, as happened in some other post-​communist states. But post-​communist Russia has never seriously delved into the communist pasts of its officials, some of whom simply continued with the kinds of corrupt practices they had developed under the previous system. Not all former Communist officials were able to take advantage of nomenklatura privatisation, however. For others, the 1990s was a decade of job insecurity, high inflation, and often delayed payment or non-​payment of salaries. These factors were all a function of Russia’s severe economic problems in the aftermath of the communist system’s collapse, with some estimates suggesting a GDP decline of some 40 percent between 1990 and 1997. Exacerbating the problem was the fact that the welfare state was still being developed. In this context, some corruption was a function of the “squirrel’s nuts” syndrome: for those whose salary might be delayed for months and whose job was under threat, taking advantage of illicit opportunities was a common response. The treatment of officials found guilty of corruption has often been very lenient in Russia. Helping to explain why corruption remains such a problem, then Minister of Internal Affairs Rashid Nurgaliev provided information in 2008 on the types of punishment convicted bribe takers could expect: According to court statistics, across the country as a whole, only one bribe taker in ten is given a prison sentence. The rest receive more lenient punishments, which obviously does not help to eradicate corruption but, on the contrary, generates an illusion of impunity. Falaleev 2008 Russian courts must impose harsher sentences if the state is to make headway in reducing corruption. Based on an analysis of law enforcement data for the years 2004–​13, Günther Schulze et al (2016) found that corruption levels among Russian bureaucrats declined as relative salaries increased. The fact that legal incomes for public officials have been reduced in recent years –​in real terms, they declined approximately one-​third between 2014 and 2018 (Eminov and Maksimov 2019: Kindle loc. 505) –​is another likely cause of the increase in and continuation of corruption. Schulze et al (2016) also found that even modest increases in media freedom resulted in less corruption. Yet Russia performs poorly in the Press Freedom Index produced by Reporters without Borders. In the 2021 index, Russia was ranked 150th out of the 180 countries assessed and its situation classified as “difficult”, the fourth worst category out of five. This said, Russia’s status has remained fairly stable since the first index was published in 2002, when its score (out of 100, with higher scores representing less freedom) was 48.00, compared with 48.71 in 2021 (RSF 2021). An article in Izvestiya (Beluza 2008) argued that one of the main reasons for corruption is that Russia has too many laws, which facilitates corruption through giving bureaucrats excessive discretionary power. This problem is compounded by a point made by the then chief of staff of the Russian Presidential Administration, Sergei Naryshkin, who argued in 2008 that corruption is largely a result of an overblown and insufficiently regulated public service, so that reducing the size of the state administration would reduce corruption (ITAR-​TASS 2008a). Yet the number of state bureaucrats significantly increased in the 2000s, peaking in 2009 (Inkina 2019: 2; Rosstat 2020). Finally, Putin has argued that corruption is a function of developing markets, when state bureaucracies and private business oligarchies discover they have common interests and so collude 430

431

Corruption and organised crime in post-Soviet Russia

(ITAR-​TASS 2008b). However, his own tolerance of corruption among public officers, especially the siloviki –​possibly for fear of them turning against him –​is also a factor. Several of the Russia-​specific causes of OC are similar to those for corruption, such as the moral vacuum (Sergeev 1998) and the very poor economic situation of the 1990s –​the latter resulting, inter alia, in shortages of many goods and services, which OC was often able to supply –​and need not be repeated here. The blurry rules on property ownership help to explain the rise of OC in the 1990s. Applying Diego Gambetta’s (1993) interpretation of the Sicilian Mafia’s racketeering, Federico Varese (2001) analysed the protection role played by Russian OC during the 1990s. This included contract enforcement at a time when the Russian authorities’ role in ensuring contract compliance was patchy. In part symbolising the rejection of communism and partly as a cost-​saving measure, the Yeltsin administration retrenched numerous former KGB and other state security officers. Many of these were bitter about their treatment and desperate for income, so they were more open to advances from OCGs than they would previously have been. OCGs were attracted to these former officers because of their insider knowledge, experience, and often access to weapons. Thus emerged a new nexus between former officers of the state and OC. The economic situation in Russia improved significantly in the first decade of the 2000s: Russia is a major oil and gas producer and exporter, and as the global price of energy soared, so the Russian economy benefited. Consequently, some of the principal 1990s drivers of OC and corruption became less salient. However, with the notable exceptions of the decline of gang violence and OC-​run protection rackets, the criminal culture that had developed in the 1990s did not markedly change; many practices continued or expanded –​notably cybercrime –​ the stronger economy and state notwithstanding.

Countering corruption and OC The main legislation on corruption was produced under former law professor Dmitry Medvedev during his tenure as Russia’s president. In May 2008, he signed a decree entitled “On measures to counteract corruption”, often seen as Medvedev’s first major act as president. This was followed by a National Anti-​Corruption Plan in July and four anti-​corruption laws in December (effective January 2009). While there has been no new overall federal legislation against corruption since December 2008, several amendments were signed into law in February 2019, having been under consideration by the Duma since 2017 (Duma 2017; GPRF 2019: for all relevant laws, see GPRF 2021c). One significant aspect of Medvedev’s fight against corruption was his reform of the police, which the then president acknowledged was a particularly corrupt branch of the state, and one that often colluded with OC. Unfortunately, the reforms have been assessed as basically failing (Cheloukine et al 2020). In its most recent (2017) evaluation of the corruption situation in Russia, the Council of Europe’s GRECO considered the country’s laws against corruption to be fairly robust, but it made several specific recommendations for applying them more effectively (GRECO 2018). However, when GRECO analysed the extent to which Russia had implemented its recommendations, it concluded that only nine of the 22 had been satisfactorily addressed, while nine had been partly implemented and four had not been implemented (GRECO 2020: 20; Panich and Eremin 2020 specify the penalties for various types of corruption). The situation does not appear to have improved since the GRECO reports, with one recent development giving cause for concern. A draft “Code of Administrative Offences” released 431

432

Leslie Holmes

by the Ministry of Justice in 2020 proposed reducing penalties for corruption as a way of incentivising Russian organisations to introduce their own anti-​corruption measures (Konov and Gorbacheva 2020). Moreover, many Russians are unimpressed with the authorities’ handling of corruption. In a 2017 survey, 45 percent of respondents disapproved of how Putin was tackling the problem: of eight issues, this was the only one in which a minority approved of their president’s approach (Vice 2017: 5). Putin has been a little more energetic in fighting OC than in combating corruption. While the main legislation against OC remains Article 210 of the 1996 Criminal Code (for legislation to 2011, see Belotserkovskii 2011: 255–​438), a 2019 amendment increased the maximum penalties for more senior members of OCGs and made it a criminal offence to be a member of a “thieves-​in-​law” gang (Konsul’tantPlyus 2019). However, the potential impact of the latter change should not be exaggerated: there are now only a few hundred “thieves-​ in-​law” remaining in Russia anyway. On the other hand, Putin did promise a clampdown on cybercrime in June 2021 (Korolov 2021): this was of particular significance, since the president indicated that he would now consider permitting the extradition of Russian citizens to the US if Washington would agree to a reciprocal arrangement (TASS 2021) –​a move that would require a constitutional amendment. Yet actions speak louder than words, and time will tell whether Putin is serious in his putative clampdown on cybercrime and OC. It bodes ill that, despite the introduction of an electoral filter to remove previously convicted candidates, including those with connections to powerful OCGs, they have still managed to enter Russia’s legislature and assemblies (Ponars Eurasia 2018). The focus thus far has been on what Russian state authorities could do and have done to combat corruption and OC. But many (Izyumov and Kosals 2010; Vannucci 2017: esp. 273–​7) maintain that corruption will not be brought under control unless society plays a major part: the role of civil society is crucial. However, in addition to the constraints on the mass media noted above, clampdowns on NGOs since 2012 (with a further tightening in May 2015 and June 2021 [RFE/​RL 2021]) –​including the Russian branch of Transparency International –​have rendered it less likely that civil society will be able to play a significant role in combating either corruption or OC. Furthermore, many Russian citizens have ambiguous views on the appropriate role of civil society anyway. While many are worried about corruption –​in a February 2020 survey, it was second only to inflation as the most serious concern (Levada Center 2020b) –​a clear majority does not support the leading Russian campaigner against corruption, Aleksei Navalny (Levada Center 2021).

Conclusions Both corruption and OC increased significantly in Russia during the 1990s. While the former remains a significant problem, the nature, power, and scale of the latter have changed, with OC being less violent, less involved in protection rackets, and more focused on entering the legal market and international cybercrime. Meanwhile, the state under Putin has become much stronger, and itself sometimes acts like an OCG (GIATOC 2021: 165). But is it appropriate to call it a “mafia state”? Since protection rackets have under Putin often been run by corrupt public officials, the term kryshevanie (“providing a roof ”; see Soldatov and Borogan 2007; Taylor 2011: 164) has some validity. Furthermore, the collusion that apparently occurs between public officials and OCGs more frequently in Russia than in many other countries (IRBC 2007) –​and that 432

433

Corruption and organised crime in post-Soviet Russia

continues a practice common in the Soviet era (Vaksberg 1991) –​strengthens the argument for a term that links the state to OC, though the term “criminal state” is less problematic than “mafia state”. Since many –​perhaps most –​Russian officials are decent, law-​abiding citizens, the term “criminal state” needs to be used with caution. Nevertheless, the fact that the Russian state under Putin appears to use OC for certain arms-​length criminal activities (Galeotti 2017; McIlvenna-​Davis 2019) strengthens the case for using the term. Putin has never publicly devoted as much attention to OC as Yeltsin did (Yeltsin 1994) and, when he does, can be secretive about his approach. For instance, the discussion of OC he held with Russia’s Security Council in March 2021 was considered “sensitive” so that no details were published (Kommersant 2021). Perhaps this is at least partly because of the special relationship he has with OC, which he prefers not to publicise. Mark Galeotti (2018a) is correct to argue that OC prospers under Putin because it does not challenge his system and can be useful in attempting to undermine the West. The relationship is a symbiotic one, and it is no coincidence that Putin was named “Person of the Year in Organized Crime and Corruption” by the Organized Crime and Corruption Reporting Project in 2014 for his contribution to the support of both OC and corruption (OCCRP 2014)! This means there is unlikely to be any marked improvement in the Russian corruption or OC situations while Putin remains in power. After all, a fish rots from the head (Holmes 2018).

Note 1 I am indebted to the Australian Research Council for funding that facilitated the research for this chapter (Grants Nos. A79930728, DP0558453 and DP 110102854).

References NB: All online references were accessed or re-​accessed in December 2021 unless otherwise noted: if noted, the link was no longer active. BBC News (2017), “Putin: Patriotic Russians May Be Involved in Hacking”, 1 June, https://​www.bbc. com/​news/​tec​hnol​ogy-​40122​943. Belotserkovskii, S. (2011), Sistema pravovogo regulirovaniya bor’by s organizovannoi prestupnost’yu i nauchnye osnovy ee optimizatsii (Moscow: Rossiiskaya kriminologicheskaya assotsiatsiya). Beluza, A. (2008), “Bukvy korruptsii v dukhe zakonov”, Izvestiya, 17 October. Canales, K. (2021), “Experts Say Russia Gives Hackers a ‘Tacit Blessing’ to Attack Foreign Nations –​as Long as They Don’t Target Russia or Its Allies”, Business Insider Australia, 15 June. Cheloukhine, S., N. Kalkayeva, T. Tima Khvedelidze and A. Bizhanova (2020), “Corruption in Russian Law Enforcement”, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies 53, 1: 117–​34 Chernega, Yu. (2008), “Sotsiologi sdali vzyatki”, Kommersant, 23 September. Duma (2017), “Predlagaemye izmeneniya v Ugolovnyi kodeks usilyat otvetstvennost’ za korruptsiyu”, Gosudarstvennaya Duma, 24 July, http://​duma.gov.ru/​news/​14144/​. Eminov, V. and S. Maksimov (2019), Organizovannaya prestupnost’ i korruptsiya: rossiiskie realii i puti protivodeistviya –​Monografiya (Moscow: Prospekt). Falaleev, M. (2008), “Chistka mundirov. Rashid Nurgaliev: Neprikasaemykh chinovnikov-​korruptsionerov bol’she ne budet”, Rossiiskaya gazeta, 14 October. Galeotti, M. (2017), “Crimintern: How the Kremlin uses Russia’s Criminal Networks in Europe”, European Council on Foreign Relations, 18 April, https://​ecfr.eu/​publ​icat​ion/​crimintern_​how_​the_​ kremlin_​uses_​russias_​crim​inal​_​net​work​s_​in​_​eur​ope/​. Galeotti, M. (2018a), “Gangster’s Paradise: How Organised Crime Took over Russia”, The Guardian, 23 March. Galeotti, M. (2018b), The Vory: Russia’s Super Mafia (New Haven: Yale University Press). Gambetta, D. (1993), The Sicilian Mafia: The Business of Private Protection (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press).

433

434

Leslie Holmes GIATOC (2021), The Global Organized Crime Index 2021 (Geneva: Global Initiative Against Transnational Organized Crime), https://​globa​lini​tiat​ive.net/​wp-​cont​ent/​uplo​ads/​2021/​09/​GITOC-​Glo​bal-​ Organi​zed-​Crime-​Index-​2021.pdf. Golov, A. (2003), “Massovye otsenki sub”ektov vlasti v Rossii”, Levada Center, 8 October, https://​www. lev​ada.ru/​2003/​10/​08/​a-​golov-​masso​vye-​otse​nki-​subek​tov-​vla​sti-​v-​ros​sii/​. GPRF (2019), “Federal’nyi zakon ot 06.02.2019 No. 5-​ F3 ‘O vnesenii izmenenii v otdel’nye zakonodatel’nye akty Rossiiskoi Federatsii v tselyakh protivodeistviya korruptsii’ ”, website of the Prosecutor General of the Russian Federation, http://​publ​icat​ion.pravo.gov.ru/​Docum​ent/​View/​ 00012​0190​2060​015. iyun’ 2021 goda (Moscow: General’naya GPRF (2021a), Sostoyanie prestupnosti v Rossii za yanvar’–​ prokuratora Rossiiskoi Federatsii). GPRF (2021b), “Portal pravovoi statistiki”, http://​crimes​tat.ru/​off​ense​s_​ch​art (dinamika). GPRF (2021c), “Federal’nye zakony”, https://​epp.genp​roc.gov.ru/​web/​gprf/​activ​ity/​combat​ing-​cor​rupt​ ion/​libr​ary/​zakon/​fede​ral. GRECO (2018), Evaluation Report –​Fourth Evaluation Round –​Russian Federation: Corruption Prevention in Respect of Members of Parliament, Judges and Prosecutors (Strasbourg: Group of States Against Corruption –​ Council of Europe). GRECO (2020), Compliance Report –​Fourth Evaluation Round –​Russian Federation: Corruption Prevention in Respect of Members of Parliament, Judges and Prosecutors (Strasbourg: Group of States Against Corruption –​ Council of Europe). Gurov, A. (1995), Krasnaya mafiya (Moscow: Samotsvet). Handelman, S. (1995), Comrade Criminal: Russia’s New Mafiya (New Haven: Yale University Press). Harding, L. (2011), Mafia State (London: Guardian Books). Hellman, J. (1998), “Winner Takes All: The Politics of Partial Reform in Postcommunist Transitions”, World Politics 50, 2: 203–​34. Hodess, R. and M. Wolkers (2004), Report on the Transparency International Global Corruption Barometer 2004 (Berlin: Transparency International). Holmes, L. (1993), The End of Communist Power (New York: Oxford University Press). Holmes, L. (2018), “A Fish Rots from the Head: Corruption Scandals in Post-​Communist Russia”, in O. Hawthorne and S. Magu (eds.), Corruption Scandals and Their Global Impacts (London: Routledge): 57–​76. Inkina, S. (2019), “Bureaucratic Reform and Russian Transition: The Puzzles of Policy-​Making Process”, Palgrave Communications 5, 1, https://​www.nat​ure.com/​artic​les/​s41​599-​019-​0238-​5.pdf. IRBC (2007), Russia: Extent of Organized Criminal Activity, Including Links to Russian Authorities (2005–​ March 2007) (Ottawa: Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada), https://​www.refwo​rld.org/​docid/​ 47d6​5474​3d5.html. ITAR-​TASS (2008a), 6 October, cited in Johnson’s Russia List, No.182, 8 October 2008. ITAR-​TASS (2008b), 19 February, cited in Johnson’s Russia List, No.36, 20 February 2008. Izyumov, A. and L. Kosals (2010), “Issledovanie politseiskoi korruptsii v razvitykh, razvivayushchikhsya i transformiruyushchikhsya stranakh kak chast’ problemy izucheniya neformal’noi ekonomicheskoi deyatel’nosti politsii”, Ekonomicheskaya sotsiologiya 11, 2: 115–​25. Karyshev, V. (2008), Russkaya mafiya 1988–​2007 (EKSMO: Moscow). Kommersant (2021), “Putin obsudil s chlenami Sovbeza organizovannuyu prestupnost’”, 19 March, https://​ www.kom​mers​ant.ru/​doc/​4733​576. Konov, A. and N. Gorbacheva (2020), “Mitigation of Penalties for Corruption Offences: The Draft Russia’s Code of Administrative Offences in International Perspective”, Higher School of Economics University Anti-​Corruption Portal, https://​anti​cor.hse.ru/​en/​main/​news_​p​age/​mitigation_​of_​penalties_​for_​corruption_​offences_​the_​draft_​r ussias_​code_​of_​administrative_​offences_​_​i​n_​in​tern​atio​ nal_​pers​pect​ive. Konsul’tantPlyus (2019), “Federal’nyi zakon ‘O vnesenii izmenenii v Ugolovnyi kodeks Rossiiskoi Federatsii i Ugolovno-​ protsessual’nyi kodeks Rossiiskoi Federatsii v chasti protivodeistviya organizovannoi prestupnosti’ ot 01.04.2019 N 46-​FЗ (poslednyaya redaktsiya)”, http://​www.con​sult​ ant.ru/​docum​ent/​cons​_​doc​_​LAW​_​321​411/​. Konsul’tantPlyus (2021a), “Federal’nyi zakon ot 25.12.2008 N 273-​F3 (red. ot 26.5.2021) ‘O protivodeistvii korruptsii’”, http://​www.con​sult​ant.ru/​docum​ent/​con​s_​do​c_​LA​W_​82​959/​bbbd4641125b2​22be​af74​ 83e1​6c59​4116​ed2d​9a1/​.

434

435

Corruption and organised crime in post-Soviet Russia Konsul’tantPlyus (2021b), “Ugolovnyi kodeks Rossiiskoi Federatsii ot 13.06.1996 N 63-​F3 (red. ot 01.07.2021) (s izm. i dop., vstup v silu s 22.08.2021)”, http://​www.con​sult​ant.ru/​docum​ent/​con​s_​do​ c_​LA​W_​10​699/​5649f81c02c85​58e2​2ab2​6207​b283​4c0d​047d​6fb/​. Korolov, M. (2021), “Russian Cybercrime: Is Extradition Ahead?”, Data Center Knowledge, 15 June, https://​www.data​cent​erkn​owle​dge.com/​secur​ity/​russ​ian-​cyb​ercr​ime-​extr​adit​ion-​ahead. Koval’, I. (2021), “V Rossii zafiksirovano rekordnoe chislo sluchaev korruptsii za 8 let”, DW Temy Dnya, 31 August, https://​www.dw.com/​ru/​v-​ros​sii-​rekord​noe-​chi​slo-​sluch​aev-​korrup​cii-​za-​8-​let/​ a-​59036​162. Levada Center (2016), “Problemy Moskvy i lyubimye mesta”, 26 April, https://​www.lev​ada.ru/​2016/​04/​ 26/​probl​emy-​mos​kvy-​i-​lyubi​mye-​mesta/​. Levada Center (2020a), “Doverie institutam”, 21 September, https://​www.lev​ada.ru/​2020/​09/​21/​dove​ rie-​ins​titu​tam/​. Levada Center (2020b), “Samie ostrye problemy”, 5 March, https://​www.lev​ada.ru/​2020/​03/​05/​samye-​ ost​r ye-​probl​emy-​4/​. Levada Center (2021), “Otnoshenie k Alekseyu Naval’nomu”, 9 July, https://​www.lev​ada.ru/​2021/​07/​ 09/​otn​oshe​nie-​k-​aleks​eyu-​navaln​omu/​. Matthews, C. (2014), “Fortune 5: The Biggest Organized Crime Groups in the World”, Fortune, 20 September. McIlvenna-​Davis, D. (2019), “Gangs and Gulags: How Vladimir Putin Utilizes Organized Crime to Power his Mafia State”, Berkeley Political Review, 16 December, https://​bpr.berke​ley.edu/​2019/​12/​16/​ gangs-​and-​gul​ags-​how-​vladi​mir-​putin-​utili​zes-​organi​zed-​crime-​to-​power-​his-​mafia-​state/​. Medvedev, D. (2008a), “Yanvarskie tezisy Dmitriya Medvedeva”, Rossiskaya gazeta –​Nedelya, 24 January, https://​rg.ru/​2008/​01/​24/​medve​dev.html. Medvedev, D. (2008b), “Tochki nad ‘i’ –​Dmitrii Medvedev nazval chetyre prioriteta blizhaishego chetyrekhletiya: instituty, infrastruktura, innovatsii, investitsii”, Rossiiskaya gazeta, 16 February, https://​ rg.ru/​2008/​02/​16/​medve​dev-​forum.html. Medvedev, D. (2010), “Stenograficheskii otchet o zasedanii Soveta zakonodatelei”, 14 July, http://​krem​ lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​tran​scri​pts/​8343. OCCRP (2014), “Vladimir Putin: 2014 Person of the Year in Organized Crime and Corruption”, Organized Crime and Corruption Reporting Project, https://​www.occrp.org/​en/​poy/​2014/​. Oreanda (2021), “A Record Number of Corruption Cases has been Recorded in Russia for Eight Years”, 31 August, https://​www.orea​nda.ru/​en/​gosu​dars​tvo/​a-​rec​ord-​num​ber-​of-​cor​rupt​ion-​cases-​has-​ been-​recor​ded-​in-​rus​sia-​for-​eight-​years/​art​icle​1386​891/​. Orlova, A. (2019), “Russia: A “Mafia State”, Politics and Shifting Power Dynamics”, in F. Allum and S. Gilmour (eds.), Handbook of Organised Crime and Politics (Cheltenham: Elgar): 143–​58. Panich, A. and S. Eremin (2020), “The Anti-​Bribery and Anti-​Corruption Review: Russia”, The Law Reviews, 30 November, https://​thelaw​revi​ews.co.uk/​title/​the-​anti-​brib​ery-​and-​anti-​cor​rupt​ion-​rev​ iew/​rus​sia. Petrova, A. (1999), “Moscow is the Capital of Russian Corruption: Fiction or Reality?”, Public Opinion Foundation, 25 June, http://​bd.engl​ish.fom.ru/​rep​ort/​cat/​socie​tas/​regi​ons/​Mos​cow/​eof992​503, accessed 20 October 2008. Ponars Eurasia (2018), “Russian Organized Crime and Electoral Processes”, 17 July, https://​www.ponars​ eura​sia.org/​russ​ian-​organi​zed-​crime-​and-​electo​ral-​proces​ses/​. Pring, C. (2017), People and Corruption: Europe and Central Asia (Berlin: Transparency International). Razinkin, V. (1995), “Vory v zakone” i prestupnye klany (Moscow: Kriminologicheskaya assotsiyatsiya). RFE/​RL (2021), “Putin Signs Law Criminalizing Links To ‘Undesirable’ Organizations”, Radio Free Europe/​Radio Liberty’s Russian Service, 29 June, https://​www.rferl.org/​a/​putin-​law-​crimin​aliz​ing-​ unde​sira​ble-​organi​zati​ons/​31331​290.html. RIA Novosti (2008), “Bribes Make up Third of Russian Budget –​Official”, Russia Profile.Org, 26 http://​www.russia​prof​i le.org/​page.php?pag​eid=​CDI+​Rus​sia+​Prof​i le+​List&articl​eid=​ September, a122​2439​426, accessed October 2008. Riaño, J. with R. Hodess and A. Evans (2009), Global Corruption Barometer 2009 (Berlin: Transparency International). Rosstat (2020), “O kadrakh gosudarstvennoi grazhdanskoi i munitsipal’noi sluzhby v 2019 godu”, 25 December, https://​ross​tat.gov.ru/​stor​age/​mediab​ank/​nsZHd​bx4/​kadr-​2019.pdf. RSF (2021), “World Press Freedom Index”, Reporters without Borders, https://​rsf.org/​en/​rank​ing/​2021.

435

436

Leslie Holmes Sabbagh, D. (2021), “Russia and Neighbours are Source of Most Ransomware, Says UK Cyber Chief ”, The Guardian, 12 October, https://​www.theg​uard​ian.com/​tec​hnol​ogy/​2021/​oct/​11/​rus​sia-​and-​nea​ rby-​sta​tes-​are-​ori​gin-​of-​most-​ran​somw​are-​says-​uk-​cyber-​chief. Schulze, G., B. Suharnoko Sjahrir and N. Zakharov (2016), “Corruption in Russia”, Journal of Law and Economics 59, 1: 135–​71. Schwab, K. (ed.) (2010), The Global Competitiveness Report 2010–​2011 (Geneva: World Economic Forum). Schwab, K. (ed.) (2015), The Global Competitiveness Report 2015–​2016 (Geneva: World Economic Forum). Schwab, K. (ed.) (2019), The Global Competitiveness Report 2019 (Geneva: World Economic Forum). Schwab, K. and Porter, M. (eds.) (2008), The Global Competitiveness Report 2008–​2009 (Geneva: World Economic Forum). Scott, W.R. (1981), Organizations: Rational, Natural and Open Systems (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall). Sergeev, V. (1998), The Wild East: Crime and Lawlessness in Post-​communist Russia (London: Routledge) Shlapentokh, V. (2006), “Trust in Public Institutions in Russia: The Lowest in the World”, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies 39, 2: 153–​74. Soldatov, A. and I. Borogan (2007), “Sokrytie pokazhet”, Novaya gazeta, 7 May, https://​novay​agaz​eta.ru/​ artic​les/​2007/​05/​07/​33635-​sokry​tie-​pokaz​het. TASS (2013), “Vladimir Putin: Russian Orthodox Church Plays Vital Role in Russian Society”, 23 July, https://​tass.com/​rus​sia/​697​577. TASS (2020), “Kremlin: Growing Number of Corruption Cases Caused by Improving Law Enforcement Methods”, 8 December, https://​tass.com/​polit​ics/​1232​545, accessed 26/​10/​21. TASS (2021), “Putin Says Russia Ready to Extradite Cyber Criminals to US on Reciprocal Basis”, 13 June, https://​tass.com/​russ​ias-​fore​ign-​pol​icy/​1302​315. Taylor, B. (2011), State Building in Putin’s Russia: Policing and Coercion after Communism (New York: Cambridge University Press). The New York Times (2021), “The Plague of Ransomware”, 1 August: SR8. TI (2007), Report on the Transparency International Global Corruption Barometer 2007 (Berlin: Transparency International). TI (2011), “Global Corruption Barometer 2010/​2011”, Transparency International, https://​www.trans​ pare​ncy.org/​en/​gcb/​glo​bal/​glo​bal-​cor​rupt​ion-​barome​ter-​2010-​11/​press-​and-​downlo​ads. TI (2021), “Corruption Perceptions Index”, Transparency International, https://​www.trans​pare​ncy.org/​ en/​cpi/​2020/​index/​table. UNODC (2010), The Globalization of Crime: A Transnational Organized Crime Threat Assessment (Vienna: United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime). Vaksberg, A. (1991), The Soviet Mafia (London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson). Vannucci, A. (2017), “Challenges in the Study of Corruption: Approaches and Policy Implications”, Revista Brasileira de Direito 13, 1: 251–​81. Varese, F. (2001), The Russian Mafia: Private Protection in a New Market Economy (New York: Oxford University Press). Vice, M. (2017), “Russians Remain Confident in Putin’s Global Leadership”, Pew Research Center, 20 June, https://​www.pewr​esea​rch.org/​glo​bal/​2017/​06/​20/​russi​ans-​rem​ain-​confid​ent-​in-​put​ins-​glo​ bal-​lea​ders​hip/​. Volkov, V. (2014), “The Russian Mafia: Rise and Extinction”, in L. Paoli (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Organized Crime (Oxford: Oxford University Press): 159–​76. Williams, M. (2021), “Make Russia Take Responsibility for Its Cybercriminals”, Foreign Policy, 9 November, https://​foreig​npol​icy.com/​2021/​11/​09/​cyber​atta​cks-​rus​sia-​res​pons​ibil​ity-​ran​somw​are/​. Yeltsin, B. (1994), “Segodnya organizovannaya prestupnost’ pytaetsya vzyat’ stranu za gorlo”, Kommersant 34, 25 February, https://​www.kom​mers​ant.ru/​doc/​72204.

436

437

38 RUSSIAN NATIONALISM Jules Sergei Fediunin

Introduction Nationalism seems to be omnipresent in today’s Russia. It has become a salient social force and a key topic of public debate. But what is commonly referred to as “Russian nationalism” is a multi-​faceted and fragmented phenomenon. It would therefore be more accurate to speak of Russian nationalisms. In this chapter, I follow Smith’s (1991: 73) definition of nationalism as both an ideology and a movement that acts on behalf of an actual or potential “nation” in order to maintain its autonomy, unity and identity. This definition focuses on national projects shaped and carried out by a number of actors in accordance with their –​often competing –​visions of the Russian nation, including nation-​building efforts by the state leadership. There are two main dimensions along which one can differentiate the many faces of contemporary Russian nationalism. The first is relational and classifies perceptible nationalisms by looking at their relationship to political power. Here, one can distinguish between state (or official) nationalism and its grassroots (or societal) forms (Pain 2018). Laruelle (2009, 2017, 2018) proposes a more detailed classification focusing on three types of actors promoting the nationalist agenda: state, para-​state and non-​state actors. The second dimension is ideological. Here, the main distinction is between two ideal types of nationalism: the first is ethnic or ethnocentric, the second is imperialist or statist (Kolstø 2016, 2019; Pain and Prostakov 2014). Indeed, since the mid-​nineteenth century, Russian nationalism has oscillated between the temptation to form a nation-​state, which favours the interests of the dominant ethnic group, and the imperial ideal, which is based on a desire to dominate areas and populations that are ethnically, culturally and religiously diverse. These two models compete with each other but also coexist to some degree. Nevertheless, it seems important to distinguish them analytically, as the former emphasises the (ethnic) nation, whose interests may (or should) take precedence over the state, while the latter considers the maintenance of the state to be a central value and refuses to separate the nationalist agenda from state interests. The latter nationalism is more inclined to present itself under the label of “patriotism”.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-42

437

438

Jules Sergei Fediunin

Russia’s ongoing nation-​building According to Hosking (1997), the construction of an imperial state in Russia obstructed nation-​building. Arguably, Russia has never been a nation-​state, while the Soviet Union was a huge multinational entity. Of course, the population of the Russian Federation as it emerged from the collapse of the USSR in December 1991 was much less heterogeneous than that of the USSR in the late 1980s: whereas ethnic Russians comprised just over 50 percent of the Soviet population in 1989, they represented 80 percent of the inhabitants of post-​Soviet Russia. But alongside the majority group, the 2010 census counted 30 million people who belong to one of 190 other “nationalities”. Of these, up to 20 million adhere to Islam or are culturally Muslim. Even in its current borders, the Russian state encompasses regions that were initially brought into it by conquest or by more or less voluntary consent. These regions, which were given the status of autonomous territories in the early Soviet era and have since become known as “republics” (respubliki), are home to highly concentrated ethnic communities with languages, cultures and customs that differ from those of the country’s ethnic majority. The persistent gap between ethnos and demos –​the ethnocultural community and the community of citizens –​is anchored in terminology and public debate: what is “Russian” (russkii, the noun and adjective relating to language, culture or ethnicity) is not equal to what is “of Russia” (rossiiskii, the adjective relating to the state and public sphere). In the early 1990s, President Boris Yeltsin chose to promote a more inclusive conception of nationhood, as reflected in the name of the state –​it is a Russian Federation (Rossiiskaya Federatsiya) that rests on a community of fellow citizens (rossiyane or grazhdane Rossii), as opposed to the unified Russian state (Russkoe gosudarstvo) claimed by Russian nationalists of different kinds (Breslauer and Dale 1997). In 1997, the Soviet-​era “fifth point” listing the official ethnicity (natsional’nost’) of each citizen was removed from the Russian passport in order to weaken the link between ethnicity and citizenship. However, as Goode (2019) argues, the Yeltsin administration failed to shape a coherent civic nation-​building project due to the institutional instability and personalist dynamics of the Russian regime. Indeed, while the government entity charged with the promotion of civic nationhood was reformed eight times between 1992 and 2000, it was never endowed with broad powers or substantial funding. Meanwhile, as Yeltsin sought to respond to the rise of communist and nationalist opposition inside the country, he made numerous public references to ethnic Russians who found themselves outside the Russian Federation after 1991. Since Putin’s accession to the presidency, the Russian authorities’ nation-​building efforts have remained contradictory and ambiguous (Shevel 2011). First, the Russian leadership prefers not to choose between several rival visions of the nation. The official discourse sees Russia as both a civic nation and an ethnic or cultural nation. The latter may be alternately understood as a community of Eastern Slavs (with Russians, Ukrainians and Belorussians depicted as a “common people”) and as a Russian-​speaking cultural or historical nation, regardless of the ethnicity of its members. In both cases, the term russkii is used to reinforce the historical unity of Eastern Slavs –​especially in the context of the 2014 Ukraine crisis –​and to foster links with the Russian diaspora in the former USSR and beyond. The diaspora is understood as a “Russian world” (Russkii mir) whose role is to certify Russia’s great power status and strengthen its influence over “compatriots” and governments in diaspora members’ countries of residence (Degirmen Dysart 2021; Suslov 2018). It is thus not surprising that use of the term russkii significantly increased during Putin’s third presidential term (2012–​18) (Blakkisrud 2016). The ambiguity about the definition of the national community is also reproduced in official documents. One instance of this is the fuzzy definition of “compatriots” in the 1999 Russian law, amended in 2010, that allows Russian policy-​makers to target a variety of sub-​g roups of 438

439

Russian nationalism

former Soviet citizens or Russian émigrés on the basis of ethnic, linguistic, religious or professional characteristics (Shevel 2011). Another example is the Strategy of the State Nationalities Policy, adopted in December 2012 and amended in 2018, which emphasises “the unifying role of the Russian (russkii) people” and the importance of “Russian cultural dominance” in keeping the country together. In 2020, this thesis was introduced, among many other amendments, into the Russian Constitution. The new wording of Article 68-​1 reads: “The official language of the Russian Federation across the whole of its territory shall be Russian, as the language of the state-​bearing people which is an integral part of the multinational union of equal peoples of the Russian Federation” (State Duma 2020). Second, the shape of the rossiiskii project remains vague. It is still unclear whether the proclaimed civic community is ultimately composed of (a) fellow citizens loyal to the state institutions and enjoying equal rights or (b) indigenous ethnic groups –​a “(civic) nation of (ethnic) nations”, in the words of academician and foremost exponent of the project Valery Tishkov (2013). After all, both definitions of civic nationhood have been challenged in practice. The individualistic dimension of the civic national project is undermined by two major factors. The first is widespread xenophobia that targets visible minorities, commonly referred to as “people of non-​Slavic appearance” (Levada Center 2018). Minorities perceived as “culturally foreign” –​whether indigenous (such as people of North Caucasian origin) or recent immigrants (such as people from Central Asia) –​face stigmatisation and vigilante violence. Examples include the riots that took place in Kondopoga, Karelia, in 2006, and in Biryulevo, a southern suburb of Moscow, in 2013 (Arnold 2016; Laryš 2019). The second is the lack of both political participation and trust in public institutions. The vast majority of Russians are unwilling to participate in political life and do not believe they have any influence over decision-​making at the local, regional or federal level (Levada Center 2021a). Over 50 percent of respondents do not trust the police or regional and local authorities, while distrust of the government, parliament and political parties stands above 60 percent (Levada Center 2020). The multiculturalist dimension of the rossiiskii project is also compromised. While the Yeltsin administration took a laissez-​faire approach, the federal centre has implemented a strict policy of legal, administrative and fiscal recentralisation since the early 2000s (Rutland 2010). The Putin administration may not have dared to simply abolish ethnic federalism –​in spite of calls by nationalist actors such as Vladimir Zhirinovsky for it to do so –​but it worked to bring the status of Russia’s republics closer to that of the “pure” administrative regions. More recently, this centralising policy has been imbued with a cultural unification component. In 2015 the Russian Ministry of Education in collaboration with the Russian Historical Society prepared a national “cultural-​historical standard”. This standard prescribes the integration of regional narratives into a single historical narrative to be taught in all public schools across Russia. Particular emphasis is placed on patriotism, which should be instilled in pupils using the examples of “mass heroism” and “unity of peoples” that were demonstrated by the Russians in the face of such external threats as the Patriotic War of 1812 (Napoleon’s Russian campaign) and the Great Patriotic War of 1941–​5. In order to be approved by the Ministry of Education, school textbooks should refer to the “joining” (prisoedinenie), not the “conquest” (zavoevanie), of the Kazan Khanate or the North Caucasus, as well as the “joining”, not the “annexation”, of Crimea in March 2014. Another controversial decision, announced by Putin in 2017 and enshrined in law the following year, was to end the compulsory teaching of minority languages by schools situated in the Federation’s republics. This decision has been criticised as contrary to the principles of federalism, since it clearly challenges republics’ language and cultural policies (Bowring 2018). Moreover, it contradicts the official discourse of Russia as a “multiethnic 439

440

Jules Sergei Fediunin

and multifaith” state and is part of a more general “dilution of diversity” in Putin’s Russia (Prina 2016). Finally, it is worth noting that the civic nation-​building project is far from consensual in today’s Russia. The very concept of a rossiiskaya nation is highly contested by numerous actors. For Russian nationalists, it is a reincarnation of the notion of the “Soviet people” (sovetskii narod) and therefore a tool being used to “dilute” Russians into a multinational entity instead of recognising their dominant status and/​or granting them special rights within the state. For their part, many spokespeople of minorities fear that the promotion of the idea of a rossiiskaya natsiya poses a threat to their ethnic nations. The concept is also unpopular within the Russian Orthodox Church and among the systemic opposition, notably Gennady Zyuganov’s Communist Party (KPRF) and Zhirinovsky’s Liberal Democratic Party (LDPR), which traditionally appeal to the russkii people. More broadly, the term rossiiskii/​rossiyanin is often perceived as dry, artificial and lacking real meaning, in contrast to the word russkii, which predominates in everyday usage (Blackburn 2021). These considerations led Putin to abandon the idea of enshrining in law the concept of a united civic nation, a step proposed by the members of the Presidential Council for Interethnic Relations in 2016. It seems clear that the Russian state remains in an ambiguous position when it comes to nation-​building. While it situates itself as the creator of a nation on its own terms which tends to be multiethnic but Russocentric, it avoids any effort to clarify the symbolic –​and geographic –​boundaries of the national community.

What place for nationalism in the ideological construction of the Putin regime? To understand the Russian leadership’s attitude towards nationalism, several aspects thereof must be taken into account. First, there is the terminological component. Officially, the government espouses “patriotism”, not “nationalism”. In Russian official parlance, as in many Western countries, “nationalism” has negative connotations, while “patriotism” is considered a civic duty even if, in daily life, it is often ethnicised (Goode 2018). Under Putin, patriotism has emerged as the “national idea” for which Yeltsin had been searching since the mid-​ 1990s. Second, since his rise to power, Putin has focused on the state rather than the nation (Putin 1999). For him and his inner council, the state embodies and gives shape to the nation. Unsurprisingly, the Russian authorities reject ethnonationalism insofar as it threatens the integrity of the state. Third, the official emphasis on “statism” and “patriotism” allows the regime to generate broad political support, especially among the working and middle classes, rival visions of the national community notwithstanding. Both the strengthening of the common state and commitment to the country are considered to be a source of social consensus across the internal divisions –​geographical, ethnic, religious and economic –​within Russian society (Laruelle 2009). Official nationalism as a general framework is combined with some ideological content, notably conservatism and anti-​Westernism. Since the 2000s, the ruling United Russia party has referred to itself in terms of centrism and conservatism. This latter notion is a catch-​all term used to denote “stability”, as opposed to the “chaos” of the 1990s; to promote the idea of Russian historical and cultural specificity; to craft a memorial reconciliation between “Reds” and “Whites” (the Soviet and Tsarist periods); and, finally, to set up a form of militarised patriotic education centred on the commemoration of the Second World War. Putin’s return to the presidency in 2012 marked a new “conservative turn” in Russian politics, with official conservatism now also applying to social issues. A series of restrictive laws have since been adopted 440

441

Russian nationalism

to strengthen so-​called “spiritual bonds” and “traditional values”, including a law that penalises “homosexual propaganda towards minors” and another that punishes “offenses against religious feelings”. In 2020, conservative values including patriotism, faith in God and the definition of marriage as the union of a man and a woman were enshrined in the Russian Constitution. In its promotion of conservatism, the Russian leadership is assisted by a number of para-​ state actors. The most visible of these are the Russian Orthodox Church (ROC) and its public figures, including Patriarch Kirill and Metropolitan Tikhon. In 2015, the latter, who is often referred to as Putin’s personal confessor, initiated a series of permanent public exhibitions entitled “Russia –​My History”. The project, which promotes a historical narrative of unity and continuity, benefits from the financial and administrative support of the state (Klimenko 2021). On the regional level, the ROC’s role in promoting conservative values is replicated by other “traditional confessions”, namely “official” Islam (as opposed to Salafism), Buddhism and Judaism; it is likewise embraced by Cossack organisations, including para-​state Cossack militias. The national-​conservative agenda is also amplified both domestically and internationally by “Orthodox businessmen” like Vladimir Yakunin and Konstantin Malofeev. These two men preside over religious foundations named for St Andrew the First and St Basil the Great, respectively, and cultivate a sense of nostalgia for the Tsarist period. Malofeev is also the founder of the TV channel Tsar’grad (a historical Russian name for Constantinople) and the head of the organisation of the same name (previously the Double-​Headed Eagle Society), which claims to be the heir to the Black Hundreds of the early twentieth century and whose monarchical, imperial and Orthodox principles it shares. Finally, a large group of patriotic conservatives gather around the Izborsky Club, launched in 2012 by the writer Aleksandr Prokhanov, an adherent of Russian pro-​Soviet imperialist nationalism. These actors are partly co-​opted by the regime, have access to official media and seek to influence the decision-​making process, with varying degrees of success (Laruelle 2016b). They also contribute to maintaining a “neo-​ conservative consensus” in Russia (Melville 2020). The other ideological pillar of Russian official nationalism is anti-​Westernism. In the early 2000s, Vladimir Putin had a reputation for being a rather pro-​Western leader, especially against the background of the rhetoric of the communist and “patriotic” opposition. Over time, however, the West has come to embody the external enemy in official Russian discourse. In the mid-​2000s, Vladislav Surkov, one of the architects of the Putin regime, theorised an authoritarian vision of democracy that is supposed to reflect Russia’s uniqueness. This “sovereign democracy” is supposedly led by a “nationally minded” elite charged with ensuring the economic independence, military strength and cultural identity of the state in a globalised world (Krastev 2007). Moreover, it is supposed to be the answer to foreign (read: Western) threats to Russia and its regional security, such as “colour revolutions” and, as first attested by Putin’s Munich speech of February 2007, NATO expansion in the post-​Soviet space. Although it gained significant publicity at the time, this notion never really attained official status. After the failure of the United States’ “Russian reset” policy of 2009–​13, the Russian leadership reconsidered its attitude towards the West. Since that time, it has sought to craft a “state-​civilisation” based on non-​Western/​non-​liberal values (Tsygankov 2016). In the process, the Russian regime has relied on a heterogenous discourse of “civilisational nationalism” (Verkhovskii and Pain 2012). Some of its spokespeople, such as Aleksandr Dugin, a key thinker of the Russian radical right who is the father of “neo-​Eurasianism” and a member of both the Izborsky Club and the Tsar’grad Society, consider the West to be Russia’s sworn enemy on geopolitical grounds. Others, such as Natalia Narochnitskaya, a conservative historian who served as director of the Russia-​funded and Paris-​based Institute of Democracy and Cooperation, see it as the embodiment of a materialistic mentality incompatible with Russian spirituality. 441

442

Jules Sergei Fediunin

Western liberalism is depicted as “Russophobic” (one of the key terms of Russian nationalism) and hostile to Russian national interests. Russian authorities borrow from the discourse of “civilisational nationalism” when they reject the Western path of development for Russia and denounce liberal values. However, they seem to oscillate between two other “civilisational grammars” that structure Russian identity debates (Laruelle 2016a). The first grammar depicts Russia as a European country that does not follow the Western model of development (a conservative vision inherited from Slavophilism), while the second conveys a vision of Russia as a non-​European country and a distinct civilisation, whether Slavic, Orthodox or Eurasian. Both narratives are present in the official discourse, and both thrive on anti-​Western sentiments. But the former seems more consensual among Russian elites, as it depicts Russia as the other, “true” Europe committed to its traditional values: Christian morality as opposed to the LGBT rights espoused by liberal “Gayropa” (Riabov and Riabova 2015) and loyalty to the nation as opposed to the European Union project of political integration and “multiculturalism”. This grammar has enabled the Russian leadership to move away from its inferiority complex, which was very pronounced in the early 1990s, to express a genuine superiority complex in the 2010s (Neumann 2016). In this regard, Russian national conservatism is similar to its counterparts in such Central and Eastern European countries as Hungary and Poland. Significantly, however, a decreasing number of Russians would describe their country as European: the share of respondents who said they considered Russia to be a European country declined from 52 percent in 2008 to 29 percent in 2021, while 27 percent of Russians polled in 2021 identified themselves as European, down from 35 percent in 2008 (Levada Center 2021b). In the context of the continuing political confrontation between Russia and Western states, some Russian experts talk about Russia’s “detachment” from Europe (Miller and Lukyanov 2017). These trends, reinforced by the 2022 Russian invasion of Ukraine and Russia’s growing isolation from the West, may lead to a further reconsideration of the Russian state’s position and a move towards a more exceptionalist, non-​European identity. Finally, Russian official nationalism can be understood as a technology of power that serves to legitimise the current regime and to generate mass loyalty to it. Hale (2016) argues that nationalism did not serve as a major source of legitimacy for President Putin and his regime before the 2014 Ukrainian crisis. Indeed, until the opposition protests of 2011–​12, public support for the regime came from three sources all related to Putin’s personal appeal: economic prosperity (Putin as an “effective manager”), domestic order (Putin as a “strong man” who had managed to contain threats ranging from Chechen separatism to terrorism to foreign influence), and the demonstration of Russia’s “great power” status internationally (Hutcheson and Petersson 2016). It was only in 2014 that Putin explicitly played the nationalism card with the aim of renewing his repertoire of legitimacy. In the so-​called Crimean speech of 18 March 2014, Putin reproduced the nationalist claim that the Russian (russkii) people are “the biggest ethnic group in the world to be divided by borders” (Kremlin 2014). In a statement made at the 2014 Valdai Discussion Club meeting, Putin described himself as “the biggest nationalist” in Russia, thus temporarily hijacking the nationalist agenda. More broadly, in the wake of the Euromaidan revolution, Russian state-​dominated media have deployed nationalist and patriotic rhetoric denouncing Ukrainian fascism, “Russophobia” and Western aggression. The annexation of Crimea was applauded by the vast majority of Russians –​the exception being the liberal opposition designated by the authorities as “traitors to the nation” (natsional-​predateli) and “a fifth column” –​and helped bolster Putin’s popularity, which had been eroded by the anti-​regime protests, through the “rally-​’round-​the-​leader” effect (Alexseev and Hale 2016). At the same time, as outlined above, the Russocentric trend in official nation-​building became 442

443

Russian nationalism

more prominent. It is, however, arguable that the motives behind Russia’s decision to annex Crimea were mainly geopolitical, notably in relation to Moscow’s categorical rejection of Ukraine’s possible membership of NATO (Treisman 2018), rather than nationalist. Moreover, the Putin administration has not taken any further steps to embrace mass nationalist mobilisation due to fears that this would threaten the regime. Contrary to the claims made by many Russian nationalists, the Kremlin had long chosen not to recognise the Russia-​backed separatist “republics” of Donetsk and Luhansk before eventually acknowledging them in February 2022. In doing so, the Putin regime escalated the low intensity conflict in Donbas into a war, justified both in terms of the “demilitarisation” of Ukraine and the defence of the Russian-​speaking populations, who were allegedly the victims of discrimination and even genocide in Ukraine. The Russian leadership has once again mobilised the nationalist rhetoric by invoking the pre-​ 1917 triune Russian nation, shared even today by many Russian nationalists, and insisting on the “unhistorical” and “artificial” character of the Ukrainian state and its post-​Soviet borders. Quite paradoxically, Putin’s “special military operation” has the stated aim of cleansing Ukraine of “aggressive nationalists” and “neo-​Nazis”. Within Russia, the Putin regime has constantly sought to maintain control over the nationalist camp by borrowing from its rhetoric and interacting with the various nationalist forces –​sometimes through repression, sometimes through co-​optation. This politics of “managed nationalism” (Horvath 2021) has become a perennial strategy of the Kremlin vis-​à-​ vis non-​state nationalist actors.

Opposition nationalism and the Kremlin’s strategy towards it Russian opposition nationalism can be visualised as a variety of circles that display varying degrees of loyalty to the Putin regime and to the Russian state. This is a dynamic ecosystem that has changed dramatically in the post-​Soviet period. Two major developments have particularly affected the landscape of Russian nationalism since the 1990s. First, Russian nationalists’ focus has shifted away from imperialist stances –​including the Communists’ desire to rebuild the Soviet Union and Zhirinovsky’s expansionist claim to undertake “the last thrust to the South” (the title of his 1993 book) –​towards ethnic issues within the country. This general trend of “ethnification” of Russian nationalism is mainly due to the formation of a new Russian diaspora in the former Soviet republics, the Chechen wars and the flow of labour migrants from Central Asia and the Caucasus into Russia since 2000 (Kolstø 2016). Second, anti-​ authoritarian and intellectually oriented trends have emerged in Russian nationalism. In the aftermath of the USSR’s collapse, Russian nationalists and patriotic forces, from pro-​Soviet imperialists gathered around Prokhanov’s journal Tomorrow (Zavtra) to the LDPR and Aleksandr Barkashov’s Russian National Unity (Russkoe natsional’noe edinstvo), praised one or another form of dictatorship, whether communist, conservative or fascist. In the 2000s, while a significant share of the “left patriots” (or the “red-​brown” alliance, in Russian liberal terminology), who strongly opposed President Yeltsin during the 1993 constitutional crisis and rallied around the KPRF, have been progressively incorporated into Putin’s regime as “systemic opposition”, a new generation of Russian nationalists has adopted pro-​democratic stances and rejected the “old patriotism” centred on the state rather than the (ethnic) nation. The Russian nationalist milieu’s focus on ethnic issues dates back to the early 1990s. In 1993, the Congress of Russian Communities (KRO) was founded with the aim of uniting the Russian diaspora in the states of the former USSR. Chaired by Dmitry Rogozin, this organisation failed to develop into a mass movement. Although the diaspora theme was later reclaimed by the regime, mostly on a rhetorical level, and remains salient for all Russian nationalists, this 443

444

Jules Sergei Fediunin

homeland nationalism has been partly pushed to the sidelines by an ethnic-​core nationalism, which has been fuelled by the rise of xenophobia within Russian society. This is reflected in Rogozin’s own political trajectory: ten years after the founding of the KRO, he would, with the Kremlin’s patronage, launch the Fatherland (Rodina) party, whose ideology was based on a mix of socialism, statism and racism towards non-​Slavic populations. Rogozin himself has been co-​opted by the regime: in 2006, Rodina was merged into a new systemic opposition party, Just Russia (Spravedlivaya Rossiya), and in 2008 Rogozin was appointed Russian ambassador to NATO before becoming Deputy Prime Minister overseeing the Russian defence and space industries. In the 2000s, the rejection of “culturally alien” immigration has become the central theme of opposition nationalists’ ideology. Excluded from official politics, these actors have promoted a nativist reading of the slogan “Russia for Russians” (Rossiya dlya russkikh) and portrayed the dominant ethnicity as being threatened above all by immigration. One proponent of this ideology was the Movement against Illegal Immigration (DPNI), created in 2002 under the leadership of Aleksandr Belov (Potkin). By 2011, when a court banned it for “extremism”, the DPNI had become the most influential movement in Russian opposition nationalism. From the outset, it employed a very firm anti-​immigration discourse inspired by the Western European radical right (Laruelle 2009: 74–​9). It called for the closure of borders with the states of Central Asia and the South Caucasus, considering immigration from these countries a fundamental threat to Russia and the main cause of social ills such as poverty, unemployment and (organised) crime. The DPNI also called for legal and social protection of the dominant ethnic group as one of the “native peoples” (korennye narody) of Russia. Following the prohibition of the DPNI, the ethnonationalists launched the Russians (Russkie) movement, conceived as a federation of various nationalist organisations across the country. Led notably by Belov and Dmitry Demushkin, former leader of the neo-​Nazi-​inspired Slavic Union (Slavyanskii soyuz, shortened to “SS” in Russian), the new organisation was banned in 2015. The denunciation of the “migratory occupation” and “de-​Russification” of Russia has also become central to the so-​called Russian Marches. Until the 2014 Ukrainian crisis these were nationalist rallies organised in Moscow, St Petersburg and other big Russian cities under the black-​yellow-​white flag (the so-​called imperka) on 4 November, National Unity Day, established in 2005 in memory of Moscow’s liberation from foreign troops in 1612. In 2011, Russian ethnonationalists coined the slogan “Stop Feeding the Caucasus” to protest the budget transfers being made to the Muslim republics of the North Caucasus. This media campaign was then supported by Aleksei Navalny. In parallel, new forms of Russian nationalism have emerged that are strenuously opposed to the Putin regime. The example of the national-​democratic movement (or nats-​dem) is emblematic in this respect. This movement has been theorised and promoted by the new generation of nationalist thinkers who cluster, in particular, around the journal Nationalism Issues (Voprosy natsionalizma), founded in 2010. Konstantin Krylov (1967–​2020), who served, among other roles, as the journal’s editor-​in-​chief and chairman of the unregistered National Democratic Party, was commonly considered a leading figure of this strand of Russian nationalism, which is simultaneously democratic and pro-​ European but also xenophobic towards non-​ Slavic migrants. For the first time in the history of Russian nationalism, its proponents rejected the authoritarian state and embraced the values of democratic rule. While denouncing the Soviet project as harmful to Russian identity, culture and demography, the national-​democrats also question the imperial heritage, seeing it as hostile to the wellbeing and vital interests of ethnic Russians (Torbakov 2015). In the place of the current Russian Federation, which they derisively call Erefiya (“RF-​iya”) instead of Russia, and its “phony” nationalism that seeks to hide 444

445

Russian nationalism

the kleptocratic nature of the regime, they propose a russkii nation-​state. In this reformed state the dominant ethnicity would finally enjoy all constitutional rights and freedoms, including the automatic right of all ethnic Russians to Russian citizenship and the right to keep and bear arms. Opposition nationalists do not have access to official media, especially public television. They also suffer from a constant lack of financial resources. Nor have any anti-​Putin nationalist parties been allowed to register. However, these actors are visible on the internet and social networks. The most prominent of these nationalist online resources was Sputnik and Pogrom, a fashionable site created in 2012 by the blogger Yegor Prosvirnin (1986–​2021) with the aim of advancing “intellectual nationalism”. The site was blocked, along with other nationalist resources, in July 2017 by decision of the Federal Service for the Supervision of Communications and Media (Roskomnadzor). However, this decision did not affect the oldest nationalist online platform, the Political News Agency (Agentstvo politicheskikh novostei), which now endorses the official discourse. Both observers and nationalists themselves agree that Russian nationalism as a movement is currently in a deep crisis; in the eyes of some, it is in ruins (Goble 2016; Verkhovsky 2018). The 2014 Ukraine crisis created a schism in this world, radicalising the divisions between Russian nationalists, particularly those who supported the Kremlin and those who sided with the opposition (Horvath 2015). Even among the anti-​Putin nationalists, some took an enthusiastic view of the Euromaidan as a model for Russia of a national and anti-​authoritarian revolution, while others adopted the official narrative, which painted the revolution as a Russophobic and neo-​fascist putsch. Reflecting these divisions, when Russian nationalist activists went to war in the Donbas, some joined the separatists and others the Ukrainian armed forces. Within Russia, the division over Ukraine and support for the Kremlin’s foreign policy led to a drastic drop in the number of participants in the annual Russian Marches. The then-​failure of the Novorossiya project in eastern Ukraine, as embodied by separatist warlord Igor Strelkov, disillusioned many Russian nationalists. But the crisis of Russian nationalism cannot be laid entirely at the door of the Ukraine crisis. Indeed, it was already taking shape in the early 2010s. After the double murder of lawyer Stanislav Markelov and journalist Anastasia Baburova in January 2009 by members of the underground Militant Organisation of Russian Nationalists (BORN) and the nationalist rally on Manezhnaya Square in Moscow in December 2010, the Russian regime hardened its attitude towards opposition and/​or radical nationalists. In the wake of the Ukraine crisis, the Kremlin’s tolerance for any political contention, especially nationalist, has further diminished (Laine 2017). The regime thus launched a wave of repression targeting nationalist activists in order to weaken this once-​growing movement. The best-​known figures of radical Russian nationalism –​including Demushkin, Belov and Maxim Martsinkevich, a neo-​Nazi and anti-​ LGBT activist nicknamed “The Spiker” (Tesak) –​have at various points found themselves behind bars. Belov and Demushkin were released in 2018 and 2019, respectively, but they are no longer engaged in nationalist activities. Martsinkevich was found dead in his prison cell in Chelyabinsk in September 2020. Others have preferred to leave Russia –​these include Belov’s brother Vladimir Basmanov (Potkin), leader of the Nation and Freedom Committee, and Daniil Konstantinov, founder of the Russian-​European Movement that brings together Russian political émigrés living in Europe (Yudina 2020). The state’s repressive policy has succeeded in forcing many nationalists back into the shadows and suspending their militant activities. Having carried out a series of crackdowns on opposition nationalist movements, the Putin regime chose to link up with, and rely on, a series of para-​state organisations that carry out the nationalist agenda. This strategy was first tested in the 2000s, when the presidential administration 445

446

Jules Sergei Fediunin

supported the creation of several youth political organisations with a “moderately (ethno) nationalist” discourse, such as Ours (Nashi), The Young Guard (Molodaya gvardiya) and Young Russia (Rossiya molodaya), which were supposed to compete with such movements as the DPNI or Eduard Limonov’s National-​Bolshevik Party. In 2007, United Russia launched an ideological discussion called “The Russian Project” (Russkii proekt) with the goal of strengthening the regime’s control over the nationalist agenda and taking the initiative from the radicals, who were depicted as “extremists” and “fascists”. In 2008–​9, the Kremlin even manipulated Russian Form/​Image (Russkii obraz), a neo-​fascist organisation that collaborated with skinhead gangs and whose para-​military wing was the BORN (Horvath 2021). This approach was replicated in the 2010s, but now the Russian authorities rely exclusively on nationalist organisations with “patriotic”, or statist, overtones (Laine 2017). These include the National Liberation Movement (NOD), founded by United Russia Duma deputy Evgeny Fedorov under the slogan “Fatherland, Freedom, Putin” and which proclaims its primary goal to be the liberation of the Russian state from the “colonial domination of the United States”, and the Rodina party, re-​ established in 2012 under the presidency of Duma deputy Aleksei Zhuravlev. In addition to this, there are a number of actors with diverse ideological orientations, including neo-​Eurasianists, conservatives or “patriotic” bikers from Aleksandr Zaldostanov’s Night Wolves club, who come together under the common banner of “Anti-​Maidan”, an informal movement with an anti-​ Western and pro-​Putin slant. On the top of these are radical groupings such as SERB/​YuVRB (South East Radical Block/​Yugo-​vostochnyi radikal’nyi blok), created in 2014 and probably linked to Russian law enforcement, which have participated, alongside NOD activists and Cossack militias, in the disruption of anti-​Putin opposition rallies. All these organisations, along with the Izborsky Club members, enthusiastically supported Putin’s decision to wage war on Ukraine at the end of February 2022 and actively participated in its justification within Russia. Other para-​state actors, including the spokespeople of four “official confessions”, explicitly approved the “military operation”. In the light of these events, it seems probable that nationalist ideas, in their authoritarian and imperialist forms, will shape more intensively the Russian state’s decision-​making to the point of becoming a part of official ideology.

Conclusion This chapter has argued that nationalism remains a central force in Russian politics and society. Since the 1990s, expressions of Russian nationalism have both multiplied and come to focus more heavily on ethnic issues. These expressions are, however, increasingly controlled by the authoritarian state, which seeks to use nationalism as an instrument of power. The Russian authorities thus aim to channel nationalist sentiments by combining them with conservative and anti-​Western ideological content. This trend reached its peak in the early 2020s, as attested by the Russian invasion of Ukraine. While borrowing from the discourse of opposition nationalism and co-​opting nationalist opinion-​makers, the Kremlin has succeeded in disqualifying nationalists, let alone pro-​democracy ones, as a political movement, preventing them from posing what could be a dangerous challenge to Putin’s rule. However, the implementation of official nationalism poses risks to the status quo in the long term. On the one hand, the promotion of a Russocentric nation-​building project under the guise of “multiethnic and multifaith” unity could lead to the rise of minority nationalisms in the event that the central government is weakened or regime change occurs. On the other hand, majority nationalism, although organisationally weak, has developed a relatively coherent ideology comparable to that of European national-​populists and capable of mobilising the 446

447

Russian nationalism

population. Long-​term factors such as immigration and interregional imbalances may support the revival of nationalism as a form of contentious politics in Russia.

References Alexseev, M. and H. Hale (2016), “Rallying Round the Leader More than the Flag: Changes in Russian Nationalist Public Opinion 2013–​ 14”, in P. Kolstø and H. Blakkisrud (eds.), The New Russian Nationalism: Imperialism, Ethnicity and Authoritarianism, 2000–​15 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press): 192–​220. Arnold, R. (2016), Russian Nationalism and Ethnic Violence: Symbolic Violence, Lynching, Pogrom and Massacre (London: Routledge). Blackburn, M. (2021), “Mainstream Russian Nationalism and the ‘State-​Civilization’ Identity: Perspectives from Below”, Nationalities Papers 49, 1: 89–​107. Blakkisrud, H. (2016), “Blurring the Boundary between Civic and Ethnic: The Kremlin’s New Approach to National Identity under Putin’s Third Term”, in P. Kolstø and H. Blakkisrud (eds.), The New Russian Nationalism: Imperialism, Ethnicity and Authoritarianism, 2000–​15 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press): 249–​74. Bowring, B. (2018), “Minority Language Rights in the Russian Federation: The End of a Long Tradition?”, in G. Hogan-​Brun and B. O’Rourke (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Minority Languages and Communities (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan): 73–​99. Breslauer, G.W. and C. Dale (1997), “Boris Yel’tsin and the Invention of a Russian Nation-​State”, Post-​ Soviet Affairs 13, 4: 303–​32. Degirmen Dysart, B. (2021), “The Politics of Russian ‘Diaspora’: From Compatriots to a Russian World”, Turkish Journal of Diaspora Studies 1, 1: 49–​63. Goble, P. (2016), “Russian National Identity and the Ukrainian Crisis”, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies 49, 1: 37–​43. Goode, J.P. (2018), “Everyday Patriotism and Ethnicity in Today’s Russia”, in P. Kolstø and H. Blakkisrud (eds.), Russia Before and After Crimea: Nationalism and Identity, 2010–​2017 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press): 258–​81. Goode, J.P. (2019), “Russia’s Ministry of Ambivalence: The Failure of Civic Nation-​Building in post-​ Soviet Russia”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 35, 2: 140–​60. Hale, H. (2016), “How Nationalism and Machine Politics Mix in Russia”, in P. Kolstø and H. Blakkisrud (eds.), The New Russian Nationalism: Imperialism, Ethnicity and Authoritarianism, 2000–​15 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press): 221–​48. Horvath, R. (2015), “The Euromaidan and the Crisis of Russian Nationalism”, Nationalities Papers 43, 6: 819–​39. Horvath, R. (2021), Putin’s Fascists. Russkii Obraz and the Politics of Managed Nationalism in Russia (London: Routledge). Hosking, G. (1997), Russia: People and Empire, 1552–​1917 (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press). Hutcheson, D.S. and B. Petersson (2016), “Shortcut to Legitimacy: Popularity in Putin’s Russia”, Europe-​ Asia Studies 68, 7: 1107–​26. Klimenko, E. (2021), “Building the Nation, Legitimizing the State: Russia –​My History and Memory of the Russian Revolutions in Contemporary Russia”, Nationalities Papers 49, 1: 72–​88. Kolstø, P. (2016), “The Ethnification of Russian Nationalism”, in P. Kolstø and H. Blakkisrud (eds.), The New Russian Nationalism: Imperialism, Ethnicity and Authoritarianism, 2000–​15 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press): 18–​45. Kolstø, P. (2019), “Is Imperialist Nationalism an Oxymoron?”, Nations and Nationalism 25, 1: 18–​44. Krastev, I. (2007), “Russia as the ‘Other Europe’ ”, Russia in Global Affairs 5, 4: 66–​78. Kremlin (2014), Address by President of the Russian Federation, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​ 20603. Laine, V. (2017), “Contemporary Russian Nationalisms: The State, Nationalist Movements, and the Shared Space in between”, Nationalities Papers 45, 2: 222–​37. Laruelle, M. (2009), In the Name of the Nation: Nationalism and Politics in Contemporary Russia (New York: Palgrave Macmillan). Laruelle, M. (2016a), “Russia as an Anti-​Liberal European Civilisation”, in P. Kolstø and H. Blakkisrud (eds.), The New Russian Nationalism: Imperialism, Ethnicity and Authoritarianism, 2000–​15 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press): 275–​97.

447

448

Jules Sergei Fediunin Laruelle, M. (2016b), “The Izborsky Club, or the New Conservative Avant‑Garde in Russia”, The Russian Review 75, 4: 626–​44. Laruelle, M. (2017), “Is Nationalism a Force for Change in Russia?”, Daedalus 146, 2: 89–​100. Laruelle, M. (2018), Russian Nationalism: Imaginaries, Doctrines, and Political Battlefields (New York: Routledge). Laryš, M. (2019), “Violent Attacks against Migrants and Minorities in the Russian Federation”, in T. Bjørgo and M. Mareš (eds.), Vigilantism against Migrants and Minorities (London: Routledge): 69–​85. Levada Center (2018), “Monitoring ksenofobnykh nastroenyi, iyul’ 2018 goda”, www.lev​ada.ru/​2018/​ 08/​27/​mon​itor​ing-​kseno​fobs​kih-​nas​troe​nij/​. Levada Center (2020), “Doverie institutam”, www.lev​ada.ru/​2020/​09/​21/​dove​r ie-​ins​titu​tam/​. Levada Center (2021a), “Politicheskoe uchastie i otnosheniya s gosudarstvom v Rossii”, www.lev​ada.ru/​ 2021/​03/​16/​politi​ches​koe-​uchas​tie-​v-​otno​shen​iya-​s-​gosud​arst​vom-​v-​ros​sii/​. Levada Center (2021b), “Rossiya i Evropa”, www.lev​ada.ru/​2021/​03/​18/​ross​iya-​i-​evr​opa-​2/​. Melville, A. (2020), “A Neoconservative Consensus in Russia? Main Components, Factors of Stability, Potential of Erosion”, Russian Social Science Review 61, 3-​4: 220–​35. Miller, A. and F. Lukyanov (2017), “Detachment Instead of Confrontation: Post-​European Russia in Search of Self-​Sufficiency”, The EuroAtlantic Union Review 4, 1-​2: 53–​92. Neumann, I. (2016), “Russia’s Europe, 1991–​2016: Inferiority to Superiority”, International Affairs 92, 6: 1381–​99. Pain, E. (2018), “Contemporary Russian Nationalism in the Historical Struggle between ‘Official Nationality’ and ‘Popular Sovereignty’”, in P. Kolstø and H. Blakkisrud (eds.), Russia Before and After Crimea: Nationalism and Identity, 2010–​2017 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press): 23–​49. Pain, E. and S. Prostakov (2014), “Mnogolikii russkii natsionalizm. Ideino-​politicheskie raznovidnosti (2010–​2014)”, Polis. Politicheskie issledovaniya 4: 96–​113. Prina, F. (2016), National Minorities in Putin’s Russia: Diversity and Assimilation (London: Routledge). Putin, V. (1999), “Rossiya na rubezhe tysyacheletyi”, Nezavisimaya gazeta, 30 December. Riabov, O. and T. Riabova (2015), “Gayropa and the Bear: How the Russian Gender Discourse Shapes Contemporary Russians’ Attitudes to Europe”, in S. Konopacki (ed.), Europe in the Time of Crisis (Krakow: Jagiellonian University Press): 189–​205. Rutland, P. (2010), “The Presence of Absence: Ethnicity Policy in Russia”, in J. Newton and W. Tompson (eds.), Institutions, Ideas and Leadership in Russian Politics (New York: Palgrave Macmillan): 116–​36. Shevel, O. (2011), “Russian Nation-​Building from Yel’tsin to Medvedev: Ethnic, Civic or Purposefully Ambiguous?”, Europe-​Asia Studies 63, 2: 179–​202. Smith, A.D. (1991), National Identity (London: Penguin Books). State Duma (2020), “Novyi tekst Konstitutsii RF s popravkami 2020”, http://​duma.gov.ru/​news/​48953/​. Suslov, M. (2018), “‘Russian World’ Concept: Post-​Soviet Geopolitical Ideology and the Logic of ‘Spheres of Influence’”, Geopolitics 23, 2: 330–​53. Tishkov, V. (2013), Rossiiskii narod. Istoriya i smysl natsional’nogo samosoznaniya (Moscow: Nauka). Torbakov, I. (2015), “A Parting of Ways? The Kremlin Leadership and Russia’s New-​ Generation Nationalist Thinkers”, Demokratizatsiya: The Journal of Post-​Soviet Democratization 23, 4: 427–​57. Treisman, D. (2018), “Crimea: Anatomy of a Decision”, in D. Treisman (ed.), The New Autocracy: Information, Politics, and Policy in Putin’s Russia (Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press): 277–​98. Tsygankov, A. (2016), “Crafting the State-​Civilization. Vladimir Putin’s Turn to Distinct Values”, Problems of Post-​Communism 63, 3: 146–​58. Verkhovskii, A. and E. Pain (2012), “Civilizational Nationalism”, Russian Politics & Law 50, 5: 52–​86. Verkhovsky, A. (2018), “The Russian Nationalist Movement at Low Ebb”, in P. Kolstø and H. Blakkisrud (eds.), Russia Before and After Crimea: Nationalism and Identity, 2010–​2017 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press): 142–​62. Yudina, N. (2020), “The New Exile Strategy of Russian Nationalists”, www.illib​eral​ism.org/​the-​new-​ exile-​strat​egy-​of-​russ​ian-​natio​nali​sts/​.

448

449

39 ETHNIC RELATIONS Helge Blakkisrud

In ethno-​cultural terms, the Russian Federation is relatively homogeneous –​and incredibly diverse. With around 80 percent of the population currently identifying as ethnic Russians, Russia is more ethnically homogeneous than many purported “nation states”. At the same time, more than a hundred ethnic groups have their historical homelands within the borders of today’s Russian Federation. The Russian authorities take great pride in this fact. The Russian Constitution asserts that “the bearer of sovereignty and the only source of power in the Russian Federation shall be its multi-​ethnic people” (mnogonatsional’nyy narod) (Konstitutsiya 2020), and references to the Russian nation (rossiiskii narod, or “Russian” in the civic sense) as a unique amalgamation of various ethnic groups permeate legislative acts, policy documents and public statements alike. What constitutes a separate ethnic group is of course a matter of definition, and the actual number of official ethnic minorities has fluctuated over time, in line with shifting political trends. In the 2010 census –​the latest census to be released so far, pending the results of the 2021 census –​the authorities operate with 193 ethnic groups and subgroups besides Russian (Prina 2016: 1). Most of these groups are quite small –​only 17 count more than half a million members (see Table 39.1). Nonetheless, according to the same census, as many as 30 million Russian citizens self-​identified as not being ethnic Russian: as speaking distinct languages, practising different religions and/​or maintaining their own sets of traditions. How have the authorities addressed the challenges posed by Russia’s immense ethno-​cultural diversity? And how have the minorities responded? In order to assess continuity and change in institutional approaches, policy solutions and majority–​minority relations since 1991, we will start by making a quick detour via the Soviet approach to “the national question”.

The imperial and Soviet legacy The ethnic history of Russia is that of a land-​based empire that for centuries expanded from its Muscovy core, subjugating more and more territories and peoples on its way. On the eve of the 1917 Revolution, Vladimir Lenin referred to the multi-​ethnic Russian Empire as the “prison house of the peoples”. Once in power, however, the Bolsheviks did not set those “prisoners” free. Instead, they insisted on an ambitious project of compensatory nation-​building in which the state actively promoted hitherto oppressed and marginalised minorities. Here, the Soviet DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-43

449

450

Helge Blakkisrud Table 39.1  Ethnic composition: largest ethnic minorities in Russia according to census data (all groups counting more than 500,000 in the 2010 census)

Tatars Ukrainians Bashkirs Chuvash Chechens Armenians Avars Mordvins Kazakhs Azerbaijanis Dargins Udmurts Mari Ossetians Belarusians Kabardins Kumyks

1989

2002

2010

5,522,096 4,362,872 1,345,273 1,773,645 898,999 532,390 544,016 1,072,939 635,865 335,889 353,348 714,883 643,698 402,275 1,206,222 386,055 277,163

5,554,601 2,942,961 1,673,389 1,637,094 1,360,253 1,132,033 814,473 843,350 653,962 621,840 510,156 636,906 604,298 514,875 807,970 519,958 422,409

5,310,649 1,927,888 1,584,554 1,435,872 1,431,360 1,182,388 912,090 744,237 647,732 603,070 589,386 552,299 547,605 528,515 521,443 516,826 503,060

authorities followed a two-​pronged approach, institutionalising ethnicity politically at the territorial level and ethno-​culturally at the individual level (Brubaker 1996). First, they pioneered asymmetric ethno-​federalism as a way for the various ethnic groups that found themselves “locked in” in the new state to exercise their right to self-​determination: contingent on their size and “level of development”, all ethnic minorities were to enjoy some sort of territorial autonomy in the form of an ethnic homeland within the existing state borders (Slezkine 1994). Within these homelands, the titular group would enjoy a special privileged status (Roeder 1991). Thus, the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic (RSFSR), itself a constituent republic of the Soviet Union, ended up with more than two dozen lower-​level ethnic autonomies within its borders. Second, the Soviet authorities made “a spectacular effort to make sense of the USSR’s mosaic of peoples” (Hirsch 1997: 255), defining and delineating ethnic groups. In the early 1920s, the new Soviet state undertook a process of frantic ethnic engineering, all in the name of speeding up the process towards achieving socialism, when ethnic divides were supposed to fade away. Yuri Slezkine has described the early Soviet years as “the most extravagant celebration of ethnic diversity that any state had ever financed” (Slezkine 1994: 414). Numerous ethnic groups were equipped, for the first time, with written languages and a standardised “national” culture. In parallel, new “ethnic” cadre were trained to provide teachers and cultural workers as well as to staff the bureaucracy and positions of power (the korenizatsiya policy, or indigenisation). The active promotion of such cadre prompted Terry Martin to refer to the Soviet Union as the “affirmative action empire” (Martin 2001). This minority policy was not without setbacks. Whereas in the early days, Soviet authorities had celebrated ethnic diversity at the expense of traditional “Great Russian chauvinism”, in the 1930s reaction set in. The new ethnic elites that had been promoted during the previous decade were now accused of bourgeois nationalism and were purged; and entire minorities were subjected to forced resettlement. Moreover, the ethno-​cultural content of the various 450

451

Ethnic relations

nation-​building projects was now re-​defined. In a process of standardisation and sovietisation, ethnic idiosyncrasies were replaced by a policy based on ethno-​cultural expressions being “national in form, socialist in content”. And when, in the 1930s, it became obligatory to record one’s “nationality” (natsional’nost’ –​the Soviet/​Russian term for ethnicity) in the internal passport (Simonsen 1999), people were no longer able to choose their ethnic affiliation based on self-​identification but found themselves locked into the ethnicity of their parents. From the late 1950s onwards, ethnic minorities also started to experience more pressure to assimilate (Aktürk 2010), especially in the field of education. At the same time, the official claim that the Soviet authorities had successfully resolved the “national question” –​that interethnic relations were now guided by the “friendship of the peoples” doctrine –​put a lid on any debate on ethnicity-​related grievances. Matters on the ground, however, were very different. When in the mid-​1980s Mikhail Gorbachev introduced glasnost to stimulate more open discussion of political and social issues, this unleashed a veritable tsunami of demands for redressing past injustices. In what came to be known as the “parade of sovereignties”, not only the titular nations of the constituent union republics but also the ethnic minorities within the RSFSR voiced their demands for greater political and cultural rights. When the breakup of the Soviet Union in 1991 transformed the RSFSR into an independent state –​the Russian Federation –​this took place in the midst of a wave of vociferous ethnic mobilisation (Hale 2004). To stabilise the newly acquired statehood, the new rulers in the Kremlin sought to accommodate some of the demands: for the titular groups, through a revision of the ethno-​territorial autonomy; for the “non-​titulars”, through the development of national-​cultural autonomy; and for the “small-​numbered peoples”, through the extension of indigenous rights.

Ethno-​territorial autonomy The most pressing issue for the Kremlin was to address demands put forward by the leaders of the ethnic autonomies. The immediate backdrop here was the bitter power struggle between Gorbachev and the chair of the RSFSR Supreme Soviet, later RSFSR President, Boris Yeltsin, during the final years of Soviet rule. In order to enlist the support of the ethnic autonomies in his quest for the devolution of powers from the Soviet superstructure, Yeltsin in 1990 famously invited the autonomies to “take as much sovereignty as you can swallow”. Once in power in a now-​independent Russia, Yeltsin was not in a position to renege on these promises. Hence, both the 1992 Federation Treaty and the 1993 Constitution enshrine ethno-​territorial autonomy as the main organisational principle for the new Russian state. Importantly, the Federation Treaty paved the way for a real federalisation, filling the previously empty shell of Soviet ethno-​federalism with more tangible powers and autonomy. The redefining of centre–​region relations represented a historic opportunity for the ethnic minorities to pursue greater self-​determination or even independent statehood. Indeed, some observers discussed whether Russia might soon follow the Soviet Union and disintegrate along ethnic lines (Khakimov 1993). However, perspectives differ on how “genuine” or broad the ethnic mobilisation was. Whereas some see the process of the devolution of power after 1991 as the de jure realisation of ethnic autonomy, others have discussed this process in terms of a regional power-​g rab in which the local elite used the temporary weakening of the federal centre to consolidate their own position (Treisman 1997; Gorenburg 2001; Lankina 2004; Giuliano 2011). There was also considerable internal variation in the level of mobilisation. In some republics, the titular group monopolised political power; in others, the autonomy was “hijacked” by local Russians. Some republics demanded independence; others were more 451

452

Helge Blakkisrud

concerned about control over their economic assets and natural resources –​and some remained largely docile and unmobilised. Genuine mass mobilisation behind ethno-​national demands involved only a handful of republics, primarily Chechnya, Tatarstan, Tyva and Sakha (Giuliano and Gorenburg 2012: 178). This variation has been explained by factors such as economic wealth (Treisman 1997; Hale 2000), ethnically framed economic grievances (Giuliano 2011) and institutional factors (Gorenburg 2001, 2003). Regardless, those ethnic minorities who already had been granted territorial autonomy had a great advantage because their existing institutional set-​up could readily be politicised. For those without such institutions –​either because they, in the Soviet period, had had their right to autonomy satisfied in territorial arrangements elsewhere in the Soviet Union (such as Belarusians and Armenians), because they had been too few to be granted autonomy (like Evens and Shors), or because they were seen as representatives of the “titular” nation of an independent state (as with Finns and Pontic Greeks) –​mobilising their co-​ethnics proved far more difficult. In the end, only two entities, Tatarstan and Chechnya, pursued the goal of full independence, refusing to sign the Federation Treaty or take part in the 1993 constitutional referendum. In order to enlist the Tatars, Moscow in 1994 agreed to give the republic far-​reaching concessions. Moscow’s bilateral treaty with the Tatars paved the way for a series of similar arrangements with other ethnic republics –​and later also with “regular” Russian regions (Kahn 2002) –​making the already multi-​layered ethno-​federal structure even more asymmetric and fragmented. Whereas the bilateral treaty was enough to appease the Tatars, the new nationalist leaders in Chechnya were not ready to back down. When negotiations failed, Yeltsin in December 1994 sent in the military to “re-​establish constitutional order”. The result was two gruesome wars: the first in 1994–​6, a war that the Chechens “won” in the sense that the ceasefire paved the way for Chechen de facto statehood; and then again in 1999–​2000, when Moscow defeated the ethno-​separatists (which by then were reframing their struggle in more religious-​civilisational terms). Since the early 2000s, Chechnya has once again been formally fully reintegrated into the Russian federal structure. In practice, however, Moscow has allowed a Chechenisation of the republic, with an unparalleled level of internal self-​rule –​and the development of a highly authoritarian and repressive regime under the leadership of Ramzan Kadyrov (Russell 2008). Chechnya represents an exception. In Putin’s Russia, the ethno-​federal pluralism of the 1990s has since come to be associated with instability and inefficient management. After the turn of the millennium, the overall trend has been for the achievements made in the 1990s to be rolled back and largely nullified. Ever since Putin’s ascent to power, the Kremlin has systematically chipped away at ethno-​political autonomy. Ethnic and religious parties were prohibited in 2001. In 2004 Moscow abolished the direct elections of regional leaders. Although elections were reinstated in 2012, all the heavyweights among the champions of ethno-​federal self-​ determination, such as Tatarstan’s Mintimer Shaimiev and Bashkortostan’s Murtaza Rakhimov, had by then been replaced by Kremlin appointees (Blakkisrud 2015). Moreover, despite the reinstatement of elections, the Presidential Administration has maintained tight control over the selection of leaders. With the Kremlin’s “power vertical” now extending into the ethnic republics, their current leaders are ill-​positioned to front ethnic demands. The ultimate expression of the recentralisation drive came with the 2005–​8 merger process, in which some lower-​ level autonomies were dissolved and incorporated into their Russian-​dominated neighbours (see Table 39.2), depriving the titular ethnic minorities of the final vestiges of ethno-​territorial self-​determination. Given the ethno-​federal principle underlying Russian federalism, de-federalisation has been equated with “de-​ethnification” (Prina 2016: 107–​16). The Kremlin has shifted from seeking 452

453

Ethnic relations Table 39.2  Ethnic autonomies within the Russian Federation As per the 1993 Constitution

Abolished (year)

Added (year) Crimea (2014)

Republics

Adygea Altai Bashkortostan Buryatia Chechnya Chuvashia Dagestan Ingushetia Kabardino-​Balkaria Kalmykia Karachaevo-​Cherkessia Karelia Khakassia Komi Mari El Mordovia North Ossetia Sakha Tatarstan Tyva Udmurtia

Lower-​level autonomies

Jewish Autonomous Oblast Aga Buryat Autonomous Okrug Chukotka Autonomous Okrug Evenk Autonomous Okrug Khanty-​Mansi Autonomous Okrug Komi-​Permyak Autonomous Okrug Koryak Autonomous Okrug Nenets Autonomous Okrug Taimyr Autonomous Okrug Ust-​Orda Buryat Autonomous Okrug Yamal-​Nenets Autonomous Okrug

Aga Buryat Autonomous Okrug (2008) Evenk Autonomous Okrug (2007) Komi-​Permyak Autonomous Okrug (2005) Koryak autonomous okrug (2007) Taimyr Autonomous Okrug (2007) Ust-​Orda Buryat Autonomous Okrug (2008)

to accommodate differences to emphasising standardisation and a one-​size-​fits-​all approach to the regions’ relations with the federal centre. The Tatars offered some resistance, fighting to keep their bilateral treaty, but to no avail: as the last surviving treaty-​based element of federalism, this was abrogated in 2017. However, the Tatars have, at least thus far, managed to cling on to a final symbol of their constitutionally entrenched statehood: the right to refer to the head of the republic as “president” (all other republics have yielded to the Kremlin’s argument that there should be only one president in Russia and have rebranded their leaders as “heads of republics”). On the whole, though, the ethno-​federal structure once again resembles an empty shell: a federal structure without federalism, and with ethno-​political autonomy largely reduced to formalities. 453

454

Helge Blakkisrud

Cultural autonomy In parallel with granting autonomy via territorial-​administrative status, the Yeltsin administration also institutionalised ethno-​cultural autonomy –​autonomy based on individual rights linked to ethnic self-​identification rather than on where one is residing. According to then-​ Deputy Prime Minister Sergei Shakhrai, this would provide ethnic minorities with recognition, without the risk of separatism (Goode 2019: 148). At the time of the break-​up of the Soviet Union, non-​Russian citizens in Russia numbered some 27 million. However, only about one-​third of these would actually benefit from the ethno-​federal set-​up: the rest were either “non-​titulars” (9.4 million) or belonged to a titular nationality but were living outside their autonomy (7.9 million) and thus left “without any form of protection for their ethno-​cultural identity and interests” (Codagnone and Filippov 2000: 264). In the 1990s, the Russian authorities took several initiatives to cater for the interests of these two latter groups. In 1994, in his first annual address to the Federal Assembly, Yeltsin called for the introduction of national-​cultural autonomy (Yeltsin 1994), and, two years later, the State Duma adopted a Law on National-​Cultural Autonomy. This law detaches the right to ethnic autonomy from its traditional territorial base (and the interlinked limitation on the number of ethnic groups entitled to enjoy self-​determination) and opens the possibility for all ethnic minorities that do not already possess territorial autonomy to self-​organise and engage in the “development and promotion of minority cultures and languages, as well as educational projects and the provision of facilities for minorities” (Osipov 2013: 11). Implementation of these rights is based on a bottom-​up principle. First, ethnic minorities establish national-​cultural autonomy organisations (NCAs) at the local level. Next, these may come together in regional organisations at the federal subject level, and, in turn, these may unite in national organisations at the federal level. The number of such officially registered NCAs has multiplied –​by 2022, there were 26 federal, 284 regional and 945 local NCAs (Ministerstvo yustitsii 2022). Despite the proliferation of local initiatives and the political backing of several ministers for nationalities (Rutland 2010: 129), it is generally agreed that the results of the NCA experiment have been disappointing when it comes to protecting and developing minority cultures (Osipov 2010, 2013; Prina 2016: ch. 8). Even those sympathetic to the idea of national-​cultural autonomy admit that the NCAs have had minimal impact on federal ethnicity policy (Codagnone and Filippov 2000: 283). According to Federica Prina (2016: 189–​90), there is no “real” autonomy: despite the guarantees provided by legislation, “in practice NCAs have no authority to make decisions on matters linked to minority concerns such as teaching of minority languages in schools”. Instead of engaging in protecting and promoting cultural rights, NCAs have ended up primarily engaging in ethnic culture in the form of folklore (Osipov 2010): organising festivals and other displays of ethnic culture. As a result, the NCAs are frequently dismissed as “a tool to pull ethnicity-​related issues out of the domain of politics” (Osipov 2013: 17). The importance of the NCAs has also been undermined by the proliferation of structures with overlapping profiles and roles. For instance, all federal NCAs are members of the Consultative Council on National-​Cultural Autonomy under the Russian government (currently under the aegis of the Federal Agency for Nationalities Affairs). In parallel, however, there is also the Assembly of the Peoples of Russia, which, according to the 1996 “Concept of State Nationality Policy”, is to serve as a consultative body to the federal executive on ethno-​cultural questions (Codagnone and Filippov 2000: 278). The two structures largely duplicate each other as interlocutors for the federal authorities in the sphere of ethno-​cultural 454

455

Ethnic relations

autonomy –​although, for obvious reasons, membership in the Consultative Council is restricted to the 26 federal NCAs, whereas the Assembly purports to represent all ethnic groups, including the majority population. Both structures also seem closer to the powers-​ that-​be than to the rank-​and-​file members of the ethnic communities: the Consultative Council is chaired by the head of the Federal Agency for Nationalities Affairs, whereas the Assembly was headed for almost 20 years by Ramazan Abdulatipov, who initially doubled as the Minister of Nationalities Policy. The NCAs’ lack of political clout, as well as the reduced capability of the leaders of the ethnic autonomies to stand up for the interests of the titular groups, is evident in developments regarding the use of minority languages in education –​perhaps the most important measure to protect ethnic identity. According to the Russian Constitution, the ethnic republics have the right to introduce the titular language as a “state language” that can be used alongside Russian in state institutions and local self-​government; further, the Russian state guarantees the right of all citizens to “preserve their native language and to create conditions for its study and development” (Konstitutsiya 2020: Art. 68). During the heyday of korenizatsiya, RSFSR authorities offered primary and lower secondary education in no less than 65 languages. From the 1930s onwards, however, there ensued a slow but steady decline, down to 43 languages in the late Soviet period (Prina 2016: 125). Moreover, while some ethnic groups, such as the Tatars and Bashkirs, continued to provide full primary and lower secondary education in the titular language, most other groups saw a drop in the numbers of years the minority language was offered as the language of instruction (Gorenburg 2001: 75). After 1991, in connection with the general trend towards decentralisation and diversification, a revival took place, in particular as regards the languages of the titular groups. However, this proved short-​lived: Since the turn of the millennium, the emphasis has again been on Russian as the medium for interethnic communication and unity. Prina notes “an overall tendency towards a reduction in minority-​language education” (Prina 2016: 132). In their 2016 report to the Council of Europe, the Russian authorities noted that 24 languages were currently used as languages of instruction, with an additional 40 studied as school subjects (Council of Europe 2016: 57). Furthermore, although a 2004 landmark ruling in the Constitutional Court confirmed Tatarstan’s right to require that Tatar and Russian be studied “in equal measure” within the republic (Cashaback 2008), more recent legislation has chipped away at the right of the republics to determine the content of the curriculum (Jankiewicz et al 2020). For example, in 2018, an amendment to the Law on Education removed teaching of the titular languages as a compulsory subject in the republics. Two years later, in the 2020 constitutional reform, “the establishment of a unified legal framework for … the education system” was added to the list of exclusive federal competencies (Konstitutsiya 2020: Art. 71). Thus, the ethnic republics are now severely circumscribed in their possibilities for using the school curricula as a tool for promoting nation-​ building objectives, and the NCAs continue to lack the political or financial resources to push the minority-​language agenda. In the longer run, this will have consequences for the possibilities for many minorities to preserve their linguistic heritage. In the 2010 census, 99.5 percent of the population declared they spoke Russian, but another 169 other languages were also recorded as being used as languages of communication (Prina 2016: 1). That same year, UNESCO listed 131 languages in the Russian Federation as under threat, with 23 of these “critically endangered” and another 14 already considered extinct (UNESCO 2010). Even the larger minority groups show a (modest) decline in the share of persons who declare “their” language to be their first language (see Table 39.3) –​the sole case of an increase in titular-​language use here is the Armenians, but 455

456

Helge Blakkisrud Table 39.3  Language use among the biggest ethnic minorities in Russia (titular language vs. Russian as first language in censuses)* 1989

Tatars Ukrainians Bashkirs Chuvash Chechens Armenians Avars Mordvins Kazakhs Azerbaijanis

2010

Titular language (%)

Russian (%)

Titular language (%)

Russian (%)

4,724,864 (85.6%) 1,868,867 (42.8%) 979,923 (72.8%) 1,375,215 (77.5%) 888,147 (98.8%) 361,035 (67.9%) 531,746 (97.7%) 740,048 (69.0%) 559,075 (87.9%) 282,713 (84.2%)

782,881 (14.2%) 2,487,210 (57.0%) 135,135 (10.0%) 394,827 (22.3%) 9,502 (1.1%) 169,448 (31.8%) 8,617 (1.6%) 330,779 (30.8%) 73,043 (11.5%) 49,120 (14.6%)

4,202,096 (79.2%) 466,548 (24.2%) 1,133,339 (71.6%) 1,017,519 (70.9%) 1,412,415 (98.8%) 813,058 (69.0%) 842,991 (92.7%) 439,334 (59.1%) 466,232 (72.2%) 502,166 (83.6%

1,086,380 (20.5%) 1,455,577 (75.6%) 216,066 (13.7%) 415,108 (28.9%) 15,309 (1.0%) 362,133 (30.7%) 11,686 (1.3%) 261,685 (35.2%) 176,365 (27.3%) 91,880 (15.3%)

*No data for 2002, as this question was not included in that year’s census.

this can be explained by labour migration, which caused the number of ethnic Armenians in Russia to double between 1989 and 2010.

Indigenous rights Finally, in addition to extending territorial and cultural autonomy, Moscow has also granted several ethnic groups special protection by defining them as indigenous. These are primarily minority groups settled in Russia’s Arctic Zone and Far East. In order to qualify for indigenousness, the Russian authorities have introduced a uniquely Russian cap on how many members these groups may include (up to 50,000): they are officially referred to as the “indigenous small-​numbered peoples” (korennye malochislennye narody). As of today, 47 ethnic groups enjoy this status, but several of these seem destined to disappear in the near future: ten groups counted less than 500 members in the 2010 census, and the Kereks, of which there were only four left at the time, may already be extinct. Article 69 of the Russian Constitution recognises the special rights of the indigenous small-​numbered peoples “according to the universally recognised principles and norms of international law and international treaties and agreements” (Konstitutsiya 2020: Art. 69). In 1999, these rights were elaborated in legislation as well as backed up by a federal targeted programme for economic and social development (Øverland and Blakkisrud 2005). Importantly, the Russian authorities have pledged to support the indigenous peoples’ traditional way of life (such as reindeer husbandry, subsistence hunting, fishing, and gathering), and, in 2001, the 456

457

Ethnic relations

State Duma adopted legislation that opened up the possibility of establishing “territories for traditional nature-​use” (territorii traditsionnogo prirodopol’zovaniya). Although hailed as a major breakthrough for the indigenous peoples, it was never followed up by the necessary regulatory mechanisms at the federal level. As a result, the regions themselves have been left to enact –​or ignore –​the right to establish such territories (Fondahl et al 2021: 111). Similarly, initiatives aimed at raising the standard of living and quality of life among indigenous small-​numbered peoples have had limited impact. These groups still score far below the national average on most social indicators, from level of education to life expectancy.

Interethnic conflict From the early 2000s, as Putin gradually tightened his grip on power, the conflict level between Moscow and the ethnic autonomies quickly lessened –​but what about relations between the various ethnic groups living in the Federation? According to Emil Pain, whereas ethnic conflict had been predominantly vertically oriented in the 1990s (the federal centre vs ethnic autonomies), it now became mainly horizontally oriented (interethnic) (Pain 2013a). Given the potentially toxic combination of a protracted economic crisis, disintegrating state structures and the patchwork of ethnic minorities that had been politically mobilised during perestroika, there were in the 1990s surprisingly few examples of open interethnic conflict. The most violent case was undoubtedly that of the clashes between Ossetian and Ingush paramilitary forces during the brief 1992 war over North Ossetia’s Prigorodny region, a war that resulted in several hundred casualties. Also, some of the autonomies housing two or more titular groups, such as Karachaevo-​Cherkessia, experienced a sharper ethnification of politics and interethnic tension. In most cases, however, frustrations were directed at the central authorities. All this changed after the turn of the millennium. Putin’s recentralisation efforts were paralleled by an unprecedented economic boom that quickly led to an acute labour shortage. To offset this, Russia attracted millions of migrant workers from other former Soviet republics, first and foremost from Central Asia. While filling an important need in the economy, this new and highly visible minority also fuelled ethnic tensions and a growing “migrantophobia” (Alexseev 2010; Pain 2013a: 157–​8; Mukomel’ 2014; Blakkisrud and Kolstø 2018). Tellingly, the leading Russian nationalist organisation in the early 2000s was the Movement Against Illegal Immigration (Laruelle 2010). In the popular mind, the recent migrants were associated with “stealing” jobs from locals, disrespecting local traditions and causing crime (Blakkisrud and Kolstø 2017). Importantly, however, the label “migrant” was not reserved for Central Asian guest workers only; it also included domestic migrants hailing from the North Caucasus (Pain 2013b), underlining that not all members of Russia’s “multi-​ethnic people” were seen as equally integrated into the Russian civic community. Starting from the 2006 Kondopoga pogrom in Karelia, where ethnic Chechens were attacked by an angry local mob, there have been numerous examples of racially motivated clashes between ethnic Russians and representatives of various ethnic minority communities. Best known is probably the 2010 Moscow Manezhnaya riot, on the very doorstep of the Kremlin, but clashes were reported in cities across Russia (for an overview, see Arnold and Markowitz 2018: 1567). Violent protests peaked with the October 2013 riots in Biryulevo, Moscow (Foxall 2014; Arnold and Markowitz 2018: Figure 3). After the Russian annexation of Crimea in the following year, the focus shifted. By combining a selective co-​optation of the Russian ethno-​nationalist agenda with a crackdown on their organisations, the Russian authorities succeeded in regaining the initiative (Kolstø 2016), recasting the “collective West” as enemy number one. This helped close 457

458

Helge Blakkisrud

the ranks at home. A parallel tightening of the legislation, whereby mobilisation around a minority rights agenda could now easily be defined as inciting extremism or ethnic and religious hatred, also contributed to a reduction in the open manifestations of interethnic tensions (Yusupova 2022). For example, there has been a noticeable drop in the number of reported ethnic hate crimes (Arnold and Markowitz 2018). However, the current, superficially revamped “friendship of the peoples” approach fails to address the underlying problems of lingering interethnic grievances.

Assimilationist pressures With the possibilities for advocating for ethnic minority rights being narrowed down, both collective identity and individual affiliation have become more exposed to assimilationist pressure from the majority culture. The Kremlin’s current, more proactive stance on national identity issues marks a break with the 1990s –​indeed, with Putin’s two first presidential terms. Summing up Russian nationality policy during the first two decades after independence, Peter Rutland notes “the presence of absence” (Rutland 2010): there was not much investment in ethnic pluralism beyond formal declarations and rhetoric –​but also little coordinated assimilationist pull. In the 1990s, the Kremlin pushed a civic rossiyanin project intended to unite the ethnic minorities and the majority population under a shared, state-​oriented identity. Promotion was rather half-​hearted, though, as illustrated by the fate of the 1996 Concept of State Nationalities Policy, which never became operationalised in legislation or concrete policy programmes (Rutland 2010; Zamyatin 2016). The fundamental failure of the rossiyanin project is epitomised in the inability to agree on a new “national idea” –​that is, what the content of this new national community should be (Kolstø and Blakkisrud 2003). The one policy change that Moscow did push through during this decade, with potential wide-​ranging, long-​term implications for ethnic minority identification, was the decision to remove information about ethnicity from the internal passport (Simonsen 1999; Aktürk 2010). The Russian authorities argued that ethnic identity should be a personal choice rather than an objective, ascribed characteristic, but several ethnic republics objected vehemently: they saw this “passport nationality” as an important barrier against potential creeping assimilation. In the end, all they achieved was a respite: the ethnic republics were allowed to add an insert with information about ethnic affiliation, but in 2010 it was decided to scrap the passports altogether and replace them with new, uniform ID cards. Also Putin’s first two terms as president (and the “interim” Medvedev presidency) were characterised by a large degree of non-​interference, what Aleksandr Verkhovskii has referred to as “demonstrative pragmatism” (Verkhovskii 2014). In his “Millennium Manifesto”, Putin emphasised that a unifying “national idea” had to develop gradually through an organic process (Putin 1999). In a nod to ethnic diversity, the Kremlin continued to define the Russian people (rossiiskii narod) as a “multi-​ethnic union of peoples” (Putin 2007, 2013) –​but, in practical terms, the emphasis was clearly on advancing state-​centred civic patriotism (grazhdanskii patriotizm) (Sperling 2010). In 2002, Putin instructed the government to develop a new nationalities policy, but nothing came of this (Rutland 2010: 128). It was not until Putin returned to the presidency in 2012 that the first dedicated policy on national identity and interethnic relations was formulated. During the election campaign, Putin published a programmatic article on “the national question” (Putin 2012); once back in the Kremlin, he set up a Presidential Council on Interethnic Relations tasked, inter alia, with drafting the Strategy for the State Nationalities Policy for the Period up to 2025, adopted in December 2012 (revised in 2018). In the Strategy, the Russian nation is described in terms of a civic rossiiskaya natsiya, but, as of the 2018 revision, it is clearly stated 458

459

Ethnic relations

that this civic identity is based on an ethno-​cultural Russian “dominant” (russkaya kul’turnaya dominanta)” (Ukaz 2018). The purportedly “civic” national identity thus falls back on ethnic Russian attributes to provide emotional and cultural depth (Blakkisrud 2016). The Russian authorities are trying to pursue two goals simultaneously: [B]‌oth the integrationist goals of promoting civic identity and thus pursuing the strategy of minimizing differences, as well as the accommodationist goal of maintaining ethno-​cultural diversity. Laine and Zamyatin 2021: 5 Oxana Shevel (2011) has described the Kremlin’s approach as “purposefully ambivalent”. However, where these two goals come into conflict with each other, the accommodationist goal tends to draw the shorter straw. Observers have criticised the Kremlin’s minority policies as “fragmented and feeble” and, henceforth, the minorities as “ill-​equipped to withstand ethno-​ cultural and linguistic assimilationist pressure” (Prina 2016: i). The pull of the Russian cultural “dominant” is becoming increasingly ubiquitous.

Conclusion “Is there a place for ethnic minorities in an authoritarian state that frames its nation-​building around the cultural traits of the core ethnicity?” Guzel Yusupova asks rhetorically (2018: 628). Already at the turn of the millennium, Cristiano Codagnone and Vasilii Filippov noted “the ‘de-​ethnization’ of politics and de-​politization of ethnicity” (2000: 283). If anything, this trend has been increasing in strength over the past two decades. Elise Giuliano and Dmitry Gorenburg conclude that ethnicity no longer plays an important role in Russian politics. In fact, they point to the “unexpectedly underwhelming role of ethnicity in Russian politics” (Giuliano and Gorenburg 2012: 175). Yusupova disagrees, arguing that, although the current regime does not allow political expression, there is an undercurrent of ethno-​cultural mobilisation and silent resistance (Yusupova 2018). It is probably indicative, however, that academic interest in ethnic minorities and the revival of their national identity, which experienced a boom in the early post-​Soviet years, has decreased markedly in recent years. Undoubtedly, today’s authoritarian state leaves few possibilities for ethnic entrepreneurs to pursue a political agenda. There is “resistance to ‘excessive’ diversity” (Prina 2016: 82) and a strong drive towards the standardisation and cultural homogenisation of Russian citizens (Kolstø and Blakkisrud 2016), a drive described as a “multi-​speed identity integration project” around an ethno-​culturally russkii centre of gravity (Blakkisrud 2022). “There is a need to recognize the right to voluntary assimilation”, Valerii Tishkov, a key actor in formulating post-​Soviet identity politics, has argued (Tishkov 2012: 14). Here he positions himself against the ethnic straitjacket of Soviet primordialism: people should have the right to choose and to redefine themselves. However, in the absence of proactive support for the protection and development of minority identities, and the parallel strong emphasis on unity and cultural homogenisation, Russia’s unique multi-​ethnic heritage stands at risk.

References Aktürk, Ş. (2010), “Passport Identification and Nation-​Building in Post-​Soviet Russia”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 26, 4: 314–​41. Alexseev, M. (2010), “Majority and Minority Xenophobia in Russia: The Importance of Being Titulars”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 26, 2: 89–​120.

459

460

Helge Blakkisrud Arnold, A. and L.P. Markowitz (2018), “The Evolution of Violence within Far-​Right Mobilization: Evidence from Russia”, Ethnic and Racial Studies 41, 9: 1558–​73. Blakkisrud, H. (2015), “Governing the Governors: Legitimacy vs. Control in the Reform of the Russian Regional Executive”, East European Politics 31, 1: 104–​21. Blakkisrud, H. (2016), “Blurring the Boundary Between Civic and Ethnic: The Kremlin’s New Approach to National Identity under Putin’s Third Term”, in P. Kolstø and H. Blakkisrud (eds.), The New Russian Nationalism: Imperialism, Ethnicity and Authoritarianism, 2000–​15 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press): 249–​74. Blakkisrud, H. (2022), “Russkii as the New Rossiiskii? Nation-​Building in Russia after 1991”, Nationalities Papers. Blakkisrud, H. and P. Kolstø (2017), “Stavropol as ‘Russia’s Kosovo’? Nationalist Mobilization and Public Response in a Russian Region”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 33, 5: 370–​88. Blakkisrud, H. and P. Kolstø (2018), “‘Restore Moscow to Muscovites’: Othering ‘the Migrants’ in the 2013 Moscow Mayoral Elections”, in P. Kolstø and H. Blakkisrud (eds.), Russia Before and After Crimea: Nationalism and Identity, 2010–​2017 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press): 236–​57. Brubaker, R. (1996), Nationalism Reframed: Nationhood and the National Question in the New Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Cashaback, D. (2008), “Assessing Asymmetrical Federal Design in the Russian Federation: A Case Study of Language Policy in Tatarstan”, Europe–​Asia Studies 60, 2: 249–​75. Codagnone, C. and V. Filippov (2000), “Equity, Exit and National Identity in a Multinational Federation: The ‘Multicultural Constitutional Patriotism’ Project in Russia”, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 26, 2: 263–​88. Council of Europe (2016), Fourth Report submitted by the Russian Federation pursuant to Article 25, paragraph 2 of the Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minorities, https://​r m.coe.int/​168​06fd​935. Fondahl, G., N. Parlato, V. Filippova and A. Savvinova (2021), “The Difference Place Makes: Regional Legislative Approaches to Territories of Traditional Nature Use in the Russian North”, Arctic Review on Law and Politics 12: 108–​33. Foxall, A. (2014), Ethnic Relations in Post-​Soviet Russia: Russians and Non-​Russians in the North Caucasus (London: Routledge). Giuliano, E. (2011), Constructing Grievance: Ethnic Nationalism in Russia’s Republics (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Giuliano, E. and D. Gorenburg (2012), “The Unexpectedly Underwhelming Role of Ethnicity in Russian Politics, 1991–​2011”, Demokratizatsiya 20, 2: 175–​88. Goode, J.P. (2019), “Russia’s Ministry of Ambivalence: The Failure of Civic Nation-​Building in Post-​ Soviet Russia”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 35, 2: 140–​60. Gorenburg, D. (2001), “Nationalism for the Masses: Popular Support for Nationalism in Russia’s Ethnic Republics”, Europe–​Asia Studies 53, 1: 73–​104. Gorenburg, D. (2003), Minority Ethnic Mobilization in the Russian Federation (New York: Cambridge University Press). Hale, H.E. (2000), “The Parade of Sovereignties: Testing Theories of Secession in the Soviet Setting”, British Journal of Political Science 30, 1: 31–​56. Hale, H. (2004), “Divided We Stand: Institutional Sources of Ethnofederal State Survival and Collapse”, World Politics 56, 2: 165–93. Hirsch, F. (1997), “The Soviet Union as a Work-​in-​Progress: Ethnographers and the Category Nationality in the 1926, 1937, and 1939 Censuses”, Slavic Review 56, 2: 251–​78. Jankiewicz, S., N. Knyaginina and F. Prina (2020), “Linguistic Rights and Education in the Republics of the Russian Federation: Towards Unity through Uniformity”, Review of Central and East European Law 45, 1: 59–​91. Kahn, J. (2002), Federalism, Democratization, and the Rule of Law in Russia (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Khakimov, R. (1993), Sumerki imperii: k voprosu o natsii i gosudarstve (Kazan: Tatarskoe knizhnoe izdatel’stvo). Kolstø, P. (2016), “Crimea vs. Donbas: How Putin Won Russian Nationalist Support –​and Lost It Again”, Slavic Review 75, 3: 702–​25. Kolstø, P. and H. Blakkisrud (eds.) (2003), Nation-​Building and Common Values in Russia (Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield). Kolstø, P. and H. Blakkisrud (eds.) (2016), The New Russian Nationalism: Imperialism, Ethnicity and Authoritarianism, 2000–​15 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press).

460

461

Ethnic relations Konstitutsiya Rossiiskoi Federatsii (2020), www.con​sult​ant.ru/​docum​ent/​con​s_​do​c_​LA​W_​28​399/​. Laine, V. and K. Zamyatin (2021), “Russia’s Nationalities Policy before and after the 2020 Constitutional Amendments: Is the ‘Ethnic Turn’ Continuing?”, FIIA Working Paper 125 (Helsinki: FIIA). Government and Ethnic Mobilization in Russia Lankina, T. (2004), Governing the Locals: Local Self-​ (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield). Laruelle, M. (2010), “The Ideological Shift on the Russian Radical Right: From Demonizing the West to Fear of Migrants”, Problems of Post-​Communism 57, 6: 19–​31. Martin, T. (2001), The Affirmative Action Empire: Nations and Nationalism in the Soviet Union, 1923–​1939 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). kul’turnykh avtonomii, http://​unro.minj​ust.ru/​ Ministerstvo yustitsii (2022), Informatsiya o natsional’no-​ NKAs.aspx. Mukomel’, V. (ed.) (2014), Migranty, migrantofobii i migratsionnaya politika (Moscow: Academia). Osipov, A. (2010), “Ethnicity, Discrimination, and Extremism in Russia”, Problems of Post-​Communism 57, 2: 50–​60. Osipov, A. (2013), “Non-​Territorial Autonomy during and after Communism: In the Wrong or Right Place?”, Journal on Ethnopolitics and Minority Issues in Europe 12, 1: 7–​26. Øverland, I. and H. Blakkisrud (2005), “The Evolution of Federal Indigenous Policy in the Post-​Soviet North”, in H. Blakkisrud and G. Hønneland (eds.), Tackling Space: Federal Politics and the Russian North (Lanham: University Press of America): 163–​92. Pain, E. (2013a), “The Ethno-​Political Pendulum: The Dynamics of the Relationship Between Ethnic Minorities and Majorities in Post-​Soviet Russia”, in O. Protsyk and B. Harzl (eds.), Managing Ethnic Diversity in Russia (London: Routledge): 153–​72. Pain, E. (2013b), “From Protests to Pogroms”, openDemocracy, 27 August, www.opende​mocr​acy.net/​od-​ rus​sia/​emil-​pain/​from-​prote​sts-​to-​pogr​oms. Prina, F. (2016), National Minorities in Putin’s Russia: Diversity and Assimilation (London: Routledge). Putin, V. (1999), “Rossiya na rubezhe tysyacheletii”, Nezavisimaya gazeta, 30 December, www.ng.ru/​polit​ ics/​1999-​12-​30/​4_​mi​llen​ium.html. Putin, V. (2007), “Poslanie Federal’nomu Sobraniyu Rossiiskoi Federatsii”, Kremlin.ru, 26 April, http://​ krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​tran​scri​pts/​24203. Putin, V. (2012), “Rossiya: natsional’nyi vopros”, Nezavisimaya gazeta, 23 January, www.ng.ru/​polit​ics/​ 2012-​ 01-​ 23/​1_​national.html. Putin, V. (2013), “Zasedanie mezhdunarodnogo diskussionogo kluba ‘Valdai’”, Kremlin.ru, 19 September, http://​krem​lin.ru/​tran​scri​pts/​19243. Roeder, P. (1991), “Soviet Federalism and Ethnic Mobilization”, World Politics 43, 2: 233–​56. Russell, J. (2008), “Ramzan Kadyrov: The Indigenous Key to Success in Putin’s Chechenization Strategy?”, Nationalities Papers 36, 4: 659–​87. Rutland, P. (2010), “The Presence of Absence: Ethnicity Policy in Russia”, in J. Newton and W. Tompson (eds.), Institutions, Ideas and Leadership in Russian Politics (London: Palgrave Macmillan): 116–​36. Shevel, O. (2011), “Russian Nation-​Building from Yel’tsin to Medvedev: Ethnic, Civic or Purposefully Ambiguous?”, Europe–​Asia Studies 63, 2: 179–​202. Simonsen, S.G. (1999), “Inheriting the Soviet Policy Toolbox: Russia’s Dilemma over Ascriptive Nationality”, Europe–​Asia Studies 51, 6: 1069–​87. Slezkine, Y. (1994), “The USSR as a Communal Apartment, or How a Socialist State Promoted Ethnic Particularism”, Slavic Review 53, 2: 414–​52. Sperling, V. (2010), “Making the Public Patriotic: Militarism and Anti-​militarism in Russia”, in M. Laruelle (ed.), Russian Nationalism and the National Reassertion in Russia (London: Routledge): 218–​71. Tishkov, V. (2013), “Reformirovanie etnicheskoi politiki v Rossii”, in V. Tishkov and V. Stepanov (eds.), Ezhegodnyi doklad Seti etnologicheskogo monitoringa i rannego preduprezhdeniya konfliktov (Moscow: RAS Institute of Ethnology and Anthropology): 13–​18. Treisman, D. (1997), “Russia’s ‘Ethnic Revival’: The Separatist Activism of Regional Leaders in a Postcommunist Order”, World Politics 49, 2: 212–​49. Ukaz Prezidenta Rossiiskoi Federatsii (2018), “O vnesenii izmenenii v Strategiyu gosudarstvennoi natsional’noi politiki Rossiiskoi Federatsii na period do 2025 goda”, http://​sta​tic.krem​lin.ru/​media/​ eve​nts/​files/​ru/​zb8ne​3ZCB​HvIw​ztJf​gKM3​BHPo​7AOV​G3j.pdf. UNESCO (2010) UNESCO Atlas of the World’s Languages in Danger, www.une​sco.org/​langua​ges-​atlas/​ index.php.

461

462

Helge Blakkisrud Verkhovskii, A. (2014), “Etnopolitika federal’noi vlasti i aktivizatsiya russkogo natsionalizma”, Pro et Contra 1: 19–​32. Yeltsin, B. (1994), “Poslanie Prezidenta Rossiiskoi Federatsii Federal’nomu Sobraniyu: ob ukreplenii rossiiskogo gosudarstva”, https://​yelt​sin.ru/​arch​ive/​paperw​ork/​12590/​. Yusupova, G. (2018), “Cultural Nationalism and Everyday Resistance in an Illiberal Nationalising State: Ethnic Minority Nationalism in Russia”, Nations and Nationalism 24, 3: 624–​47. Yusupova, G. (2022), “How Does the Politics of Fear in Russia Work? The Case of Social Mobilisation in Support for Minority Languages”, Europe-Asia Studies 74, 4: 620–41. Zamyatin, K. (2016), “Russian Political Regime Change and Strategies of Diversity Management: From a Multinational Federation towards a Nation-​State”, Journal on Ethnopolitics and Minority Issues in Europe 15, 1: 19–​49.

462

463

40 RELIGION Thomas Bremer

Religion has experienced significant changes within the last few decades in Russia: suppressed and widely ignored in the Soviet Union, religion and especially Orthodox Christianity has become one of the most respected phenomena in post-​Soviet Russia. In the years under President Putin, Orthodoxy has been in a close relationship with the state. Nowadays, religion has a positive connotation that it has lost in most other modern industrial countries. And it is very much present in the public sphere. This appears at a glance at almost any street scene in a Russian city or at the skyline in most towns, which have changed primarily because of the construction of new churches since 1991. Religion is a complex phenomenon that affects the individual’s most intimate feelings and convictions, and that also has a societal aspect: in most religions, the adherents of a belief join groups or communities that also tend to act publicly, and to affect the society in which they live. Religion shapes societies and states, and, in most countries, there is an interaction between the structures of the state and religious organisations. This interaction changed dramatically in Russia after the end of the Soviet Union. This chapter will consider the main religious communities in Russia, their state, and their influence. It will concentrate, then, on the largest and most important of them, which is the Russian Orthodox Church (ROC). The relationship of the ROC with the state and society will also be examined.

The situation of religious communities The Soviet Union was a state with a communist and materialistic ideology that included an atheistic attitude towards religion: belief was regarded as an issue that would disappear by itself when people got more and more educated and emancipated from “superstition.” As “servants of the cult” (the Soviet term for church ministers) had cooperated with the Tsarist regime, they were regarded as enemies of the working class. In the years before World War II, religion was persecuted in a cruel manner. However, the antireligious campaigns of the 1930s did not result in what was hoped for by the authorities. Surveys showed that religiosity among Soviet citizens was still much higher than expected. After the German attack on the Soviet Union, the leading personality of the ROC, Metropolitan Sergii, called on the faithful to stand up against the Nazis and to defend their DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-44

463

464

Thomas Bremer

homeland, and he did so days before Stalin made a public statement. The Soviet government understood that they could not fight the ROC in a time when they needed every means of support. After the war, the attitude of the state towards the ROC changed. It was allowed to function, although in a very narrow framework. They could start to train priests in seminaries (candidates had to be confirmed by the state authorities), to print some books and a journal (under strong censorship), and to maintain some contacts with other churches abroad. No new churches could be built, no kind of religious education was allowed (except in private), and all major decisions had to be checked with the respective state authorities before being published or realised. All this changed with perestroika in the late 1980s. Religion was no longer regarded as hostile to the system, and individual rights were recognised, including the right of exercising one’s religion freely. A period of rapid change and of growth of the public appearance of religion began. Many people became interested in the religious traditions of the pre-​Soviet era, many new churches were built, church buildings that had been expropriated and had served other purposes were given back to the ROC, and the church could engage in printing and in training clergy and laypeople with virtually no limits, so that an almost forgotten aspect of Russian culture and lifestyle came back to life again. Priests in cassocks were seen in public and greeted respectfully, services in churches were overcrowded, and religion gained a positive connotation (Knox 2004). There are different reasons for this development. Religion was an alternative to the ruling ideology in the Soviet Union. People who were looking for another kind of understanding of the world than the one prescribed by the regime frequently came to religion. Among dissidents, from the 1960s on there was a growing interest in Orthodoxy, even though the official ROC did not support any kind of dissidence in the Soviet era. In addition, after the collapse of the communist regime, there was an ideological vacuum. Many people tried to fill it with religious faith, as they perceived religion as a positive relic of the period before the revolution and as something that existed normally in Western countries. In this context, for many people religion served as a tool to create or to underline their identity (Clarke and Reid 2007). Orthodoxy was and is the traditional religion of ethnic Russians, and it was a means of making a clear distinction from Catholic Poles, Muslim Tatars, or Jews. This function of religion, the confirmation of a national identity, also began to operate. It is very difficult to give exact data about religious communities in today’s Russia. However, the ROC is without doubt the largest of them. The Church does not have evidence on the number of its members,1 but it regularly publishes the number of parishes. As of January 2019, the ROC had 38,649 parishes.2 It is instructive to compare this number with the 40,000 parishes before World War I (territory of the Russian Empire) and the 6,742 parishes in 1986 (Soviet territory) so as to show how dramatically the situation of the Church changed in the twentieth century. In several surveys, roughly between 70 and 80 percent of the population declared themselves as “Orthodox.” The ROC is present everywhere in the country. Representatives of the Church appear on TV and in other mass media, the Patriarch as the leader of the ROC is one of the best known and most popular personalities in Russia, and the Church intrudes into almost all structures of state and society (see below). The second religious community by size is Islam. It is confessed almost exclusively by members of nations within Russia that have traditionally belonged to the Muslim world, such as Tatars, Chechens, and others. The question of membership arises here in the same sense. Almost all of them will declare themselves as “Muslim,” but it is unclear how many actually practice Islam. In most cases, it means the traditional belonging to an Islamic culture. 464

465

Religion

Therefore, the data of 5.3 million Tatars, 1.6 million Bashkirs, and 1.4 million Chechens can only approximately show the dimensions of Islam in Russia. In this data, which derive from the 2010 census,3 non-​believers or people who converted to another religion are included, but citizens of other predominantly Muslim countries (such as Kazakhstan, Azerbaijan, and others) who live in Russia are not included. In surveys, the percentage of people who define themselves as Muslim is around 7 percent. All other religious groups are of minor size and influence, and, like Orthodoxy and Islam, are linked to ethnic groups. The Roman Catholic Church has several hundred thousand members. Most of them are of Polish, Lithuanian, or German origin. The Catholic Church tried intensively to rediscover the religious roots of such people, many of whom live throughout the country, especially in places of banishment in the Far East where their ancestors had been sent in Soviet times. This led to tensions with the ROC, which regarded the missionary activities of the Catholic Church as “proselytism” and reacted harshly when the Holy See restructured the Catholic dioceses in Russia in 2002 (Bremer 2003). Protestants in Russia can be divided into three groups. Lutherans of German origin belong to the “Evangelical Lutheran Church in Russia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan and Central Asia.” Those with a Finnish or Estonian background belong to the “Evangelical Lutheran Church of Ingria.” There are also Baptists, Mennonites, and other free churches. They are partly organised in umbrella associations, but, owing to the tradition of dissidence in Soviet times, not all of them belong to those associations. The number of Protestants in Russia is also relatively small (several hundred thousand). In addition to Christianity and to Islam, we find as small minorities Jews and Buddhists. After the emigration of hundreds of thousands to Israel and to Western countries in the last decades, Jews number around 0.1 percent of the population. Only a small percentage of them are religious, so here too the data have to be treated cautiously. Jews have more than 160 communities in Russia.4 The data problem occurs also with the Buddhists, who live predominantly in Siberia and who traditionally exercise a Tibetan variant of Buddhism. Today, there are perhaps 700,000 Buddhists in Russia. Among them are Kalmyks, Buryats, and members of other ethnicities, but also some Russians who converted to Buddhism, especially in large cities. In 1997, a law on religion was adopted in Russia (“On freedom of conscience and religious associations,” see Basil 2005; Codevilla 2008). It replaced the more liberal law from 1990. In the 1997 law, four religions are described as “traditional,” and they enjoy certain privileges. These are “Christianity” (i.e. Orthodoxy), Islam, Judaism, and Buddhism. The government exhibits a positive attitude towards them, a more reluctant one towards other Christian denominations, and frequently a hostile one towards “sects”; these are religious groups, mostly from Western countries, which are not regarded as traditional, although nowadays their membership is mostly of Russian ethnic background. In the 2010s, the authorities intervened most systematically of all against Jehovah’s Witnesses. The organisation was banned in 2017 by the Russian Supreme Court, and several of its members were sentenced and imprisoned. These persecutions are based on the law against extremism, not on the law on religion. When there are no reliable data on members of religious communities, the best way to view religion in Russia is via surveys on religiosity. Several such surveys have been made, with different aims and different results (Turunen 2005; Daniel 2007; Kaariyainen and Furman 2007). Some of them focus exclusively on Orthodox believers, and frequently questions of a “Western” type are used, such as the frequency of attendance at services, or whether a person owns and reads the Bible. However, there are also some surveys that try to detect the difference between a self-​description as religious (or as “Orthodox,” etc.) and a religious belief or practice. Such research often brings interesting results (Krindatch 2006). On the one hand, 465

466

Thomas Bremer

there are people who declare themselves as Orthodox but who do not believe in some of the essential doctrines of Christianity (like the existence of God) and who do not practice anything one would usually expect from a Christian (such as pray, attend Church, observe ecclesiastical rules). For them, obviously, the confession of their Orthodoxy serves another purpose, probably confirmation of their ethnic belonging. Religion is here an identity marker. As long as Orthodoxy is regarded as the default religion for Russians, confessing Orthodoxy means also confessing Russianness. But there is, of course, also a high percentage of Russian Christians who belong to the ROC because of their inner conviction, who share the doctrines of their Church, and who act mostly according to the prescriptions of Orthodoxy. As in all denominations, not all of the members of the ROC succeed in fulfilling everything the Church requires. Many people who believe in God and who declare themselves as Christians would also positively answer a question on the need for fasting –​but when asked whether they keep fast during the Lenten season or on Wednesdays and Fridays, as usual in Orthodoxy, it turns out that only a quite small percentage actually fast. A similar divergence can be found in questions on prayer (“it is good to pray regularly, but I do not pray”), church attendance, and others (from a 2009 survey reported in Bremer and Wasmuth 2009). Religious belonging in contemporary Russia has a lot to do with identity and perhaps less with faith and conviction. This is valid for individuals. However, it is interesting to see how the ROC affects state and society.

Church and state in Russia In the three decades after the end of Soviet Union, the ROC has been trying to develop its own attitude towards the Russian state, and the state itself had its own interest in finding an appropriate attitude to religion in general, and to the ROC in particular. In the Constitution of the Russian Federation there is a clear distinction between the two spheres. Article 14 is very short and very clear: “1. The Russian Federation is a secular [“svetskoye,” literally “worldly,” “earthly”] state. No religion may be established as a state or obligatory one. 2. Religious associations shall be separated from the State and shall be equal before the law” (Constitution 1993). Any preferential treatment of a religious conviction or of a community is thus constitutionally barred. However, it can be clearly seen in reality that the ROC plays an exclusive role in Russia. How can this be explained? Russian Orthodoxy derives from Byzantium. Medieval Rus’ took over from the Byzantine religion not only the faith and church structure but also a concrete model of the state-​church relationship (as far as the word “state” can be applied to medieval empires). The traditional expression for this kind of relationship is symphonia: state and church were seen as a symphony, like two notes forming the same melody. The entities were not regarded as separate but rather as combined, so as to work for the common good of the state (which could not be imagined as anything other than Orthodox). Russia inherited this model, and such a close relationship can also be seen in Russian history. State control over the church after the Petrine reforms, and even the brutal persecution of the ROC after 1917, can be interpreted in terms of the lack of distance between state and church. In the time of perestroika, and in the years of independent Russia, this model of symphonia served as a pattern for how to construct the relationship between these two institutions. Representatives of the church frequently understood their role as the strengthening and stabilising of the state, as providing moral foundations for the new Russia. This attitude grew even stronger in the years to come. Initially, doubts could be found among leading clergymen 466

467

Religion

as to whether the Russian Federation was desirable at all;5 in the last years, however, a clear acknowledgement of Russia and the conviction that the ROC has the task of contributing spiritually to the wellbeing of the state has become dominant. This view is also reflected in the state’s attitude towards the ROC: it treats the latter as a provider of the moral foundations that form the basis for the Russian state and society. How does this look in concrete terms? In every state with a significant Christian tradition, there are issues of common interest. The most prominent of these are pastoral care in the army, in hospitals, and in prisons, religious education in schools, and the role of religious communities in public institutions such as the media or in state events. When analysing these relations in Russia, we can see a mutual movement of church and state towards each other. Both sides were obviously interested in the ROC having a certain influence in these areas. Thus, in 1995 the ROC had already established a department for the pastoral care of soldiers and prisoners. In 2009, then-​President Medvedev decided to establish military chaplains. They serve as civil servants in the capacity of “Assistant to the Commander,” in a similar way as the political officers reintroduced in 2018 (the “Military-​Political Administration” within the Ministry of Defence). When one reads statements about military chaplaincy, the priests always stress the significance of their presence for the pastoral care of the soldiers (most of whom are conscripts), but also for their patriotic upbringing and their fighting spirit. And on the other side, military and state officials underline the significance of the religious and spiritual tradition of Orthodoxy for the Russian Army. A tight cooperation between both sides can be observed. Churches were built in many barracks, and, in the summer of 2020, a monumental Army Church was consecrated by Patriarch Kirill in the “Patriot” Park in Kubinka, near Moscow. Another important field is religious education in public schools (Loya 2006). According to the Constitution, any such instruction should be impossible. However, in the first year after the end of the Soviet Union, priests were frequently invited into schools to tell students about Orthodoxy. This was not done systematically but depended on personal relations on the local level. Officially, no religious education in schools could take place. After some years, a course called “Foundations of Orthodox Culture” was developed with the active participation of the ROC. This was not meant to be a confessional instruction (i.e. catechetical lessons by Orthodox teachers to Orthodox children) but rather an introduction to Russian culture, which was perceived as mainly Christian. Therefore, this course was intended for all students, regardless of their religious convictions, and was meant to be taught by teachers trained in the university discipline of “culturology.” However, the textbooks used (and permitted by the state authorities) had a very strong emphasis on the doctrines of the Orthodox Church. There was almost no critical attitude towards myths and legends, and pupils without faith or of a Muslim, Catholic, or Protestant background could hardly identify themselves with what was foreseen to be taught in these lessons. By 1992, “Foundations of Orthodox Culture” had already been installed as a compulsory class in the primary courses of all universities. In a certain way it replaced the classes on Marxism-​Leninism or on “Dialectical materialism” that had been obligatory in the Soviet period. Frequently, the former professors of materialism and atheism became specialists on culturology. The argument of the ROC (also used by representatives of the state) was that Russian culture was strongly marked by Orthodoxy, and that every state had the right to teach children their cultural background. However, the Church did not succeed in pushing the “Foundations” course as a compulsory discipline. It was taught in many schools, predominantly in the Western areas of Russia, as an elective course. Attendance seems to have been lower than expected by church authorities. 467

468

Thomas Bremer

President Medvedev announced in 2009, after an initiative launched by the heads of several religious communities in Russia, that, from 2010 on, there should be regular and confessional religious education in Russian schools. After an experimental phase of three years and in 18 regions, the subject “Foundations of Religious Cultures and World Ethics” was introduced in 2012. It is taught in all grammar schools in the fourth and fifth grades. The students or their parents can choose one of six modules: Foundations of Orthodox, Islamic, Jewish, or Buddhist Culture (the four religions mentioned in the 1997 law as “traditional”), respectively, or “Foundations of Religious Cultures” or “Foundations of Secular Ethics.” It is stressed that only secular teachers give the lessons, and, in the programme, the accent on patriotic and moral values is evident. In the 2017–​18 school year, the proportion of students in Russia in these courses were as follows: 40.6 percent –​secular ethics; 38.5 percent –​Orthodox culture; 16.5 percent –​World religions; 3.9 percent –​Islamic culture. Buddhist and Jewish culture were chosen by 0.3 percent and 0.06 percent of all students (ORKSE n.d.). The percentages differ in the regions of Russia, and it seems that not every module is available everywhere, so that the freedom of choice was limited. In 2015, theology was acknowledged as a university subject, which means that one could obtain an academic degree in it. This led to a debate about the scholarly character of theology. Members of the Academy of Sciences questioned whether theology could be regarded as an academic discipline. However, the debate ended in favour of the discipline, and there were plans to expand it. The relationship between theology and religious studies was also discussed. The latter had frequently developed from the former chairs for “scientific atheism” present in every university in the USSR. There was a palpable fear that the Church would have too much influence in the academic system and that clergymen would enter the universities. The close relationship between the ROC and the Russian state is not limited to these areas. It can also be seen in the fundamental approach to issues such as international security or the understanding of human rights. As for international relations, the ROC shares the state’s critical perception of the West and approves of military actions such as the Russian presence in Syria, which is, in the eyes of the ROC, an intervention that protects the local Christians. The critical approach to the West exists in political terms, but above all in terms of the affirmation of a value system that is in many regards different from Western values. The main feature is the priority of the group (family, nation, church) over the individual. The state had for some time propagated the idea of a “Russian World” (Russkii mir), which was presented as a civilisational model and which comprised Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, Moldova, and possibly some more states (Bremer 2015). After the events in Ukraine 2014, this concept was dismissed, since it was clear that Ukraine would not want to be part of such a civilisational model. But the idea behind it is important for the stance of the state and of the ROC alike. The war against Ukraine that Russia began in February 2022 was justified by President Putin partly with religious reasons. He spoke in his addresses on 21 and 23 February about the common origin of Russians, Ukrainians, and Belarussians from Kyiv Rus’, and he mentioned the alleged persecution of Orthodox believers in Ukraine. An analysis of this argument is beyond the scope of this chapter, but it clearly shows the dimension of the understanding –​ which is also shared by the Church –​that these three are in fact one nation, and that they belong to the same civilisational circle. The fact that the ROC and the Patriarch kept silent 468

469

Religion

about the Russian aggression led to a deep disappointment within the Ukrainian branch of the Church, which in May severed its relations with the ROC and declared itself independent, but it also demonstrates the connection of the ROC to the state. The state thus makes use of the fact that the ROC mostly represents in many political fields the same ideas as the state. Church representatives are invited to state ceremonies, and hierarchs give lectures in all kinds of state institutions. The Church is doubtless a Russian institution, and Orthodoxy is historically the traditional religious belonging of Russians. Therefore, the Church also serves as a tool to promote a Russian national identity, though the ROC understands itself as multinational. It would be inaccurate to describe the relationship as an exploitation of the ROC by the state; it is rather a mutual utilisation with benefits for both sides The state obviously seeks to use the Church as a bond that helps to keep the country together, an instrument that can offer ties or common values. In Western countries, the provision of such ties would be regarded as a task of the society, not the state. Therefore, it is interesting and important to study the role of the ROC in Russian society.

Church and society The ROC has had a stable position within Russian society for a long time. This can be seen in the surveys quoted above; they show that even people who do not believe in God have trust in the ROC as an institution and regard the ROC as an important part of society. The Church’s leading role is founded on the very high reputation it has among the population. However, in the last years this seems to have begun to change. People still regard themselves as religious and identify with the Orthodox faith, but the trust towards the Church as an organisation has diminished. The ROC’s prominence means that it must take a position on many issues of common interest and espouse them in Russian debates. Sometimes, it publishes documents on such issues and participates in the public discourse. The most important have been a document on the social doctrine of the church and one on human rights. In 2000, the full assembly of bishops, the highest body of the church, adopted a text called “Foundations of a Social Doctrine of the Russian Orthodox Church” (ROC 2000). This document was doubtless influenced by two phenomena: the Roman Catholic tradition of a social doctrine, and the frequent requests made to representatives of the ROC in ecumenical encounters to explain their Church’s teaching on social and political questions. It is quite unusual for Orthodox churches to publish texts on such issues, so this sets a certain precedent. The document contains 16 chapters and speaks on almost all aspects of social life and of ethics, from questions of state and church, nation and church, human labour, war and peace, and the economy, to family issues, the death penalty, bioethics, and contraception. It gives explanations of the ROC’s position, mostly in a biblical and traditional context. Special attention was paid to the area of state-​church relations, since the ROC was frequently accused of being a state church or maintaining an improper relationship with the state. The text affirms the Byzantine tradition of symphonia and underlines the duty of the state to protect religious freedom. Remarkably, it postulates the right of Christians to resist the state authorities when they urge believers to do things that do not correspond to their conscience. In the end, the Church is allowed in such cases to call for resistance to the state. It is hard to say to what degree this document influences the life of the ROC and its position within the country. One gets the impression that it is primarily used for interdenominational purposes and does not play a great role within the country. Nevertheless, it can be regarded as an authoritative statement of the ROC on these issues. The document was drafted in the 469

470

Thomas Bremer

Department of Foreign Relations, highlighting how much it was influenced by the ROC’s contacts with Western churches. The other document, on human rights, was published in 2008 and enjoys the same authority, since it was also adopted by the bishops’ assembly, and it is described as being part (“follow-​ up”) of the social concept of the ROC (ROC 2008). Human rights is a delicate question, since representatives of the ROC have frequently stated that Orthodoxy in Russia has a different concept of human rights (and of the human being in general) to that in the West (Stoeckl 2014). This sceptical approach includes a reluctance towards democracy, individualism, liberalism, and similar phenomena of modern society, and a preference for monarchy as a form of government (Turunen 2007). The stance of the ROC is that the human person finds their fulfilment not in competition (which is embedded in democratic procedures such as elections) but in agreement and harmony. The community is always above the individual, societal rights are much more important than individual ones, and a person reaches his or her final determination not by the realisation of personal wishes and desires, but rather by incorporating him-​or herself into a common body. Such ideas are very close to the concepts of the Slavophiles of the nineteenth century, and they are prevalent among many representatives of the ROC. It is understandable that positions like this easily come into conflict with what is said in Western churches, not to mention the ideas of modern liberal societies. They include also the understanding that tolerance towards homosexuality is an expression of these Western values, of posing individual rights (to express one’s own sexuality) above collective rights (the right of society to have “normal” families for the purpose of reproduction). Some of these ideas also found their expression in amendments made to the Russian Constitution in 2020: marriage was defined as a bond between a man and a woman, and belief in God was explicitly named as among the traditions that Russians have inherited from their ancestors, though Article 14 quoted above was not changed. In February 2012 the punk group Pussy Riot performed a “punk prayer” in the main cathedral of the ROC in Moscow. The group members entered the platform in front of the altar and performed a song that criticised President Putin, Patriarch Kirill, and the relationship between church and state. This event drew a lot of attention; the members of the group were eventually arrested and jailed for almost two years. Representatives of the ROC demanded a harsh punishment, whereas some believers demanded that mothers of young children should not be imprisoned. As a consequence of this action, in the summer of 2013 the penal law was amended to make insulting religious feelings illegal and subject to punishment, and even more when done in a place meant for worship. The attitude of the ROC towards the West has led to tension in its ecumenical contacts, especially towards protestant churches, and to a certain (self-​)isolation of the ROC in the ecumenical movement. ROC representatives say they cannot maintain normal contacts with churches that accept gay ministers, ordain women, or bless homosexual partnerships. The ROC document on human rights led to a debate with the “Community of Protestant Churches in Europe,” an association of more than 100 European Churches, mostly Lutheran or Reformed. There are various other examples attesting that relations between the ROC and other churches are deteriorating. At the same time, the ROC has developed closer relations with conservative groups and churches that promote “traditional values” in the West (Stoeckl and Uzlaner 2020). The concept of a “canonical territory” that the ROC claims (it contains the former USSR with the exception of Armenia and Georgia, which have their own Orthodox Churches) has led to further tensions (Oeldemann 2008), above all when the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople granted autocephaly (independence) to an Orthodox Church in Ukraine in 470

471

Religion

2019. This brought a schism within Orthodoxy and isolated the ROC from some of the other Orthodox churches (Bremer et al 2022). In many respects, the convictions noted above are also embedded in a consensus in Russian society. The ROC is not an isolated institution with old-​fashioned positions but is in the mainstream of public opinion. One cannot simply say that the Church influences (or tries to influence) society in a conservative direction, but rather that both are complementary to each other. The ROC acts in an environment in which its positions are widely shared.

Conclusion The recent history and the current situation of the ROC in Russia can be analysed from different perspectives: its inner development, its relation to the state, and its relation to the “world.” In terms of its inner shape, the Church has undergone a radical change and a firm stabilisation. It established a broad range of activities, and it has obtained a stable structure, with 309 eparchies (dioceses), almost 40,000 parishes, and some 35,000 priests (Moskovskii patriarkhat 2019). The ROC has schools and other institutions for the training of clergy on all levels (from seminaries to universities), and in almost every parish a Sunday school functions, which helps adults and children to get better acquainted with the doctrines and habits of the Church. These efforts have led to the existence of a layer of people in society who are interested in Orthodoxy and well educated in church matters. The “neophytes” no longer play the role they used to immediately after the end of the Soviet Union. The ROC is widely accepted in society, regardless of the fact that church attendance is quite low. The position of Russian Orthodoxy cannot be seen without the political context. It is not a state church, and the relation towards the state is not simply a repetition of the symphonia model (which can hardly be applied to modernity in any case) (Willems 2006). The Russian state has changed radically in the past 30 years, and the ROC has tried to adapt to these changing circumstances. It has been led by its historical experience of the last centuries: complete state control since the early eighteenth century, bloody persecution after the revolution, and massive restriction after World War II. After the end of the USSR, the ROC was not prepared for life in a pluralistic society; it had no experience of working in such a context. The state, on the other hand, initially used the ROC to confirm national identity, and later the Church became a part of the system of “managed democracy”; it has a privileged position and serves the state as part of civil society in the way this term is understood by the Russian authorities. One must be aware that in Western democratic societies there are completely different models of church-​state relations. The US with its principle of separation (in a highly religious society), the UK with its state church, and Germany with its system of cooperation are only a few examples of these models. Therefore, it is difficult to judge the Russian model, which has not yet come to the end of its development. However, the Church is in a situation unlike any other in its history. The ROC’s outlook may be characterised as sceptical towards modernity. It rejects many developments of the last decades and even centuries as not fitting into the order of things given by God. Although not all representatives of the Church support such positions, the vast majority of clergy and above all bishops defend them; dissenting priests are mostly outsiders. For modern democratic societies, the ROC’s attitude towards democracy and human rights in particular is out of step and needs further discussion and clarification. Russia itself is becoming a modern industrial country, and its population is being confronted more and more with all the phenomena modernity brings. As the ROC enjoys such a high reputation, there will be 471

472

Thomas Bremer

an increasing discrepancy between the official standpoints of the Church and the solutions individuals find for themselves. Surveys already show the discrepancy between respect for ecclesiastical norms and one’s own behaviour. This tension will rise, and the ROC will have to find new answers to new questions if it wants to retain the significance it has today in Russian society.

Notes 1 It would be very difficult to define what is to be understood as “member”: churchgoers, believers, baptised, active parishioners, or simply people who identify themselves as “Orthodox” –​these numbers would differ massively from each other. 2 www.patr​iarc​hia.ru/​db/​text/​5359​105.html (all URLs accessed 5 January 2022). “Parish” is used here to mean a church in which regular services take place. Thousands of these parishes are in the “Near Abroad,” especially in Ukraine and Belarus, with hundreds in other parts of the world. However, the ROC will probably lose thousands of parishes in Ukraine owing to the war, causing many of them to leave the jurisdiction of the Moscow Patriarchate. 3 www.gks.ru/​free_​doc/​new_​s​ite/​pere​pis2​010/​croc/​perepi​s_​it​ogi1​612.htm#. A new census was planned for 2020 but had to be postponed because of the pandemic. It was conducted in November 2021, but the results are not yet available. For the 2010 census, the ROC protested that no question about religious belonging was included. In the 2021 census, such a question was also absent. 4 According to their website https://​feor.ru/​, there are more than one million Jews in Russia. 5 This can be seen in the fact that in both coups d’état against Gorbachev and against Yeltsin, Orthodox bishops could be found on both sides. Other high-​ranking church officials deplored the loss of the Soviet Union and could not come to terms with the fact that millions of ethnic Russians now lived outside Russia.

References Basil, J.D. (2005), “Church-​State Relations in Russia: Orthodoxy and Federation Law, 1990–​2004”, Religion, State & Society 33, 2: 151–​63. Bremer, T. (2003), “Rome and Moscow, A Step Further”, Religion in Eastern Europe 23, 2: 1–​11. Bremer, T. (2015), “How the Russian Orthodox Church Views the ‘Russian World’”, Occasional Papers on Religion in Eastern Europe 35, 3, Art. 4 (online only: http://​dig​ital​comm​ons.george​fox.edu/​ree/​ vol35/​iss3/​4/​). Bremer, T., A. Brüning and N. Kizenko (eds.) (2022), Orthodoxy in Two Manifestations? The Conflict in Ukraine as an Expression of a Fault Line in World Orthodoxy (Berlin: Peter Lang). Bremer, T. and J. Wasmuth (2009), “Gott und die Welt. Kirche und Religion in Osteuropa”, Osteuropa 59: 7–​28. Clarke, J. and D. Reid (2007), “Orthodoxy and the New Russia”, Religion in Eastern Europe 27, 2: 13–​21. Codevilla, G. (2008), “Relations between Church and State in Russia today”, Religion, State & Society 36, 2: 113–​38. Constitution of the Russian Federation (1993), “First Section. Main Provisions. Chapter 1. The Fundamentals of the Constitutional System”, www.const​itut​ion.ru/​en/​10003​000-​02.htm. Daniel, W.L. (2007), “The Children of Perestroika: Two Sociologists on Religion and Russian Society, 1991–​2006”, Religion, State & Society 35, 2: 163–​85. Kaariyainen, K. and D. Furman (2007), Novye tserkvi, starye veruyushchie –​starye tserkvi, novye veruyushchie. Religiya v postsovetskoi Rossii (Moscow: Letnii sad). Knox, Z. (2004), “Postsoviet Challenges to the Moscow Patriarchate, 1991–​2001”, Religion, State & Society 32, 2: 87–​113. Krindatch, A.D. (2006), “Religion, Public Life and the State in Putin’s Russia”, Religion in Eastern Europe 26, 2: 28–​76. Loya, J.A. (2006), “Religion Classes in State Institutions in Post-​Soviet Russia”, Religion in Eastern Europe 26, 1: 52–​66.

472

473

Religion Moskovskii patriarkhat (2019), “Vnutrennyaya zhizn’ i vneshnyaya deyatel’nost’ Russkoi Pravoslavnoi Tserkvi s 2009 goda po 2019 god”, Patriarchia.ru (official site of the Moscow Patriarchate), www.patr​ iarc​hia.ru/​db/​text/​5359​105.html. Oeldemann, J. (2008), “The Concept of Canonical Territory in the Russian Orthodox Church”, in T. Bremer (ed.), Religion and the Conceptual Boundary in Central and Eastern Europe. Encounters of Faith (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan): 229–​36. ORKSE (n.d.), “Vybor modulei ORKSE v 2017/​2018 uchebnom godu. Po Rossiiskoi Federatsii”, Osnovy religioznykh kul’tur i svetskoi etiki, http://​orkce.apk​pro.ru/​doc/​Vybor%20modu​lia%20OR​ KSE%20v%202​017-​2018%20gg.pdf. ROC (2000), “Osnovy sotsial’noi kontseptsii Russkoi pravoslavnoi tserkvi”, The Russian Orthodox Church, https://​mos​pat.ru/​en/​docume​nts/​176-​osn​ovy-​sot​sial​noy-​kont​sept​sii-​russ​koy-​pravo​slav​noy-​ tser​kvi/​. ROC (2008), “The Russian Orthodox Church’s Basic Teaching on Human Dignity, Freedom and Rights”, The Russian Orthodox Church, https://​old.mos​pat.ru/​en/​docume​nts/​dign​ity-​free​dom-​r ig​hts/​. Stoeckl, K. (2014), The Russian Orthodox Church and Human Rights (London: Routledge). Stoeckl, K. and D. Uzlaner (eds.) (2020), Postsecular Conflicts. Debating Tradition in Russia and the United States (Innsbruck: Innsbruck University Press). Soviet University Students Turunen, M. (2005), Faith in the Heart of Russia. The Religiosity of Post-​ (Helsinki: Kikimora Publications). Turunen, M. (2007), “Orthodox Monarchism in Russia: Is Religion Important in the Present-​Day Construction of National Identity?”, Religion, State & Society 35, 4: 320–​34. Willems, J. (2006), “The Religio-​Political Strategies of the Russian Orthodox. Church as a ‘Politics of Discourse’”, Religion, State & Society 34, 3: 287–​98.

473

474

475

PART 5

Foreign policy

476

477

41 RUSSIAN FOREIGN POLICY AND THE CHALLENGE TO THE EXISTING WORLD ORDER 1 Roger E. Kanet

After decades of conflict with the West –​at times most serious and dangerous –​in the mid-​ 1980s the new Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev (1987b) described the many problems facing the Soviet Union and called for a reorientation of both domestic and foreign policy. He noted (1987a) that economic growth had “fallen to a level close to economic stagnation.” Although the Soviet Union remained a global superpower, his proposals were based on his concern about the future position of the USSR in the international system –​the country’s continued status as a “great power.” He called for “new political thinking” to reform Soviet foreign policy (Hudson 1989). That initiative led to important modifications in actual policy, beginning with economic reform, but soon expanded to encompass change in the entire political system, including the foreign and security policy framework. This resulted in a remarkable improvement in relations with the US and the West. However, this retrenchment of Soviet foreign policy did not signify the abandonment of gains already made or the renunciation of the goal of expanding Soviet influence as a “great power” in the future –​which was an essential aspect of Russia’s centuries-​ old self-​image. Not only did Gorbachev’s efforts at domestic economic and political reform fail, their unintended consequence was the destruction of the entire economic and political structure undergirding the extended Soviet-​bloc system from Central Europe to the Chinese border. The USSR devolved into fifteen separate republics and most members of the erstwhile Soviet-​dominated socialist community of states, the Council for Mutual Economic Assistance (CMEA), have joined Western political and economic institutions.

From the “new world order” to renewed conflict For the first decade of the Russian Federation’s existence under President Boris Yeltsin, challenges to Russian security were to be addressed in collaboration with the West. Many in the West spoke of a new world order in which Russia would join the Western community. But Russia and the West had very different expectations of how the new world order would unfold after the Cold War. Two competing narratives evolved, and no consensus was reached about the differences. While the US and the EU viewed the end of the Cold War as a triumph of liberal democratic values and a defeat of the USSR and its values, Russia saw the end as a DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-46

477

478

Roger E. Kanet

victory for all and a steppingstone to a new world order where both Russia and the West would be founding members (Lyukanov 2016). The West expected Russia to join the expanded Atlantic Community and abide by its pre-​established norms and values; Russia, on the other hand, aimed at “transcending” the liberal order and installing a more pluralistic one (Sakwa 2017). By denying the process of “transcendence” and generally ignoring Russia’s interests and concerns (Cohen 2001), the Western community helped precipitate exactly what it sought to avert –​a revived and aggressive Russia. It expanded its involvement in what had been the Soviet sphere of domination and attempted to limit Moscow’s ability to re-​establish a major role in the region (Kanet 2018). This expansionist approach, which included NATO intervention in former Yugoslavia and the incorporation of former Warsaw Pact states and even Soviet republics into NATO and the European Union, faced persistent and growing opposition from Moscow. At the same time, there was growing criticism in both Brussels and Washington of political developments in Russia itself, and the United States was deeply involved in ensuring the re-​election of President Boris Yeltsin in 1996 (Goldgeier and McFaul 2003). Although Russian attitudes and policies towards the West had begun to shift already in the mid-​1990s,2 it was not until Vladimir Putin became prime minister and then president that Moscow’s foreign policy began to change significantly. The official Russian response to what Moscow saw as growing challenges to its core national objectives and security interests was a revitalised sense of national identity that questioned the European nature of Russia and tied Russia to a broader Eurasia. This was joined by a growing challenge to the dominant position of the West, both in Central and Eastern Europe and globally, as Russia pursued the goal of re-​establishing its position as the preeminent regional power across Eurasia and as a key global actor. By 2010 its response to what it termed “Western encroachment” and its effort to re-​ establish its position in post-​Soviet space included military interventions in Chechnya and Georgia. The view that the West was hostile and threatened Russia and its renewed commitment to recognition as a “Great Power” comes across clearly in Putin’s 2005 speech, when he famously stated, “The collapse of the Soviet Union was the biggest geopolitical catastrophe of the century. For the Russian people it became a real drama. Tens of millions of our citizens and countrymen found themselves outside Russian territory. The epidemic of disintegration also spread to Russia itself ” (Putin 2005). This point is emphasised in Putin’s wide-​ranging attack against the West at the Munich Security Conference in 2007 and later in speeches to the Valdai Discussion Club three years running in 2014 through 2016 (Putin 2007, 2014, 2015, 2016). He reiterated that Russia refused to accept as legitimate the post-​Cold War international order, which, in his view, is simply a set of rules imposed by the West –​to its advantage –​that the United States and other Western states themselves often do not follow. In spring 2018 President Putin boasted about new and superior Russian nuclear weapons (Putin 2018). Soon thereafter, the British government of Prime Minister Theresa May expelled 23 Russian diplomats in a first response to what it viewed as a Russian state effort to assassinate a former Russian spy on British soil (Asthana et al 2018). A few days later, the United States government charged Russia “with engineering a series of cyberattacks that targeted American and European nuclear power plants and water and electric systems and could have sabotaged or shut power plants off at will” (Perlroth and Sangermarch 2018). Moreover, Russia’s meddling in the 2016 US presidential election dominated much of the political news in the United States after the inauguration of Donald Trump as president in early 2017 until the outbreak of COVID-​19 (Isikoff and Corn 2018).3 All of this occurred in a period of stringent Western economic sanctions imposed on Russia in retaliation for the latter’s occupation and incorporation of Crimea and its intervention in the civil war in eastern Ukraine. 478

479

Russian foreign policy and the challenge to the world order

One result of these developments was the fact that Russia increasingly perceived itself as cornered by the Western powers. Already in 2005 Russian Defence Minister Sergei Ivanov told the Academy of Military Sciences: Let us face it, there is a war against Russia under way, and it has been going on for quite a few years. No one declared war on us. There is not one country that would be in a state of war with Russia. But there are people and organisations in various countries, who take part in hostilities against the Russian Federation. Ivanov cited in Blank 2017: 729 In a similar vein, in an address to a conference on international security in May 2014, then Defence Minister Sergei Shoigu referred to the colour revolutions of a decade earlier (the replacement of authoritarian regimes, which tended to have favourable relations with Russia, with more democratic pro-​Western ones) as a new form of warfare developed by the West with the intention of undermining the defences of the Russian Federation and its allies (Papert 2014; see also Nikitina 2014). In effect, by the time of the Ukrainian crisis in 2014 and the initial imposition of Western sanctions on Russia, military and security officials in Moscow saw the West engaged in a new type of warfare that justified a cyberattack targeting electoral systems and essential aspects of the economic infrastructure in the United States and the countries of the European Union.

Russia and its neighbours In the first decade of the twenty-​first century, as Russia moved away from its pro-​Western orientation, among the first shifts in its foreign policy was the reassertion of its role in former Soviet territory. This occurred, in part, in response to what the Russians saw as the West’s encroachment on longstanding and legitimate Russian territorial and other interests –​for example, the West’s “encouragement” of the colour revolutions in Georgia, Ukraine and Kyrgyzstan, as well as the fact that the European Union and NATO had already incorporated a large number of former Soviet dependencies into their ranks, including the three former Soviet Baltic republics.4 Although Russian leaders strongly opposed NATO’s expansion eastwards already from the 1990s, they did not initially oppose post-​communist states joining the European Union.5 However, by the early 2000s, Russia recognised that EU membership for post-​communist states would not only cut into markets for Russian exports but was also part of a much more comprehensive shift away from Russia. In short, increasingly the leadership in Moscow viewed the continued entrance of post-​communist states into Western political, economic and security institutions as a long-​term threat to Russia’s commitment to re-​establish its dominant position in Eurasia, as well as to the Putin government’s hold on power. This more assertive policy contributed to the so-​called “gas wars” with Ukraine in 2006 and 2009, the Russo-​Georgian war of August 2008 and, somewhat later, the intervention in Ukraine after 2013, including the absorption of Crimea into the Russian Federation.6 In the case of the “gas wars,” the issue was the longstanding division over both the cost of Russian supplies to Ukraine and Ukrainian transit charges for Russian gas being marketed to Europe. Until the Orange Revolution and the overthrow of the pro-​Russian government in Kyiv, this issue had been successfully worked out each year. Now, however, with an EU-​ friendly government in Kyiv, it became a deal contingent on the relative political status of the two countries. This impasse resulted in a showdown in which Moscow accepted the costs to its longer-​term economic relationship with the EU for its failure to deliver gas supplies, which 479

480

Roger E. Kanet

resulted in the complete shutdown of gas flowing to Ukraine, in return for Moscow showing Ukraine who was the dominant actor in the dispute.7 In many respects the underlying issue that led to the five-​day war between Russia and Georgia in August 2008 had similar sources: Russia’s growing opposition to the shift of former Soviet republics towards integration into Western-​ dominated institutions after the colour revolutions.8 The so-​called Rose Revolution had brought to power in Tbilisi a government committed to closer relations with the West, including NATO membership and expanded ties to the EU. From Moscow’s perspective, these developments ran counter to Russia’s goal of re-​establishing a preeminent position within the former Soviet space. Even though NATO was not yet prepared to accede to President Bush’s desire to admit Georgia in 2008, Georgian President Mikheil Saakashvili decided that the refurbished military provided by NATO through the Partnership for Peace Program could be used to resolve the longstanding frozen conflicts in both South Ossetia and Abkhazia (Ambrosio 2019). For Georgia the result was a disaster. Russian forces intervened and overwhelmed the new Georgian army; and the secessionist provinces of South Ossetia and Abkhazia declared their formal independence, which Moscow officially recognised. The Russian military intervention sent a clear message to the Georgians, the Ukrainians, and the Americans that, after more than a decade of verbal opposition to NATO expansion, Russia was now in a position, and willing, to use military means to prevent further eastward expansion of Western political and security institutions, even if this meant a deterioration in relations with both the United States and Western Europe.9

Russia, the Eurasian Union and the 2014 Ukraine crisis As already noted, prior to the 2012 Russian presidential election, then-​Prime Minister and presidential candidate Putin laid out his new foreign policy programme that was now focused on “preserving Russia’s distinct identity in a highly competitive global environment” (Putin 2011, 2012; Adomeit 2021).10 Abandoning the remnants of earlier efforts to integrate into the West-​dominated international system, Putin emphasised the uniqueness and distinctiveness of Russian civilisation and how it also represents the core of a special Russian world composed of people (such as the Eastern Slavs of Belarus and Ukraine) who associate themselves with traditional Russian values, even though they live outside the borders of the Russian Federation. He also maintained that Europe had taken a negative turn from its historical model and now embodied a “post-​Christian” identity that values moral relativism, a vague sense of identity and excessive political correctness (Gessen 2014). Putin thus concluded that European countries had begun “renouncing their roots, including Christian values (Trenin 2014).11 Putin’s so-​called “civilisational turn” is relevant to relations with the West, and the EU in particular, since it laid the ideological groundwork for Russia’s changing security culture and its potential merger with post-​Soviet states into a Eurasian political and economic union. Putin argued that Russia should be the centre of a large geo-​economic unit, or Eurasian economic community, consisting of political, cultural, economic and security ties among the states that had emerged from the former Soviet republics. He asserted the importance of defending indigenous values in a highly globalised world and highlighted how this union promoted that path. This union stands in direct competition with the EU’s European Neighbourhood Policy and the incorporation of countries in Eastern Europe and the Caucasus into a broad EU-​centred political-​economic system. Putin’s arguments also provide the foundation for the view that Russian identity and security are threatened by the West at almost all levels of interaction.12

480

481

Russian foreign policy and the challenge to the world order

Thus, when Russia began to push its Eurasian integration project, the geopolitical confrontation with the EU escalated. In the words of Foreign Minister Lavrov: The EU Eastern Partnership program was also designed to expand the Westcontrolled geopolitical space to the east … There is a policy to confront the CIS countries with a hard, absolutely contrived and artificial choice –​either you are with the EU or with Russia. It was the use of this approach to Ukraine that pushed that country … to a profound internal political crisis. Lavrov 2014 After Vladimir Putin resumed the Russian presidency in 2012, he moved forcefully to consolidate the Eurasian Economic Union (EEU) as part of his plan for re-​establishing Russia’s dominance in Eurasia. Ukraine, under the government of President Yanukovych, attempted to play off the EU against the EEU for as long as possible and eventually scheduled a signing ceremony with the European Union for autumn 2013. When Yanukovych made a U-​turn and announced in November 2013 that Ukraine instead would join the Eurasian Union, massive demonstrations against his government broke out in Kyiv. These demonstrations eventually resulted in Yanukovych fleeing the country. A new Western-​oriented government came to power in Kyiv, which, in turn, led to a Russian military intervention in Ukraine. This intervention included the absorption of Crimea and support for ethnic Russians and Russophone secessionist groups in south-​eastern Ukraine (for more on Russia’s Ukraine policy and the ongoing attack on the remainder of Ukraine, see Chapter 43 by Trenin in this volume; Götz 2016; Tsygankov 2015; Malyarenko and Wolff 2018). The European Union and the United States introduced sanctions against Russia as punishment for its military intervention in Ukraine. Moreover, since Russia’s annexation of Crimea and its support for anti-​government rebels in eastern Ukraine, the EU no longer considers Russia a strategic partner (Adomeit 2021). For its part, the Kremlin has adopted increasingly tough rhetoric vis-​à-​vis the West. Official Russian security and foreign policy documents now present Russia as a state besieged by all conceivable means by the United States and its Western allies. For example, the 2014 Military Doctrine classifies both the deployment of strategic missiles and that of strategic conventional precision weapons by the West as key military dangers to Russia. This doctrine and the 2016 Foreign Policy Concept also highlight the US and NATO as potential enemies at a time of increased global competition and conclude that Russia needs to focus on the credibility of its nuclear deterrent and on conventional and non-​ conventional elements of conducting warfare (Military Doctrine 2014; Russian Foreign Policy Concept 2016).13 The early 2020 Russian threat to invade Ukraine, including the build-​up of more than 100,000 troops along the Ukrainian border culminating in the February 2022 invasion of Ukraine, its brutal behaviour, and demands for NATO to eliminate any future security commitments to Ukraine and Georgia, represent the escalation of the Russian conflict with the West.

Russia’s return to the developing world While Russian relations with the West were dramatically deteriorating, contacts with the developing world were improving and expanding. The collapse of the Soviet Union and the end of the global competition for influence with the United States had brought to a close the ideology-​driven policy that had characterised Soviet relations with the world and had been

481

482

Roger E. Kanet

such an important part of Soviet identity and self-​image. Throughout much of the 1990s, as the new Russian Federation under the leadership of Boris Yeltsin attempted to stabilise itself and to find its place in the international system, relations with the Global South were largely put on hold. With the emergence of Vladimir Putin, however, Russia almost immediately began to reassert its role as a major world power, including re-​establishing its relations with the Global South (Olivier and Suchkov 2019; Putin 2007).14 The focus, however, changed significantly from that of the Soviet period, when the central concern was ideological affinity and a transition towards communist political systems, along with geopolitical competition with the United States. The dominant narrative of the current period focuses on Russia’s great power status, the enrichment of elites in a network state, domestic consolidation, and related issues serving as means to accomplish that goal of Russian power. Even though geopolitical competition with the US remains an important element of policy (Adibe 2019), the primary interest of the Russian Federation under President Putin has become economic –​markets for Russian exports and access to energy resources and minerals, all as part of a commitment to re-​establishing Russia once again as an important global actor and creating the ability of elites to enrich themselves. This set of policy goals applies to Russian behaviour across the Global South, as Russia has returned as a major participant in the international system with renewed self-​confidence (Lo 2003; Neethling 2019), even though Russian economic involvement today is much smaller than that of China, Western Europe or the United States (Gerőcs 2019; Zabakhidze 2020).15 During the Cold War, military involvement was an important instrument of Soviet policy as was economic aid, including the education of African students in the USSR (Besenyő 2019). By the 1980s, because of growing economic hardship, the Soviet leaders became concerned about overreaching their economic influence in the Global South. For example, they refused Mozambique’s attempt to join the CMEA in July 1981. Yet Tamás Gerőcs (2019: 319–​20) points out that the “Soviet legacy is still Russia’s most important present-​day link to many African countries, insofar as the economic and political leaders of these countries have connections to the Soviet Union’s institutional past.” But the current relationship emphasises economic dealings almost completely, including military exports that are expected to benefit Russia (Olivier and Suchkov 2019: 148).

Russia’s strategic partnership with China Part of Russia’s growing divorce from Europe has been its “pivot to the east,” a focus on building its relations with erstwhile competitor China (Lewis 2019). This newly developing “strategic partnership” is built on the fact that both Russia and China are strongly at odds with the United States. They have both declared their areas of special interest –​China in Asia and Russia in Europe –​and they have begun to cooperate in substantial joint military exercises (Standish 2021). These developments are no doubt meant to challenge the power relationships and structures of the existing international system, not only in Asia and the Pacific but also in other parts of the world. Sharing authoritarian, militaristic and nationalist foundations, both the Chinese and Russian elites view the West and Western democratic values as a challenge to their respective systems and their leaderships, as well as, in Russia’s case, “stripping” her of her supposedly legitimate regional influence, especially in Central and Eastern Europe.

A new cold war and the Russian challenge to the liberal world order Almost a decade after the outbreak of the initial crisis in Ukraine and Russia’s unoprovoked intervention, and the imposition of Western sanctions against Russia, relations have worsened 482

483

Russian foreign policy and the challenge to the world order

dramatically, as Russia continued its intervention in Ukraine and increasingly meddled in the domestic political affairs of Western democracies through cyber warfare and other means (Brattberg and Maurer 2018). Russia proved initially to be more resilient than many in the West had expected and, despite the collapse in international energy prices and the costs associated with the sanctions imposed by the European Union and the United States, the Russian economy seemed to stabilise prior to the coronavirus pandemic in 2020 with an annual growth rate of 1.5–​2.5 percent (Russia: Real GDP 2017).16 More importantly, the sanctions and the ensuing domestic economic problems in Russia have not influenced the political leadership to initiate a significant shift in Moscow’s foreign policy. In fact, Moscow’s initial assertive action in Ukraine, followed by itrs brutal invasion as well as more recently in Syria, have become an important part of the Putin regime’s effort to re-​establish Russia’s role as a great power and thereby strengthen its political support among a large portion of the population (Berryman 2017). Russia’s relations with both the United States and the European Union have declined precipitously since the turn of the century. As the 2015 Security Strategy states, Russia’s security objectives are as follows: “Strengthening the country’s defence, ensuring the inviolability of the Russian Federation’s constitutional order, sovereignty, independence and national and territory integrity” and “consolidating the Russian Federation’s status as a leading world power, whose actions are aimed at maintaining strategic stability and mutually beneficial partnerships in a polycentric world” (Russian Federation 2015). Given the Russian political elite’s goal of re-​establishing Russia’s place as a global power, as well as its control over the Russian domestic political system, assertive nationalism has become an important instrument in accomplishing both of those objectives. The European Union, which a quarter century ago was viewed in Moscow as a benign actor, is now viewed as a competitor for influence in post-​Soviet space and as an impediment to Russia’s attempts to re-​establish itself as the dominant actor in Eurasia and as a major player in global affairs. This competition, along with a possible domestic political challenge to Putin’s leadership, lies at the root of the confrontation that exploded in Ukraine in 2013–​14 and that continues to sour relations eight years later. Prospects for a significant improvement in relations in the foreseeable future are not good, since the longer-​term goals of Russia and those of the European Union contradict one another. The Russian leadership’s commitment to re-​establish dominance across much of Eurasia is in direct conflict with the EU’s objective of expanding its influence into the post-​Soviet space and the more general objective of maintaining the liberal international order that has been dominant for the past quarter century. They have repeatedly made clear in recent years that Moscow does not accept the fundamental principles that underlie the current international system and will do whatever it can to undermine that system (Kanet 2018). Military interventions in Georgia and Ukraine, cyberattacks against a broad range of post-​communist states (Imeson 2019), supporting radical nationalist groups in EU member countries, and meddling in the electoral processes of democracies in Europe and North America are all tactics that Russia has used to weaken the Western-​dominated international system. The confrontation between Russia and both the United States and the European Union will continue until one side or the other abandons some of the objectives that have been central to its policy –​in effect, to its sense of identity –​something that was highly unlikely to occur until the election of President Donald Trump put virtually all aspects of US foreign policy in question (O’Kelly 2020).17 His “America First” policy seemed to be driven by an “America alone” commitment,18 and his general ignorance of world affairs and hostility to all international organisations that limit US policy initiatives (Busby 2018), coupled with his refusal to take advice from experts, resulted in unpredictable US behaviour on the international stage. With the election of President Biden, US policy has returned to that which has characterised it now for several decades. 483

484

Roger E. Kanet

Towards the future Although the liberal world order may be in trouble, it will not be replaced by another. Rather, the order will be slightly modified as nations take a more pragmatic approach to multilateralism. The Putin regime is currently less threatened than it was under stronger liberal leadership in the West. But, because of its own structural problems and the global reaction to its military invasion of Ukraine, it will not emerge as a world superpower that threatens the existence of the liberal order but will, however, retain and strengthen its regional dominance. Russia wants a stronger voice –​which it is gaining and will no doubt continue to gain in today’s changing global climate. Russia will “win” in terms of its desire to decrease Western influence in the world, to experience fewer democratisation projects and to witness a dwindling American hegemony, in particular after the US military and political defeat in Afghanistan and its own domestic political divisions. However, it does not appear that NATO will back down and, in this sense, military escalation on both sides will continue and reach a standstill. There will be no all-​out war between Russia and the West, since it is simply not in anyone’s interest. Cooperation and dialogue are needed to come to a consensus on the NATO-​EU-​Russia issue. NATO must realise that further expansion will result in balance of power responses by Russia. Russia is not an expansionist country –​it is not seeking world domination, as was its predecessor –​it is seeking to increase its power relative to the other world powers so as to be included as one of the great powers. Although Russia is not a liberal democracy, its leader generally has the consent of the governed, demonstrating that the majority of the population seemingly has few qualms about the way Russia is run (Loftus 2021). Perhaps a more pluralistic Euro-​Atlantic security architecture, should it be able to be crafted, would be the most practical solution to ensure security and stability.

Notes 1 As this chapter was completed, Russia had just invaded Ukraine and begun brutally to destroy the political system and society. There will be only limited discussion of that attack in this chapter. 2 Already during the period when Evgeny Primakov was foreign minister, Russian policy shifted and the so-​called Primakov Doctrine demanded Russia’s return to the centre stage of international politics. Its major components were: • • • • •

The view of Russia as an indispensable actor with an independent foreign policy; A vision of a multipolar world managed by a concert of major powers; The insistence on Russia’s primacy in the post-​Soviet space and the pursuit of Eurasian integration; Opposition to NATO expansion; Partnership with China (Rumer 2019).

3 Phone transcripts of the conversations between Trump’s designated national security adviser and the Russian ambassador prior to Trump’s taking office in January 2017 clearly indicate the incoming administration’s commitment to improving relations despite Russia having invaded Ukraine, incorporated Crimea into the Russian Federation, and allegedly meddled in the US presidential election (Mazzetti 2020). On Russian involvement in the 2016 election, see Leonnig and Rucker (2021: 235–​9). 4 By 2007, ten former communist states had been admitted to the European Union and another two were about to enter and ten states had become members of NATO. 5 In 2022, NATO expansion into post-​Soviet Europe became one of the triggers of the Russian invasion and ongoing destruction of Ukraine. 6 These factors underlie the continuing 2022 confrontation between the West and Russia over Ukraine. 7 For the rationale of Russian policy in the gas wars, see Moulioukova and Kanet (2017). This became part of the background to the Russian attack on Ukraine in 2022 8 Viewed from Moscow, these were simply the disguised efforts of Western governments and NGOs to shift the political orientation of these countries towards closer ties with the West. As Putin has noted,

484

485

Russian foreign policy and the challenge to the world order “We see what tragic consequences the wave of so-​called colour revolutions led to. For us this is a lesson and a warning. We should do everything necessary so that nothing similar ever happens in Russia” (Putin, cited in Korsunskaya 2014). On Russian resistance to the colour revolutions, see Ó Beacháin and Polese (2011); on the West’s de facto manipulation of the colour revolutions, see Roberts (2014). 9 For a discussion of Russian policy leading to the five-​day war in August 2008, see Nygren (2011). 10 Putin denies the independent existence of the Ukrainians and argues that Russians and Ukrainians are, in fact, one people (Associated Press 2019). 11 Hannes Adomeit (2021) summarises quite accurately the official view of a “Russian world” to which belong 30 million Russians outside Russia –​all those who share the Russian language and culture regardless of where they live. Important, as well, in establishing this identity is adherence to Russian Orthodox Christianity. 12 The dramatic deterioration of US-​Russian relations at this same time contributed to the general decline of the EU’s relations with Russia. For example, US legislation passed in 2012 targeting Russian political leaders associated with President Putin for their presumed role in the death of the Russian civil rights lawyer Sergei Magnitsky received a very hostile response in Moscow (Seddon and Buckley 2016). 13 On 2 June 2020, President Putin reaffirmed that Russia could use nuclear weapons in response to a nuclear attack or aggression involving conventional weapons that “threatens the very existence of the state.” This was presumably in response to indications that the United States was considering “the development of prospective weapons that could give Washington the capability to knock out key military assets and government facilities without resorting to atomic weapon” (Isachenkov 2020). 14 President Vladimir Putin has said Africa is one of Russia’s foreign policy priorities and has spoken about offering: • • • • • •

political and diplomatic support; defence and security help; economic assistance; disease-​control advice; humanitarian-​relief assistance; and educational and vocational training (Putin 2019).

15 As pointed out by Vladimir Shubin (2013), economic ties “can hardly be called intensive. Trade turnover between Russia and Africa as a whole was about $11 billion, and imports exceed exports. True, that is 6.5 times higher than in 2001, but about 80% of the figure concerns countries north of the Sahara with a long history of relations with Russia –​especially Algeria, Egypt and Morocco. The fact that in 2012 Russia’s trade turnover with South Africa increased by 66% to reach $964 million is rightly regarded as a success, but it is almost 30 times lower than that of China.” 16 As of mid-​2020, crude oil prices had dropped once again to about $40 per barrel (Saefong and DeCambre 2020). 17 The decision by Trump in June 2020 to cut US military forces in Germany by 25 percent continued his policy of undercutting the NATO alliance and was welcomed by Moscow. 18 This basic isolationism is illustrated by the US withdrawal from the Paris Climate Agreement, the Trans-​Pacific Partnership, UNESCO, the UN Human Rights Council, the UN Works and Relief Agency, the Iran Nuclear Deal, the World Health Organization, NAFTA, the Open Skies Surveillance Treaty, and the Intermediate Range Nuclear Arms Treaty with Russia (TRTWorld 2018; Finucane and Manion 2019; Joseph and Branswell 2020). For a perceptive discussion of the impact of Trump’s policies on global economic and security orders, see Loftus (2021) and Löfflmann (2020).

References Adibe, J. (2019), “What Does Russia Really Want from Africa?” Brookings, 14 November, www.brooki​ ngs.edu/​blog/​afr​ica-​in-​focus/​2019/​11/​14/​what-​doe​srus​sia-​rea​lly-​want-​from-​afr​ica/​. Adomeit, H. (2021), “Russland und der Westen: Von ‘strategischer Partnerschaft’ zur strategischen Gegnerschaft”, SIRIUS –​Zeitschrift für Strategische Analysen 5, 2: 107–​24, https://​doi.org/​10.1515/​ sir​ius-​2021-​2002. Ambrosio, T. (2019), “Instrumentalising the Frozen Conflicts of the Greater Black Sea Region”, in R.E. Kanet (ed.), Routledge Handbook of Russian Security (London: Routledge): 355–​65.

485

486

Roger E. Kanet Associated Press (2019), “Putin: Russians, Ukrainians Are ‘One People’”, ABC News, 20 July, https://​ abcn​ews.go.com/​Entert​ainm​ent/​wireSt​ory/​putin-​russi​ans-​ukr​aini​ans-​peo​ple-​64456​532. Asthana, A., A. Roth, L. Harding and E. MacAskill (2018), “Russian Spy Poisoning: Theresa May Issues Ultimatum to Moscow”, The Guardian, 13 March, www.theg​uard​ian.com/​uk-​news/​2018/​mar/​12/​ rus​sia-​hig​hly-​lik​ely-​tobe-​beh​ind-​poison​ing-​of-​spy-​says-​ther​esa-​may. Berryman, J. (2017), “Russia and the European Security Order: Impact and Implications of the Ukraine Crisis”, in R.E. Kanet (ed.), The Russian Challenge to the European Security Environment (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan): 167–​88. Besenyő, J. (2019), “The Africa Policy of Russia”, Terrorism and Political Violence 31, 1: 132–​53. Blank, S.J. (2017), “We’re Not Putting Up a Fight against Russia’s Cyber Warfare”, The Hill, 18 November, http://​theh​ill.com/​opin​ion/​intern​atio​nal/​359​196-​were-​not​putt​ing-​up-​a-fight-againstrussias-​cyber-​warfare. Brattberg, E. and T. Maurer (2018), “Russian Election Interference: Europe’s Counter to Fake News and Cyber Attacks”, Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 23 May, https://​carneg​ieen​dowm​ ent.org/​2018/​05/​23/​r uss​ian-​elect​ion-​inter​fere​nce-​eur​ope-​s-​coun​ter-​to-​f ake-​news-​and-​cyber-​atta​ cks-​pub-​76435. Busby, J. (2018), “International Organizations and the Trump Administration’s Budget Proposal”, The Duck of Minerva, http://​duckof​mine​rva.com/​2018/​03/​intern​atio​nal-​organi​zati​ons-​and-​the-​trump​ admi​nist​rati​ons-​new-​bud​get-​propo​sal.html. Cohen, S.F. (2001), Failed Crusade: America and the Tragedy of Post-​Communist Russia (New York: W.W. Norton). Finucane, M. and J. Manion (2019), “Trump has Pulled out of International Agreements Before. Here’s a List”, The Boston Globe, 1 February, www.bost​ongl​obe.com/​metro/​2019/​02/​01/​trump-​has-​pul​led-​ out-​intern​atio​nal-​agr​eeme​nts-​bef​ore-​here-​list/​H9z​To2c​tVEQ​0b8x​kUQ2​t9J/​story.html. Gerőcs, T. (2019), “The Transformation of African–​Russian Economic Relations in the Multipolar World-​System”, Review of African Political Economy 46, 160: 317–​35. Gessen, M. (2014), “Russia Is Remaking Itself as the Leader of the Anti-​Western World”, The Washington Post, 30 March, www.was​hing​tonp​ost.com/​opini​ons/​rus​sia-​isr​emak​ing-​its​elf-​as-​the-​lea​der-​of-​the-​ anti-​west​ern-​world/​2014/​03/​30/​8461f​548-​b681-​11e3-​8cc3-​d4b​f596​577e​b_​st​ory.html. Goldgeier, J. and M. McFaul (2003), Power and Purpose: U.S. Policy toward Russia After the Cold War (Washington DC: Brookings Institution Press). Gorbachev, M. (1987a), Perestroika: New Thinking for Our Country and the World (New York: Harper and Row). Gorbachev, M. (1987b), “Politicheskii doklad Tsentral’nogo Komiteta KPSS. XXVII s’ezdu kommunisticheskoi partii sovetskogo soyuza”, in XXVII s’ezd kommunisticheskoi partii sovetskogo soyuza. 25 fevralia-​6 marta 1987 goda. Stenograficheskii otchet (Moscow: Politizdat): 23–​121. Götz, E. (2016), “Neorealism and Russia’s Ukraine Policy, 1991–​present”, Contemporary Politics 22, 3: 301–​23. Hudson, G.E. (1989), “The New Political Thinking and Soviet National Security Policy”, Crossroads: An International Socio-​Political Journal 28: 23–​34. Imeson, M. (2019), “Russia Cyber Aggression Fuels Tensions with West”, Financial Times, 14 October, www.ft.com/​cont​ent/​0aa7a​6e0-​ca52-​11e9-​af46-​b09e8​bfe6​0c0. Isachenkov, V. (2020), “Putin Signs Russia’s Nuclear Deterrent Policy”, AP News, 2 June, https://​apn​ews. com/​arti​cle/​vladi​mir-​putin-​mos​cow-​intern​atio​nal-​news-​nucl​ear-​weap​ons-​polit​ics-​4f177​2d79​852e​ 63ad​9338​ac55​7e00​9f1. Isikoff, M. and D. Corn, (2018), Russian Roulette: The Inside Story of Putin’s War on America and the Election of Donald Trump (New York: Hachette Press). Joseph, A. and H. Branswell (2020), “Trump: U.S. will terminate relationship with the World Health Organization in wake of Covid-​19 pandemic”, STAT, 29 May, www.statn​ews.com/​2020/​05/​29/​ trump-​us-​termin​ate-​who-​relat​ions​hip/​. Kanet, R.E. (2018), “Confrontation in Eastern Europe: The Russian Challenge to the European Union”, Journal of Diplomacy and International Relation, 18 June: 48–​61. Korsunskaya, D. (2014), “Putin says Russia Must Prevent ‘Color Revolution’”, Reuters, Yahoo! News, 20 November, www.yahoo.com/​news/​putin-​says-​rus​sia-​mustgu​ard-​agai​nst-​color-​revo​luti​ons-​135​ 8073​778.html.

486

487

Russian foreign policy and the challenge to the world order Lavrov, S. (2014), “Conferencia del Ministro de Asuntos Exterior Serguéi Lavrov sobre la política exterior de Rusia”, 20 October, https://​spain.mid.ru/​blo​gosf​era-​y-​peri​odis​tas/​-​/​asse​t_​pu​blis​her/​w90OD​ju28​ zfw/​cont​ent/​id/​8014​711. Leonnig, C. and P. Rucker (2021), I Alone Can Fix it: Donald J. Trump’s Catastrophic Final Year (New York: Penguin). Lewis, D. (2019), “Strategic Culture and Russia’s ‘Pivot to the East:’ Russia, China, and ‘Greater Eurasia’ ”, George C. Marshall European Center for Security Studies, July, Number 034, www.mar​shal​lcen​ter. org/​en/​publi​cati​ons/​secur​ity-​insig​hts/​strate​g ic-​cult​ure-​and-​r uss​ias-​pivot-​east-​r us​sia-​china-​and-​g rea​ ter-​eura​sia-​0. Lo, B. (2003), Vladimir Putin and the Evolution of Russia’s Foreign Policy (Hoboken: Wiley). Löfflmann, G. (2020), “From the Obama Doctrine to America First: the erosion of the Washington consensus on grand strategy”, International Politics 57, 4: 588–​605. Loftus, S. (2021), “Spoiler State? Russia’s Status Seeking and Hegemonic Ambitions”, in F. Böller and W. Werner (eds.), A Hegemonic Transition? Reconfigurations of Global Economic and Security Orders in the Age of Trump (Basingstoke: Palgrave). Lyukanov, F. (2016), “Putin’s Foreign Policy: The Quest to Restore Russia’s Rightful Place”, Foreign Affairs 95, 3: 30–​7. Malyarenko, T. and S. Wolff (2018), “The Logic of Competitive Influence-​seeking: Russia, Ukraine, and the Conflict in Donbas”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 34, 4: 191–​212. Mazzetti, M. (2020), “In Phone Transcripts, the Kindling of a Kremlin-​Fueled Fire”, The New York Times, 3 June: A28. Military Doctrine (2014), The Military Doctrine of the Russian Federation https://​rus​emb.org.uk/​press/​2029. Moulioukova, D. and R.E. Kanet (2017), “Decoding Russia’s Energy Security: Perceptions Matter”, in R. Piet, B. Bagley and M.R.S. Zorovich (eds.), Energy Security and Environmental Policy in the Western Hemisphere (New York: Lexington Books): 275–​98. Neethling, T. (2019), “How Russia is growing its strategic influence in Africa”, The Conversation, 6 February: 5–​48, https://​thec​onve​rsat​ion.com/​how-​rus​sia-​is-​grow​ing-​its-​strate​gic-​influe​nce-​in-​afr​ ica-​110​930. Nikitina, Y. (2014), “The ‘Color Revolutions’ and ‘Arab Spring’ in Russian Official Disciourse”, Connections 14, 1: 87–​104. Nygren, B. (2011), “Russia and Georgia: From Confrontation to War. What is Next?”, in R. Kanet (ed.), Russian Foreign Policy in the 21st Century (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan): 101–​20. Ó Beacháin, D. and A. Polese (2011), “The Colour Revolutions in the Former Soviet Republics: Successes and Failures”, Journal of Peace Research 48, 4, https://​doi.org/​10.2307/​23035​215/​. O’Kelly, L. (2020), “Masha Gessen: ‘I Never Thought I’d Say It, but Trump is Worse than Putin’ ”, The Guardian, 27 June. Olivier, G. and D. Suchkov (2019), “Russia is Back in Africa”, Strategic Review for Southern Africa 37, 2: 146–​67. Papert, T. (2014), “Moscow Conference Identifies ‘Color Revolutions’ as War”, E-​International Relations Publishing, 13 July, www.laro​uche​pub.com/​eiw/​pub​lic/​2014/​eirv41​n24-​20140​613/​07-​25_​4​ 124.pdf. Perlroth, N. and D.E. Sangermarch (2018), “Cyberattacks Put Russian Fingers on the Switch at Power Plants, U.S. Says”, The New York Times, 15 March, https://​.nyti​mes.com/​2018/​03/​15/​us/​polit​ics/​rus​ sia-​cyber​atta​cks.html. Putin, V. (2005), “Annual Address to the Federal Assembly of the Russian Federation”, 25 April, http://​ arch​ive.krem​lin.ru/​eng/​speec​hes/​2005/​04/​25/​2031_​t​ype7​0029​type​8291​2_​87​086.shtm. Putin, V. (2007), “Putin Slams US for Making World More Dangerous”, DE-​Deutsche Welle, 10 February, www.dw6wo​rld.de/​dw/​arti​cle/​0,2144,2343​749,00.html. Putin, V. (2011), “A New Integration Project for Eurasia: The Future in the Making”, Izvestiya, 3 https://​russi​aeu.ru/​en/​news/​arti​cle-​prime-​minis​ter-​vladi​mir-​putin​new-​inte​grat​ion-​proj​ October, ect-​eura​sia-​fut​ure-​mak​ing-​izves​tia-​3. Putin, V. (2012), “Russia and the Changing World”, Moscow News, 27 February, www.rus​skiy​mir.ru/​en/​ publi​cati​ons/​139​698/​. Putin, V. (2014), “Crimea Crisis: Russian President Putin’s Speech Annotated”, BBC News, 19 March, www.bbc.com/​news/​world-​eur​ope-​266m 152058.

487

488

Roger E. Kanet Putin, V. (2015), “Putin Takes Part in Valdai Discussion Club in Sochi (English audio)”, 22 October, www.yout​ube.com/​watch?v=​4n5WJ​5IQ-​xo. Putin, V. (2016), “Putin at Valdai Club Calls for New World Order ‘To Make the Fruit of Economic Growth and Technological Progress Accessible to All’”, Russia Matters, 28 October, www.russia​ matt​ers.org/​analy​sis/​you-​americ​ans-​never-​learn-​how-​val​dai-​showca​sed-​put​ins-​terms-​us-​rus​sia-​coop​ erat​ion. Putin, V. (2018), “Vladimir Putin: So Listen to Us Now!”, OrientalReview.org, 1 March, https://​ori​enta​ lrev​iew.org/​2018/​03/​01/​vladi​mir-​putin-​now-​lis​ten-​us. Putin, V. (2019), “Interview to TASS News Agency”, 21 October, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ ent/​news/​61858. Roberts, P.C. (2014), “Russia’s Rise to Global Power”, Strategic Culture Foundation, 22 May, www.strat​ gic-​cult​ure.otg/​news/​2014/​05/​22/​rus​sia-​r ise-​to-​glob​alpo​wer.html. Rumer, E. (2019), “The Primakov (Not Gerasimov) Doctrine in Action”, Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 5 June. Russia: Real GDP (2017), “Russia: Real Gross Domestic Product (GDP) Growth Rate from 2016 to 2026”, Statistika, 20 May, www.stati​sta.com/​sta​tist​ics/​263​621/​gross​dome​stic​prod​uct-​gdp-​gro​wth-​ rate-​in-​rus​sia/​. Russian Federation (2015), “Russian National Security Strategy”, December, www.ieee.es/​Galer​ias/​fich​ ero/​Otr​asPu​blic​acio​nes/​Intern​acio​nal/​2016/​Russ​ian-​Natio​nal-​Secur​ity-​Strat​egy-​31Dec2​015.pdf. Russian Foreign Policy Concept (2016), “Foreign Policy Concept of the Russian Federation”, approved by President of the Russian Federation Vladimir Putin on 30 November 2016, www.mid.ru/​en/​for​eign​_​ pol​icy/​off​i cia​l_​do​cume​nts//​asse​t_​pu​blis​her/​CptIC​kB6B​Z29/​cont​ent/​id/​2542​248. Saefong, M.P. and M. DeCambre (2020), “Oil Prices Up About 5% as OPEC+​Plans Saturday Meeting to Discuss Output Cut Extension”, MarketWatch, 5 June, www.mark​etwa​tch.com/​story/​oil-​pri​ces-​ rise-​as-​opec-​seen-​sett​ing-​stage-​for-​week​end-​meet​ing-​2020-​06-​05. Sakwa, R. (2017), Russia Against the Rest: The Post-​Cold War Crisis of World Order (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Seddon, M. and N. Buckley (2016), “Russia: Magnitsky’s Bitter Legacy”, Financial Times, 12 June. Shubin, V. (2013), “Russia in Africa”, ISPI, No. 168, www.goo​gle.com/​url?sa=​t&rct=​j&q=​&esrc=​ s&sou​rce=​web&cd=​&ved=​2ahUKEwiSsZKMzKn​yAhU​LmeA​KHVQ​0Dqg​QFno​ECAI​QAQ&url=​ https%3A%2F%2Fwww.files.ethz.ch%2Fisn%2F173​ 7 48%2Fs​ a ia_​ s op_​ 1 57%2520​ _ ​ a rk​ h ang​ e lsk​ aya%2520%2520​Shub​in_​2​0131​118.pdf&usg=​AOvVa​w0j-​XXmU​jSlP​nNjy​ETT6​w2A. Standish, R. (2021), “China, Russia Showcase Growing Ties with Joint Military Exercises”, Radio Free Europe/​Radio Liberty, 9 August, www.rferl.org/​. Cold War System: The Drivers of Course”, Trenin, D. (2014), “Russia’s Breakout from the Post-​ (Moscow: Carnegie Moscow Center), 22 December, http://​carne​gie.ru/​2014/​12/​22/​rus​sia-​s-​break​ out-​from-​post-​cold-​war-​sys​tem-​driv​ers-​ofpu​tin-​s-​cou​rse-​pub-​57589. TRTWorld (2018), “Trump’s Top Five Withdrawals from International Agreements”, 29 June, www. trtwo​rld.com/​ameri​cas/​trump-​s-​top-​five-​with​draw​als-​from-​intern​atio​nal-​agr​eeme​nts-​18543. Tsygankov, A. (2015), “Vladimir Putin’s Last Stand: The Sources of Russia’s Ukraine Policy”, Post-​ Soviet Affairs 3, 14: 279–​303. Zabakhidze, R. (2020), “Assessment of Sino-​ Russian Strategic Competition in Africa”, Divergent Options, 12 October, https://​diver​gent​opti​ons.org/​2020/​10/​12/​7509/​.

488

489

42 RUSSIAN SECURITY POLICY AND OUTLOOK Graeme P. Herd

Introduction The thread of continuity linking the foreign and security policy of the post-​Soviet Russian Federation under Presidents Boris Yeltsin, Vladimir Putin, Dmitry Medvedev and Putin once again is in the definition of national interest and core foreign policy goals. All wanted Russia to be acknowledged as a strategically independent, autonomous actor in the international system. All sought to uphold Russia’s exceptional great power identity and gain the status, honour, respect, prestige and equality this secures. Achieving these first two goals enables the third and most important: internal stability, elite status quo, and, for President Putin at least, continuity in power. The key differences between Russia’s post-​Soviet leaders lie in the means (security policies) adopted to achieve them. All understood Russia to be a Great Power, one that should avoid instability, and that a strong Russian military generates respect. All wanted to influence Ukraine. Yeltsin thought to recognise Ukraine’s independence, Medvedev used energy and kompromat, and Putin –​the annexation of Crimea in February 2014, subversion in Donbas and now a full-​ scale multi-​axis invasion of Ukraine beginning in February 2022. All Russian presidents want a voice and veto in global “hot-​spots”. Putin chooses to send an armed expeditionary force to fight coalitional warfare in Syria in 2015 (outside the historic borders of the 400-​year-​old Russian empire); Medvedev does not send Russian troops to intervene in Kyrgyzstan in April 2010 (Osh and Jalalabad). Putin over the last 22 years has changed. When he came into office on 6 May 2000, he appeared to attempt to integrate Russia into a “Greater West”. When he could not do so on his own terms, he abandoned the strategy. Performance or legal-​rational legitimation of his political authority had, by 2011–​12, given way to charismatic-​historical legitimation. Putin’s Russia is not the Soviet Union, nor is it the Russia of the 1990s. Putin is a system-​forming figure and we can note core differences with the past. Putin is much less restrained by checks and balances than Soviet leaders. In an unprecedented break from the Soviet and Russian historical past, every key sector and resource –​from finance to economics, the media, military, energy and foreign policy sectors –​is controlled by the security services. Indeed, the “combination of the new redistribution of property with a rather archaic ideology is a unique feature of Putin’s regime” (Khvostunova 2021). DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-47

489

490

Graeme P. Herd

Putin has promoted an official state discourse based on a foundational myth of a rich thousand-​year history. This narrative weaponises history. If Moscow inherited the lands and peoples of Kievan Rus’ –​which Putin references as “historical Rus” and “Ancient Rus” and a civilisational triune state concept –​Russia has a historically legitimised sphere of influence, and any Russian revanchism represents a defensive move to restore the status quo ante. The fixation of current elites with Russia’s past can be explained through the need to create a stable sense of self (self-​identity), a response to the “ontological anxiety” caused by the disintegration of the Soviet Union or, in Putin’s words, the “greatest geopolitical tragedy of the 20th century” (Putin 2005). “Ontological security” places an emphasis on continuity, consistency and order and also dislocation, trauma and tragedy and how this is interpreted (Chrzanowski 2021; Steele 2021). The need to promote continuity, consistency and order and avoid the “ontological insecurity” and “ontological anxiety” associated with dislocation, trauma and tragedy provides the central driving rationale for contemporary Russian security policy. Understanding the relationships between Putin and Russian elite strategic decision-​makers and the wider economic and cultural (norms, customs, traditions and ideologies) structures that shape how those decisions are framed is an important key to unlocking Russian strategic behaviour and the security policies designed to achieve Russian objectives. The strategic interests and values of Russia and the West are incompatible and irreconcilable. It is notable that Putin, Secretary of the Security Council Nikolai Patrushev, Defence Minister Sergei Shoigu, Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov and head of the Foreign Intelligence Service Sergei Naryshkin, for example, share the same escalatory rhetoric and threat assessment (unremitting Western containment and encirclement) and endorse Russian strategic responses as defensive and reactive. This chapter seeks to determine the range of threats that Russia identifies and the security policy instruments it deploys, then apply this understanding to Ukraine before projecting forward to consider possible future alternative scenarios that could constitute the operating environments for Russian security policy.

Russian threats To identify and uncover what Russia perceives as a threat, we can look to official documents such as Russia’s National Security strategy (NSS), Military Doctrine and Foreign Policy Concept. More broadly, official and unofficial discourse can identify the wider worldview of key elites and how they interpret events in the world, including speeches at events such as the general assembly of the Academy of Military Science, the Ministry of Defence Collegium or Putin’s annual address to the Federal Assembly. We can also identify real-​life examples of strategic action to determine whether documented official words and stated intent match actual deeds and outcomes. Russian security policy identifies one central problem: Western liberal democratic values are decadent and destabilising; liberal international order is a construct designed to exclude Russia. The responsibility and blame lie with the “totalitarian West” and its messianic coercive promotion of demonic democratic universalism and is led by “one master, one sovereign”, as Putin asserted in 2007 –​the United States. By 2021, Western liberalism was targeted as a source of insecurity, legitimising outright anti-​Westernism and ideological confrontation and creating an atmosphere of national emergency. The publication of Russia’s latest National Security Strategy (NSS) on 2 July 2021 noted: Destructive forces abroad and at home are attempting to exploit objective social economic difficulties in the Russian Federation in order to stimulate negative social 490

491

Russian security policy and outlook

processes, exacerbate inter-​ethnic and sectarian conflicts, and manipulate the information sphere. The activity of intelligence and other activities of special services and organisations of foreign states, including the use of Russian public associations and individuals controlled by them, continues to be intensified. The capabilities of global Internet companies are widely used to disseminate false information and organise illegal public actions. Ukaz 2021 According to this NSS, “traditional Russian spiritual, moral, cultural, and historical values are being actively attacked by the US and its allies, as well as by transnational corporations.” These traditional Russian spiritual and moral values include life, dignity, human rights and freedoms; patriotism, citizenship, service to the Fatherland and responsibility for its fate; high moral ideals, a strong family; constructive work; priority of the spiritual over the material; humanism, mercy and justice; and collectivism. The United States and its allies, along with transnational corporations, allegedly “have an informational and psychological influence on individual, group, and public consciousness by spreading social and moral attitudes that contradict the traditions, convictions, and beliefs of the peoples of the Russian Federation” (Meduza 2021). In May 2021 at the 43rd meeting of the Russian Pobeda (Victory) Organising Committee, Putin condemned foreign distortions of “the role played by the Red Army in the routing of Nazism and the liberation of European nations from the Nazi plague.” Putin understands such “slander and distortions” as part of perennial “attempts to hamper the development of this country, regardless of its name, be it the Russian Empire, the Soviet Union or Russia, were made in different times and historical epochs and under different political systems.” Putin neatly suggests that there is only one historical Russia and that the golden thread of continuity is an existential struggle for survival and resistance to constant and unremitting external pressure. The logic is unrelenting: There is one principle or rather, one reason for containing Russia: the stronger and more independent Russia becomes, the more consistently it defends its national interests, the greater the striving of foreign forces to weaken it, to discredit the values uniting our society and sometimes to slander and distort what people hold dear, the things that are instilled in the younger generations of Russians and which help them acquire a strong character and their own opinions. Meeting of the Russian Pobeda 2021 Russia’s view of space is conditioned by threat perception and strategic psychology born to strategic vulnerability and anxiety. Russia constructs and engages with five “spatial imaginaries”. First is Belarus and Ukraine as part of an East Slavic Orthodox foundational core of “one people”, one language, one history, one culture and one religion. They are “territories of historical Russia”, not independent sovereign states; as such, they constitute the central to core non-​negotiable national interest, over which Russia will go to war to prevent loss. Second, the wider hinterland of former Soviet space, over which Russia should have influence, demonstrates that Russia is a centre of global power in a multi-​polar world order. In 2021, Putin codified a de facto doctrine of limited sovereignty in his July 12 “historical” article and July 13 interview “On the Historical Unity of Russians and Ukrainians” (Putin 2021b and 2021c). Though marred by presentism and phobias, the thrust of Putin’s thinking is clear: the post-​Soviet settlement is illegitimate and “anti-​Russian platform” states (states that create “problems or threats to 491

492

Graeme P. Herd

Russia”) would never host foreign bases or join military alliances unless they themselves were foreign controlled or influenced. As such, in Putin’s view, these states are not and so should not be treated as sovereign. Third, Europe’s function in Russian strategic identity is to validate Russia’s exceptional civilisational identity as a besieged fortress and alternative governance model. This narrative argues that Europe consists of US vassal states –​puppet states incapable of strategic autonomy. The fourth imaginary is the United States. From a Russian perspective, its own nuclear triad gives it parity, equality and reciprocity with the United States. The United States serves as Russia’s strategic benchmark, and because of its own great power status, the United States represents for Russia a “dignified foe”. The power-​status disparities between Russia and the United States and Russia’s perception of the leader-​subordinate nature of transatlantic relations make sense of Russia’s strategic calculus. Russian status-​based activism and presence in the fifth imaginary, the wider globe, is evidence of its first-​tier global power. The fifth imaginary is the global context. Russia maintains its great power strategic relevance through global hotspot engagement, leveraging its United Nations Security Council Permanent Five (UNSC P5) status to that end. Russia also exercises influence on issues of “strategic stability” (nuclear issues) and outer space, reflecting its nuclear parity with the US and the Soviet space legacy. When anticipated costs are low or Russia has strategic interests at stake, Russia can opportunistically insert itself into a crisis and exploit power vacuums. Russia cultivates the role of neutral mediator and honest power broker, one able to provide a constructive stabilising presence. Increasingly, Russia uses engagement in one conflict to project power and influence into the next. It projects itself as an alternative partner to the West, the upholder of principles of respect for international law, equality, and non-​interference in the internal affairs of states, the peaceful settlement of disputes and a commitment to multilateral actions. It is a sovereignty and security provider. Russia advances its economic interests to secure political influence. Though Russia is less able to dictate outcomes, it can complicate and threaten the security interests of the United States and its friends and allies. Russia demonstrates that direct military intervention to resolve strategic challenges can be swift and effective and can garner international support, not isolation. Russia can leverage ties with Soviet era allies (“traditional relations”) such as Vietnam, Cuba and Syria. Russia’s construction of a global imaginary is work in progress. “Tactical globalism” allows for incremental gains at low cost. Russia’s global reach and activism are shaped by a number of factors: the breakdown of relations with the political West; the need to diversify and exploit new markets; and the need to mitigate the risks associated with sanctions and signal its great power status (Herd 2021).

Security policy instruments In Russian strategic thinking and security policy we see a blurring of the distinction between war and peace (even between “war” and “special military operation”), between internal and external threats, between nuclear and conventional forces and between military and nonmilitary means. In contemporary Russian thought, strategic deterrence has expanded as a concept to incorporate both military and nonmilitary components. It is a concept that is still grounded in traditional ideas of nuclear deterrence, but it also includes the use of conventional military force and nonmilitary tactics such as diplomacy, peace talks, “information warfare” and politics (Ven Bruusgaard 2016; Loukianova Fink 2017). This emphasis on nonmilitary tactics in strategic deterrence highlights similarities with the more common –​but now highly politicised –​concept of “hybrid war”, in that it demonstrates a characteristically holistic approach to warfare 492

493

Russian security policy and outlook

that uses the full spectrum of methods available to the state (Bērziņš 2020). Russia’s ability to weaponise migration flows (Syria, Libya and Ukraine) and interdependence through control of energy (North Stream) and food hubs (the attempted blockade of Odesa and the north-​west Black Sea) highlight this aspect of its security tool box. For Russia, strategic deterrence (sderzhivanie) can occur in three ways. First, there is deterrence by “intimidation or fear inducement” (Kofman et al 2020: i). Second, there is deterrence “by denial” –​that is, by preventing an adversary from achieving its goals by reducing one’s own vulnerabilities and so denying the conditions that enable attacks. Third, “deterrence by punishment”. Here, a state seeks to impose unacceptable costs on an adversary through counter force (attack an opponent’s military infrastructure) and counter value (attack an opponent’s civilian population to threaten its socioeconomic base). In his address to the Federal Assembly on 21 April 2021, Putin articulated an anti-​Western narrative designed to appeal to his core supporters (pensioners and public sector employees). Putin first highlighted Russian exceptionalism: “They may think that we are like them, but we are different, with a different genetic, cultural and moral code. We know how to defend our interests” (Troianovsky 2021). Putin promises that an innocent Russia will take “swift and hard” action and act “rapidly, asymmetrically and sharply” against opponents determined to impose their will through threats of the use of force, economic sanctions and provocations. Russia will react to provocations and any violation of its “red lines”, so that provocateurs will “regret their actions like they have never regretted anything before”. He defines “red lines” in terms of “interests”, “interference”, “insults” and “infringements” and states: “We ourselves will determine in each specific case where it will be drawn” (Putin 2021a). In other words, Russia determines the extent of retaliation and where, when and to whom they should be applied, highlighting demonstrative, damage-​inflicting and retaliatory deterrence. In 2020, after Constitutional changes were secured, Russia underwent a major policy shift, characterised by the application of much more openly repressive measures. Russia’s non-​ systemic opposition was criminalised. This shift appears to be driven by an elite consensus (Security Council Secretary Nikolai Patrushev, FSB director Alexander Bortnikov, Investigatory Committee head Alexander Bastrykin and Rosgvardiya commander Viktor Zolotov) that a Western campaign of subversive gibridnaya voina (hybrid war) was targeting Putin himself. Nikolai Petrov has highlighted five inter-​enabling elements that could culminate in a crisis in Russia, force adaptation or result in collapse (Petrov 2016). He noted the overconcentration of power, military mobilisation, shortening horizons, elites in conflict and the necessity of manual control. He predicted that a crisis could be triggered by the result and dissatisfaction of an election coupled with unexpected events such as a terrorist attack that damage the credibility of the security services, an egregious corruption scandal or an ultra-​loyalist siloviki squabble that goes public. The creation of the institution of the National Guard underscores the notion that, in Russia, “foreign policy is driven by domestic political concerns, and this also extends to a hyper-​consciousness wandering into paranoia at the extent to which unrest (such as Euromaidan or Bolotnaya) actually reflect external influence” (Galeotti 2019). Putin’s support rests on a broad constituency consisting of middle income, conservative nationalists, the politically timid and apathetic and the exhausted who either yearn for, or at least are prepared to tolerate, a strong hand and authoritarian stability against less certain and predictable alternatives. Putin’s approach and agenda chime with a traditional political culture supportive of the notion that Russia under Putin is restored to great power status with its associated emotion-​laden (patriotic pride, dignity, respect) values and fearful of disorder and chaos (humiliation and terror). This in turn allows for a new informal social contract to emerge: “socio-​economic decline in return for geo-​strategic grandeur”. 493

494

Graeme P. Herd

Sub-​institutional actors in Russia have competitive goals –​maintain status, increase budgets and quality of recruited personnel, define missions and control narratives. Institutions and organisations that constitute the regime have competing preferences. Alongside the president and Presidential Administration/​Security Council, we can also look to the role and interests of silovyye struktury –​special services, power ministries and their troops or units (Taylor 2011). Though they are strategically aligned in support of Putin, they are tactically divided, with some adopting more statist and some more ideological stances. The ability to define threats and enemies that need to be addressed is key, as from this budget, personnel and narratives follow. For this reason, these actors compete over cultural interpretations as to who is friend and who is foe and, given this, how to preserve the status quo.

Ukraine –​Russia’s military, politics and society In Putin’s televised speeches after the Emergency Session of the Security Council on 22 February 2022 and in his address to the Russian public on 24 February 2022 that launched the multi-​axis invasion of Ukraine, all aspects of Russian security policy were crystallised in stunning, venomous clarity. In the first speech, Putin emphasised that “Russia’s destiny” was to restore Slavic unity, referencing what he termed “historical Rus’ ” and “ancient Russian lands”. Ukraine, he stated, was a “creation of Russia” with no tradition of statehood, just “greedy interests”, oligarchs, corruption and US control (Adomeit et al 2022). Putin clearly outlined a doctrine of Russian national neo-​imperialism and in this construct both Ukraine and by implication Belarus have no autonomy, indigenous perspective and popular sentiment or right to choose. The speech was laden with unresolved grievances, conspiracies and phobias of his generation and background –​the siloviki. In the second speech, the West represented an “Empire of lies” and had crossed Russian red lines: “For us it is a matter of life and death, the matter of our historic future as a nation [narod]. This is the very red line I have spoken about many times. And they have crossed it.” Putin declared that the goal of the “military operation” was “the demilitarisation and denazification of Ukraine” (BBC Monitoring 2022). A poor understanding of history leads to a skewed risk-​opportunity calculus. We can surmise that from Putin’s perspective the risks or costs of what he termed a “special military operation” (a term used for operations in Georgia and Syria) in Ukraine were negligible. Indeed, the term itself was comforting for Russian society. Russia was not at “war”; Putin could be supported without recourse to full mobilisation. Moreover, official propaganda asserted that Russia was strong and Ukraine weak. Putin understood that a Russian modernised military would, in short order, undertake the “liberation” of a Ukrainian failed state held hostage by a Nazi puppet junta under US control. Putin believed that the West would understand the importance of Ukraine to Russia and that this would trump abstract Western principles. The “political West” would not cut Russia from SWIFT: it was too energy dependent on Russia and Russia had developed its own Russian System for Transfer of Financial Messages and could rely on the China Cross-​ Border Interbank Payment System (CIPS). Russia had a “war chest” or $643bn reserve, information supremacy in Russia, and China offered Russia “unlimited friendship”. Again, from a Putin perspective, the benefits were obvious. The defeat of a Nazi/​fascist puppet government and liberation of “Russian Ukraine” would, in the words of Patriarch Kirill, allow Russia to welcome back the “prodigal son” into Orthodox communion within the Slavic fold. This victory would expand Russia’s sphere of influence. First, Russia would be able to impose neutrality on Georgia and Moldova, leaving only allies of neutral states in former Soviet space. Direct bilateral US or NATO defence cooperation with states within Russia’s sphere would cease, further NATO enlargement would be impossible and NATO military 494

495

Russian security policy and outlook

infrastructure (but not Russian in Crimea, Donbas, South Ossetia and Abkhazia) would withdraw to where it was in 1997. The objective reality, though, was somewhat different. Ukraine proved more resilient than Putin calculated. Military resistance was strong (“Welcome to hell!”) and the sense of nationhood and pride in the Ukrainian state and its institutions has grown. Russia’s army was demilitarised and Ukraine’s population de-​Russified in the process. In addition, global unity was much greater than Russia calculated, as demonstrated by the UN General Assembly vote, the suspension of Russia from the UN Human Rights Council, the scale, scope and speed of sanctions and the revolutions in the EU’s strategic culture and energy policy, all triggered by Russia’s multi-​axis unprovoked attack on Ukraine. China’s offer of “unlimited friendship” now contends with the trade-​offs inherent in balancing the need to uphold a functional if not friendly axis with Russia to counter-​balance US hegemony and structural economic realities: China’s trade with the US and EU amounted to $1.6tr against $147bn with Russia in 2021. From a Chinese perspective, China needs a strong economy to challenge the US; under any future scenario, Russia’s dependencies on and power asymmetries with China increase. The result of such miscalculation was evidenced by what can be termed a “Blitzkrieg Z regime decapitation” attack plan, based on a lightning attack on Kyiv to arrest or kill President Zelensky at the outset of the “special operation”. Russia then looked to a “Second Offensive” around Kharkiv and Donbas and a protracted war of attrition to grind down the Ukrainian military. However, Russia lacked the troop-​to-​task ratio to achieve this objective. This raises the spectres that, to generate or offset necessary troop numbers, Russia may be forced to extend the time of conscription service (“stop-​loss”), deploy chemical, biological, radiological or non-​ strategic nuclear weapons in Ukraine (“vertical escalation” as a “false-​flag” operation) to break Ukraine’s will to resist, or declare martial law in Russia and move to full-​mobilisation in Russia. Even Russian propaganda may struggle to rebrand the “special military operation” into a “war”. Such reframing implies that the “operation” had failed. How to explain the need to go to war when the stated aim is liberation? If it appeared that culmination points in the Russian military, society and politics (the point at which exhaustion and paralysis occurs) were converging, Putin has the option to “Declare Victory and Leave” (Baev et al 2022). In this context, we can ask: How does the full-​scale invasion of Ukraine impact on politics and society in Russia? The state of the Russian economy determines the president’s approval rating over an extended period. State-​controlled FOM and VTsIOM polling shows Putin’s approval rating has risen ten percentage points since the invasion –​from 60–​65 percent to 70–​ 75 percent and more –​though there are doubts over the reliability of the data given (Zubov 2022). In Russia, around 80 percent of the population can be considered the base of society, and this base, it becomes clear, is heavily imprinted by state-​media propaganda, which is laden with anti-​Americanism and derision of a decadent West in decay and inculcates hatred and fear of the West and political passivity at home. Society is concerned with unemployment, access to medicines, and rising food and other prices, but the sentiment “we all live in poverty now” is unifying. Dissatisfaction is expressed in attempts to change personal situations, not the Putinist system. If the “special military operation” morphs into “war”, with “stop-​loss” and then full mobilisation, it is likely that Putin’s propaganda will stress his authenticity: “A genuine czar, a true chief, a true leader, is someone who takes a country on the brink of ruin and leads it to triumph” (Zorin 2022). If not societal revolt, might the “inner circle” around Putin mount a palace coup –​in the tradition of 1964 (Khrushchev) or 1991 (Gorbachev) –​in 2022? The war appears to have levelled “the Kremlin Towers” and consolidated the elite in fear, shock and determination to maintain their individual status in a time of personal insecurity. Purges are taking place, with 495

496

Graeme P. Herd

Putin’s Federal Protection Service (FSO) arresting members of the FSB, the FSB purging the army and the GRU the Rosgvardiya. First-​mover disincentives are strong and there are no collective mechanisms for intra-​elite change, and the spectre of a return of the “Great Terror” is a powerful motivator for passivity and paralysis rather than action. It is notable, for example, that between 11 and 24 March 2022, key members of the inner elite made no public speeches or TV appearances. Moreover, RIA Novosti published an opinion editorial entitled “What should Russia do with Ukraine?” on 4 April 2022. The answer: “de-​Ukrainization” through the murder of the Ukrainian elite (“active Nazi’s”) and the forced labour re-​education of the population (“passive Nazis”) (Sergeytsev 2022). The next day, former President Medvedev endorsed the premise of such exterminationist rhetoric. He compared Ukraine to Nazi Germany, predicting that it will share its fate: “The current [Russian] special operation will be a lesson for them, as are episodes from the glorious past. For example, when [Soviet spy] Pavel Sudoplatov killed nationalist Yevhen Konovalets, by politely handing over to that sweet-​toothed man in Rotterdam a box of sweets with a bomb inside –​[in Ukrainian:] ‘Here’s a present for you from Kyiv’. There will be many more such ‘gifts’ for Nazi criminals!” (“Putin ally” 2022) Two future scenarios may characterise the operating environment within which leaders in Russia exercise security policy (Galeotti and Herd 2022). Both are driven by the fundamental logic of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. In April 2022 what might be called the “Second Offensive” begins, the battle for Kyiv ending in defeat. It is likely, given resource constraints due to high casualties, low morale and equipment problems, that “stop-​loss” will be introduced. When this too fails to generate needed force, Putin will likely order full mobilisation, with senior military and civilian leaders unable to tell him that Russia cannot process these numbers after the military reforms of 2009–​2012. At this point, Putin could declare “mission accomplished” and order the withdrawal of Russian troops from Ukraine, holding land seized in Donbas and the north of Crimea. For “health reasons” Putin leaves office or is replaced in a coup, with the Security Council brokering an acceptable technocratic successor –​most likely Mayor of Moscow Sergei Sobyanin. This future without Putin creates an operating environment we might term “Brezhnev 2.0”. In this scenario, the repression of a passive and apathetic public secures the position of a weakened regime. This regime is able to advance more predictable and pragmatic economic approaches, allowing for the sale of oil and gas and so funding for the military. It can gradually unwind Ukrainian occupation and address the worst irritants with the West. However, another scenario –​a future with Putin –​appears more likely. It begins the same, “stop-​loss” and full mobilisation, but, rather than “declare victory and leave” in the face of military quagmire, Putin doubles down and orders “vertical escalation” through the deployment of Russian non-​strategic nuclear weapons in Ukraine or a false-​flag engineered catastrophe at a Russian-​controlled Ukrainian nuclear power plant and a further crack-​down on Russian society. In this scenario, instead of withdrawal he advances a “Russian DPRK” project. A national security emergency regime emerges, with elite and society consolidated around the realisation that “We’ve passed the point of no return”. Propaganda-​driven military-​patriotic mobilisation, the “cleaning up” of “national traitors”, the nationalisation of the oligarchs (1917), elimination of the entrepreneurial class (1929) and declaration of autarchy are the principal features. Like the DPRK, nuclear blackmail (“nuclear Orthodoxy”) becomes a key part of Russia’s foreign policy. Russia moves from pariah to full-​blown rogue state status. By mid-​2022 a third scenario looks most probable and can be understood as “Putinism 3.0: Putin’s Rus?”. Russia’s “special military operation” is justified increasingly by myths, memes, and manipulated past historical memory. This scenario recognises that Russia lacks the military capability to achieve “victory” under current conditions but is not prepared to 496

497

Russian security policy and outlook

risk either “full military mobilisation” or “vertical escalation” to break the strategic deadlock. Instead, Russia digs in and attempts to turn military occupation into political control, relying on the energy issue to erode Western solidarity with Ukraine. Putin can manage Russian elites and society more easily under quasi-​war mobilisation conditions.

Conclusion The consequences of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine have radicalised and reset Russian security policy: “Putinism has lost its historical foundation, its historical self-​determination. It has shredded, reduced the memory of the Great War to fictional paradigms and threats, to the odious “denazification and demilitarisation of Ukraine”. This is an astonishing historical example of a political regime getting rid of part of the basis for its own historical legitimacy” (Kolesnikov 2022). This points to a larger underlying reality: Russians have an indistinct civilisational self-​identity and weak geopolitical and geo-​cultural arsenal. The myths and manipulations manufactured by Putin are phantom pains of a lost empire and identity, reflecting the experience of psychological alienation and isolation. State narratives with an overemphasis on the importance of stability and the status quo and demonisation of change and reform as the harbinger of chaos and a new time of troubles mean that Russia substitutes a dark and inglorious past for a modernised future. This in turn indicates that, in Russia, path dependency and patrimonial patterns are strongly ingrained in the political culture of the state. The overwhelming need for a status quo-​based “order and stability” trumps any reform, developmental and modernisation agenda. The Russian empire lasted 13 years after its defeat in the Russo-​Japanese War of 1905; the Soviet empire 12 years after the invasion of Afghanistan. If these historical parallels have a purchase on reality, we might expect “Brezhnev 2.0” or “Russian DPRK” to expire only in the early 2030s. The spiritual roots of both scenarios lie in Orthodox fundamentalism, Slavophilism and Stalinism. Both advance the notion of Russian superiority: only Russia has the status to attain statehood –​Ukraine and other neighbours are vassals. Both perceive that the “Anglo-​ Saxons” are Russia’s natural enemies and view Ukraine as the Holy Grail. The Russian DPRK scenario in particular will adopt a militaristic “cult of power” that normalises war as a natural foreign policy tool (Pastukhov 2022). Russian security policy is set to become even more militant and aggressive and with it Russia itself less stable and predictable.

References Adomeit, H., P. Baev, P. Dunay, D. Gorenburg and G.P. Herd (2022), “Russia Recognizes the Independent Statehood of the so-​ called ‘Donetsk People’s Republic’ and ‘Luhansk People’s Republic’: Implications”, Marshall Center Russia Seminar Series #1, February 22, www.mar​shal​ lcen​ter.org/​en/​publi​cati​ons/​marsh​all-​cen​ter-​pap​ers/​r uss​ian-​hyb​r id-​semi​nar-​ser ​ies/​r us​sia-​rec​ogni​ zes-​inde​pend​ent-​stateh​ood. Baev, P., M. Galeotti and G.P. Herd (2022), “Russia and Ukraine: Negotiated Settlement and End State?”, Marshall Center Russia Seminar Series #5, 21 March, www.mar​shal​lcen​ter.org/​en/​publi​cati​ons/​marsh​ all-​cen​ter-​pap​ers/​rus​sia-​semi​nar-​ser​ies/​rus​sia-​and-​ukra​ine-​neg​otia​ted-​set​tlem​ent-​and-​end-​state. BBC Monitoring (2022), Rossiya 24 News Channel, Moscow, in Russian 0300 GMT, 24 February. Bērziņš, J. (2020), “The Theory and Practice of New Generation Warfare: The Case of Ukraine and Syria”, The Journal of Slavic Military Studies 33, 3: 355–​80. https://​doi.org /​10.1080/​13518046. 2020.1824109. Chrzanowski, B. (2021), “An Episode of Existential Uncertainty: The Ontological Security Origins of the War in Donbas”, Texas National Security Review 4, https://​tnsr.org/​2021/​05/​an-​epis​ode-​of-​exis​ tent​ial-​unce​rtai​nty-​the-​onto​logi​cal-​secur​ity-​orig​ins-​of-​the-​war-​in-​don​bas/​.

497

498

Graeme P. Herd Galeotti, M. (2019), “The Intelligence and Security Services and Strategic Decision-​Making”, MC Security Insight No. 30, May 2019, www.mar​shal​lcen​ter.org/​en/​publi​cati​ons/​secur​ity-​insig​hts/​intel​lige​ nce-​and-​secur​ity-​servi​ces-​and-​strate​gic-​decis​ion-​mak​ing-​0. Galeotti M. and G.P. Herd (2022), “Putin’s Regime: Alternative Futures?”, Marshall Center Russia Seminar Series #3, 3 March, www.mar​shal​lcen​ter.org/​en/​publi​cati​ons/​marsh​all-​cen​ter-​pap​ers/​rus​sia-​ semi​nar-​ser​ies/​put​ins-​reg​ime-​alte​r nat​ive-​futu​res. Herd, G. (ed.) (2021), Russia’s Global Reach: A Security and Statecraft Assessment (Garmisch-​Partenkirchen: George C. Marshall European Center for Security Studies). Khvostunova, O. (2021), “Lev Gudkov: ‘The Unity of the Empire in Russia Is Maintained by Three Institutions: The School, the Army, and the Police’”, Institute of Modern Russia, 3 May, https://​imrus​ sia.org/​en/​opini​ons/​3278-​lev-​gud​kov-​. Kofman, M., A. Fink and J. Edmonds (2020), “Russian Strategy for Escalation Management: Evolution of Key Concepts”, www.cna.org/​CNA_​fi​les/​PDF/​DRM-​2019-​ U-​022455-​1Rev.pdf. Kolesnikov, A. (2022), “When Russian Artillery Shells its Own People”, The Moscow Times, 23 March. Loukianova Fink, A. (2017). “The Evolving Russian Concept of Strategic Deterrence: Risks and Responses”, Arms Control Today, August, www.arms​cont​rol.org/​act/​2017-​07/​ features/​ evolving-​russian-​concept-​strategic-​deterrence-​r isks-​responses. Meduza (2021), “What You Need to Know about Russia’s 2021 National Security Strategy”, 5 July, https://​med​uza.io/​en/​feat​ure/​2021/​07/​05/​what-​you-​need-​to-​know-​about-​rus​sia-​s-​2021-​natio​nal-​ secur​ity-​strat​egy. “Meeting of the Russian Pobeda (Victory) Organising Committee”, (2021), 20 May, http://​en.krem​lin. ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​65618. Pastukhov, V. (2022), “Operatsiya ‘Russkaya khromosoma’. Chto delat’ posle”, Novaya gazeta, 23 March, https://​novay​agaz​eta.ru/​artic​les/​2022/​03/​23/​vladi​mir-​pastuk​hov-​ope​rats​iia-​russk​aia-​khr​omos​oma. Petrov, N. (2016), “Putin’s Downfall: The Coming Crisis of the Russian Regime –​European Council on Foreign Relations”, ECFR (blog), 19 April. Putin, V. (2005), “Poslanie Federal’nomu sobraniyu Rossiisskoi Federatsii”, 25 April, https://​arch​ive.krem​ lin.ru/​appe​ars/​2005/​04/​25/​1223_​type63372typ​e633​74ty​pe82​634_​8704​9lsh​tml. Putin, V. (2021a), “Presidential Address to the Federal Assembly”, 21 April, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​ presid​ent/​tran​scri​pts/​65418. Putin, V. (2021b), “Ob istoricheskom edinstve russkikh i ukraintsev”, 12 July. http://​krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​ presid​ent/​news/​66181. Putin, V. (2021c), “Vladimir Putin, Answered Questions on His Article ‘On the Historical Unity of the Russians and Ukrainians’”, 13 July, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​66191. Putin ally (2022), “Putin ally likens Ukraine to Third Reich, predicts same fate”, BBC Monitoring Telegram Messaging Service, in Russian, 5 April. Sergeytsev, T. (2022) “Chto Rossiya dolzhna sdelat’ s Ukrainoi”, RIA Novosti, 4 April, https://​web.arch​ ive.org/​web/​202​2040​3212​023/​https:/​r ia.ru/​20220​403/​ukra​ina-​178​1469​605.html. Steele, B.J. (2021), Ontological Security in International Relations: Self-​Identity and the IR State (London: Routledge). Taylor, B.D. (2011), State Building in Putin’s Russia: Policing and Coercion after Communism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Troianovsky, A. (2021), “We Know How to Defend Our Interests’: Putin’s Emerging Hard Line”, The New York Times, 20 April, www.nyti​mes.com/​2021/​04/​20/​world/​eur​ope/​putin-​biden-​ukra​ine-​ nava​lny.html. Ukaz Prezidenta Rossiiskoi Federatsii (2021), “O Strategii natsional’noi bezopasnosti Rossiiskoi Federatsii”, President of the Russian Federation website, 2 July, http://​publ​icat​ion.pravo.gov.ru/​Docum​ent/​View/​ 00012​0210​7030​001?index=​0&rangeS​ize=​1. Ven Bruusgaard, K. (2016), “Russian Strategic Deterrence”, Survival 58, 4: 7–​26. Zorin, A. (2022), “ ‘Suddenly, These Outdated Ideas Are Being Used to Justify Mass Murder.’ Why Russia’s War against Ukraine is the Logical Continuation of Russian State Ideology”, Meduza, 4 April, https://​med​uza.io/​en/​feat​ure/​2022/​04/​04/​sudde​nly-​these-​outda​ted-​ideas-​are-​being-​used-​to-​ just​ify-​mass-​mur​der. Zubov, A. (2022), “And Putin Stands Alone”, The Moscow Times, 22 March.

498

499

43 RUSSIA’S ATTITUDES AND POLICIES TOWARD UKRAINE Dmitri Trenin

The acute crisis between Russia and the West that broke out in the winter of 2021–​2 and culminated in a war in Ukraine has deep geopolitical and security roots; in geographic terms, however, it is centred on Ukraine. In late February 2022, the crisis had morphed into a war by proxy in Ukraine; an economic war of unprecedented severity; and a general rupture of Russian-​Western ties, going in many ways beyond the Cold War model. Even though Ukraine is only one element in the wider picture, it reflects all its other aspects. A closer look at Russian policies toward its largest neighbour in Europe –​whom many Russians regard as part of the historical core of the Russian state and even part of a single Russian people –​reveals a lot about Moscow’s foreign policy in general and about Russia itself. As in most other similar cases, Russian-​Ukrainian relations cannot be understood without a solid historical background, which is usually presented in the form of national narratives designed to support one’s current political position or ideological predilections. This essay is not the place to provide a summary of a millennium of Eastern European history. It will limit itself to highlighting only those key points that help understand both traditional and current Russian approaches to Ukraine-​related issues.

Historical background The first Russian state was started in 859 in Novgorod, now in the Russian Federation, but the capital of what later historians called Kievan, or Ancient, Rus’ was established in Kiev (when discussing pre-​1991 history, we will use this traditional spelling). That huge state’s territory covered northern, central and western regions of present-​day Ukraine, all of Belarus, and western and north-​western parts of the current Russian Federation. It was also in Kiev in 988 that Eastern Slavs were first baptised, although Prince Vladimir and his entourage had been converted to Christianity in 987 in Crimea’s Chersones. Since those times, Kiev has been carrying the distinction of the “mother of Russian cities”. Ancient Rus’ is a common legacy of three branches of the early Eastern Slav community, collectively referred to as “Russians” then –​ future Ukrainians, Belarusians, and Russians (officially called “Great Russians” until the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution). By the second half of the twelfth century, the early Russian state fragmented into a plethora of principalities still ruled jointly by a single dynasty, the Rurikids. Kiev lost its former primacy. DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-48

499

500

Dmitri Trenin

Two new power centres rose, one in Galicia in the west, close to Poland, with the capital of Lvov (now Lviv), and one in the north-​east, Vladimir (200 km east of Moscow). In 1237–​40, Rus’ was invaded and overrun by the Mongols and lost its independence. North-​eastern Rus’, the core of today’s Russia, turned into a tributary country of the Golden Horde. While spared lasting oppression by the Mongols, Galicia failed to emerge as a sovereign entity and soon became a province first of Hungary, then of Poland, while much of current central and northern Ukraine, as well as what is now Belarus, formed the bulk of the territory of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, which in 1386 formed a commonwealth with Poland. From that time, the ethnic, linguistic, and cultural evolution of the three branches of the early Eastern Slav community has followed different paths. Of all the lands of Ancient Rus’, it was only in the north-​east that the original Russian statehood continued under the same dynasty, albeit in a new form of an increasingly centralised power with Moscow as the new centre. Tellingly, in the early fourteenth century the metropolitan of all Russia, the nominal head of the Russian Orthodox Church, abandoned Kiev, by then an insignificant town, and settled in Moscow, giving the small but rising city major prominence. Great Russians –​as this branch would be later known –​kept the Orthodox Christian faith while adopting much of the Mongol statecraft with its absolute submission to the top authority. By 1480, Moscow had shaken off the “Mongol yoke” and unified most of the lands of the Russian north-​east. The Moscow rulers’ ambitions, however, ran far beyond that. By marrying a relative of the last Greek emperor of Constantinople, Grand Duke Ivan III proclaimed himself an heir to the eastern Roman Empire and adopted its double-​headed eagle as Russia’s coat of arms. With the fall of the Byzantine Empire, Russia was the only independent Orthodox state standing. In the early sixteenth century, this gave rise to the doctrine of Moscow as the “Third Rome” (Parry and Melling 1999: 490). This doctrine, among other things, inspired Russian tsars –​they adopted that title, derived from “caesar” and the equivalent of an emperor, in the mid-​sixteenth century –​to work to collect all the lands of Ancient Rus’. That required, however, a protracted conflict with the Catholic Polish-​Lithuanian state, which dominated much of eastern Europe, including Belarus and much of present-​day Ukraine. Russia suffered many setbacks, the worst in the early seventeenth century when the Poles, benefiting from an internal Russian conflict, managed to briefly occupy Moscow and even to install a puppet tsar. Yet incrementally Russia was pushing its south-​ western borders forward. In 1654 Russia acted upon the request of Orthodox Cossacks from what is now part of eastern Ukraine, who were in perennial conflict with the Polish kings and nobility, and included them in the Russian realm. In 1686 Poland had to cede Kiev to Moscow. Cossack leaders were not always happy to serve under Russian rule. In 1708, their leader Ivan Mazepa switched sides to fight against Russia jointly with the Swedish king, Charles XII. Russians, however, defeated the Swedes and proceeded to solidify their control over the territory that they now called Malorossiya (“Little Russia”) –​roughly the northern and eastern parts of present-​day Ukraine. By the 1760s, remaining Cossack privileges were phased out, and peasants became serfs. The territory’s elite was fully integrated within the Russian nobility. Toward the end of the eighteenth century, as a result of three partitions of Poland, the Russian Empire annexed more territory west of the Dnepr River. A series of wars with Turkey led to Russia gaining Crimea and the entire northern coast of the Black Sea where it built Odessa, which later became one of the principal ports of the empire. In Crimea, which was an independent khanate until the Russian Empire annexed it in 1783, Russians built a major naval base at Sevastopol, which became the headquarters of the Russian Black Sea Fleet. The defence of Sevastopol in 1854–​5 during the Crimean War is

500

501

Russia’s attitudes and policies toward Ukraine

considered one of the most glorious and tragic events in Russian military history (the city had to be abandoned to the joint Anglo-​French forces after a long siege). The work of reunifying the three branches of the original Russian people, divided in mediaeval times, was thus complete. Until the 1917 revolution, Imperial Russia officially considered “Little Russians” (as Ukrainians were called), “White Russians” (now Belarusians) and “Great Russians” simply as “Russians”, making little distinction among them, and discouraged the use of local “dialects” in favour of literary Russian. It strongly pushed back against attempts supported by its rivals such as Austria-​Hungary to carve out a Ukrainian nation and promote the Ukrainian language and treated its proponents as separatists. However, ethnic Ukrainian nationalism, whose intellectual centre lay outside the empire in Lemberg (Lviv), then in Austro-​ Hungary, was only getting stronger. The fall of the Romanov monarchy and the disintegration of the Russian Empire in 1917 gave it a chance. The turmoil of the revolution, civil war and foreign military intervention in Russia (1917–​ 20) produced a number of short-​lived political regimes in various parts of the country, including in Ukraine, where the Central Rada, the Ukrainian People’s Republic, the Ukrainian State and other governments succeeded each other in Kiev and other cities in the region, including Lviv and Donetsk. Within a few years, however, these were swept away by the Bolshevik-​led Red Army, which helped establish the Ukrainian Soviet Republic. Western Ukrainian lands that used to be Austrian or Russian became part of Poland, and the Donetsk-​Krivoy Rog Republic, where local Bolsheviks were leaning toward Russia, was included in Soviet Ukraine per Lenin’s order. In 1922 Soviet Ukraine became a founding member of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), ruled from Moscow by a single Communist Party dictatorship but enjoying broad linguistic and cultural autonomy. One of the reasons for the Bolshevik success in the Civil War was their partial adoption of the nationalist agenda, but on the firm basis of communist ideology and under tight centralised control. The Bolsheviks offered newly constituted Soviet Ukraine large tracts of territory in the south-​east, including industrial Donbas and Odessa, populated in large part by ethnic Russians and other non-​Ukrainians, in order to increase the proportion of workers in the new republic and thus embed Ukraine more securely into the rest of the USSR. Within Ukraine, the Soviet government initially promoted the Ukrainian language and culture, while strengthening its iron grip on society, politics and the economy. In 1932–​3, Ukraine alongside Kazakhstan and Russia’s Volga region were struck by a severe famine (Engerman 2003: 194) caused by the Communist Party’s harsh policy of collectivisation, properly called a “war on the peasantry”. In today’s Ukraine this is known as Holodomor and officially presented as a form of genocide aimed at exterminating Ukrainians (Verkhovna Rada 2006). Russians strongly disagree with this characterisation, which they see as serving the purpose of Kiev’s post-​Soviet nation-​building that presents Ukraine as a victim of Russian imperialism (Gutterman 2008). In 1939, following Germany’s invasion of Poland, the Red Army moved into what is now western Ukraine, which the Soviet Union promptly annexed, as agreed in the secret GermanSoviet protocol. Even though Josef Stalin was motivated primarily by a desire to add to the USSR’s strategic depth in view of the inevitable future clash with Germany, his goal was also to unite all Ukrainians under the Soviet roof. This move did not help in 1941 against Germany’s blitzkrieg and proved to be a major blunder in post-​war years. Galicia, which never belonged to the Russian Empire, had been the centre of Ukrainian nationalism, and now Stalin imported that nationalism into the Soviet Union, where it immediately became not just anti-​Soviet but

501

502

Dmitri Trenin

also anti-​Russian. Both during and after World War II, the Soviet military and security forces had to mount a major effort to fight Ukrainian nationalist formations in western Ukraine. Soviet Ukraine enjoyed an elevated status within the Soviet Union. In 1945, Stalin insisted on the Ukrainian Soviet Republic becoming a founding member of the United Nations alongside Belarus and the Soviet Union as a whole; Ukraine was the only republic where the local communist organisation was ruled by a Politburo (all other republics had only “bureaus”: the only other Politburo in the USSR was in Moscow, for the Soviet Communist Party as a whole); and Ukrainian territory was further expanded in 1945 with the inclusion of the Ruthenian-​ populated Carpathian region, which had previously belonged to Czechoslovakia. In 1954, Stalin’s successor Nikita Khrushchev transferred Crimea from the Russian Republic to Ukraine. Ostensibly this was done to mark the tricentennial of “Ukraine’s reunification with Russia” –​despite the vast majority of the local population being ethnic Russian. More likely, Khrushchev, who had long served as the Communist Party chief in Ukraine, wanted the backing of Ukrainian Communists as he was fighting to solidify his leadership in Moscow. Both Khrushchev’s and his successor Leonid Brezhnev’s careers were closely tied to Ukraine. Mikhail Gorbachev’s perestroika, and particularly its failure to deliver an improvement in ordinary people’s lives, gave an opportunity to nationalist forces that took advantage of glasnost and the process of democratisation. In many instances, including in Ukraine, the local Communist nomenklatura sought to drop communism and use nationalism to keep itself in power and take advantage of new economic opportunities. Following the failed coup attempt in Moscow in August 1991, Ukraine proclaimed its independence and held a referendum to that effect on December 1 of the same year (Nohlen and Stöver 2010). This overturned the result of an all-​Soviet referendum to maintain a reformed USSR that was held in March 1991, during which some 70 percent of Ukraine’s population voted to remain in the Soviet Union (Nohlen and Stöver 2010). On 7–​8 December 1991, Ukraine’s first president Leonid Kravchuk, who had previously served as the Ukrainian Communist Party chief, alongside the leaders of the Russian and Belarusian Republics, declared the Soviet Union dissolved and founded the Commonwealth of Independent States, ending Gorbachev’s efforts at reforming the USSR.

Post-​Soviet Russia’s changing approach to Ukraine Moscow’s policy toward Ukraine after the break-​up of the Soviet Union went through several phases. Dissolution of the tri-​centennial “union of Russia and Ukraine” considerably weakened Russia’s geopolitical and strategic standing in Europe and reduced Moscow’s economic and technological power. Yet, in the 1990s, the Russian leadership, preoccupied with a myriad of other issues, mostly at home, paid relatively little attention to Ukraine. It focused on just a few matters, such as the withdrawal of former Soviet nuclear weapons from Ukraine to Russia; the division of the Black Sea Fleet; and transporting gas to Europe by means of pipelines laid across the Ukrainian territory. President Boris Yeltsin and his government even resisted the Russian parliament’s calls for returning Crimea and Sevastopol to Russia. In the end, Ukraine, with US prodding, ceded nuclear weapons to Russia. In conjunction with that, Russia, alongside the United States and the United Kingdom, signed the 1994 Budapest Memorandum (UN 1994), which guaranteed Ukraine’s security and borders. The Black Sea Fleet was divided, with Russia and Ukraine sharing Sevastopol’s harbour. For its part, Kyiv received massive discounts on Russian natural gas deliveries. In 1997, Russia agreed to sign a treaty with Ukraine that confirmed that republic’s Soviet-​era administrative boundaries as its state borders. Lacking both resources and, even more important, political will, Russia did 502

503

Russia’s attitudes and policies toward Ukraine

not engage in building a pro-​Russian lobby in the Ukrainian body politic; instead, Russian and Ukrainian oligarchs, both well connected and focused on little else other than money, joined in shady deals in commodity trade. Vladimir Putin’s arrival in power in 2000 opened another phase in Moscow’s policy toward Kyiv. As part of Putin’s CIS-​wide approach, Russia reduced –​but did not end –​its subsidies to its former Soviet neighbours in the form of natural gas prices well below those it charged elsewhere in Europe. At the same time, Putin sought to engage the biggest former Soviet republics –​Ukraine, Kazakhstan, and Belarus –​in a form of regional economic integration. Consciously or not, Putin was following the grand design for post-​Soviet geopolitical transformation proposed by the author Alexander Solzhenitsyn (Solzhenitsyn 1991). In practical terms, Moscow came up with a plan of a Single Economic Space linking the four countries. Putin, at the time very popular in Ukraine, made a major personal effort to persuade Ukrainian leaders –​President Leonid Kuchma and his Prime Minister Viktor Yanukovych –​to join the plan; they signed the framework documents but never followed through. Soon, the Russian plan was overturned by domestic developments in Ukraine. The 2004 Orange Revolution, a major turning point in Russian-​Ukrainian relations, challenged presidential election results favouring Yanukovych. A third ballot was held, which brought to power a pro-​Western leadership. Led by President Viktor Yushchenko, Kyiv refused any economic integration with Russia and instead proclaimed a course aimed at association with the European Union, membership in NATO, and an alliance with the United States. In 2008, NATO’s summit at Bucharest, while abstaining from giving Kyiv a NATO membership action plan, stated that Ukraine will become a member of NATO (NATO 2008). Coming to Bucharest for a Russia-​NATO summit, President Putin warned that moves aimed at Ukraine’s membership in the alliance would lead to Ukraine’s disintegration (Allenova et al 2008). These remarks were taken by the allies as threats to be resisted. Moscow responded to this situation with a harshening of its approach to Ukraine. Its principal lever was the gas price. Kyiv’s unwillingness to pay it and its practice of diverting gas supplies from the pipeline linking Russia and Europe via Ukraine led in 2006 to the first, and in 2009 to the second gas crisis between the two countries. Western media and governments duly backed Kyiv and accused Moscow of using its energy weapon (Boyes 2009). It was after this that Europe’s energy security from Russia, its main supplier of natural gas, became a perennial political topic in America and in Europe itself. Moscow, however, managed to profit from the fragmented nature of the Ukrainian political elite. The Orange coalition broke apart, and a Party of the Regions, based in the Russophone south-​eastern half of Ukraine, rose to victory in the 2010 presidential elections. The 2010–​14 period initially appeared most promising for Russia’s policy toward Ukraine. The new president Yanukovych and his government enshrined Ukraine’s non-​bloc status in law, thus withdrawing Kyiv’s bid for NATO membership. Ukraine also concluded a treaty with Russia in 2011 that linked a gas price discount for Ukraine to a long-​term lease by Russia of the Sevastopol naval base. However, Yanukovych was not a pro-​Russian politician. He tried to balance between Russia and the West, hoping to get the most from both, and use what he could get to his own advantage. In that, he singularly failed. Ukraine first baulked at genuine economic integration with Russia that Putin was trying hard to promote. In parallel, Kyiv sought an association with the European Union, then put the association on hold, evoking mass protests that turned violent and were used by the domestic oligarchical opposition and radical nationalists to mount, from November 2013, a challenge to Yanukovych in Kyiv’s Independence Square (Maidan), which in February 2014 overthrew him and his government in what was proudly proclaimed by the victors as a “Revolution of Dignity”. 503

504

Dmitri Trenin

Current policies To the Kremlin, the action on Kyiv’s Maidan was an anti-​constitutional coup d’état (BBC News 2014). The overthrow happened just after Yanukovych had signed a compromise deal with opposition leaders, witnessed and guaranteed by the foreign ministers of France, Germany and Poland. The regime change in Kyiv was immediately welcomed by the United States, which had been supporting the Maidan protests all along, and its European allies. To the Barack Obama Administration in the United States, the Maidan was a symbol of the Ukrainian people’s yearning for democracy and a result of the American support for Ukraine’s civil society. In practical terms, the regime change in Kyiv meant that Ukraine would not be drawn into Putin’s project of post-​Soviet integration, which Washington interpreted as a restoration of the Soviet Union under a different name. This all happened just as Putin was hosting the Winter Olympics in Sochi. Seeing a coalition of pro-​Western and radical nationalist forces supported by the United States and the European Union triumph in Kyiv, Putin moved swiftly to order the Russian military to take control of the Crimean Peninsula. With the Russian forces in control of Crimea without even firing a shot, the local population voted to join Russia, a move that was formalised in March 2014. Building on that success, some activists supported by the Russian authorities sought to take power in south-​ eastern Ukraine, called Novorossiya (“New Russia”) in Tsarist times. That part of Ukraine, stretching from Kharkiv to Odesa and mostly Russian-​speaking, was considered to be a candidate for balancing the Western-​leaning Galicia, Volhynia and central regions of Ukraine, or even for eventually forming a union with Russia. Novorossiya, however, turned out to be a mirage. Except in Donbas, where the Donetsk and Lugansk oblasts voted in referenda for seceding from Ukraine and forming separate republics (The Guardian 2014), the rest of the Russophone population remained passive in that crisis. Putin, who received a mandate from the upper chamber of the Russian parliament to use force “in Ukraine” (President of Russia 2014), limited its actual overt use to Crimea and resorted to covert means to support the Donbas militants with military expertise, weapons, and materiel. The Kremlin chose to recognise the Ukrainian presidential elections of May 2014 and engaged with new President Petro Poroshenko, one of the main sponsors of the Kyiv insurrection. Yet Moscow was disappointed when Poroshenko opted for military means to deal with the insurrection and separatism in Donbas. Russia had to intervene to keep Donetsk and Lugansk from being overrun by Ukrainian forces. In February 2015, Russian support for the breakaway enclaves made Kyiv sign the so-​called Minsk II agreement, which made the restoration of Ukrainian sovereignty in Donbas conditional on the withdrawal of foreign forces and equipment, regional autonomy for Donetsk and Lugansk, an amnesty for the separatist leaders, and local elections without Kyiv’s interference. For the Kremlin, such autonomy would have erected an insurmountable obstacle in Ukraine’s path toward NATO. Russia insisted that the Minsk II document was an agreement on ending an internal armed conflict within Ukraine, between Kyiv, on the one hand, and Donetsk and Lugansk, on the other. Russia also insisted that, alongside Germany and France, it was a guarantor of that agreement. Ukraine, by contrast, refused to deal with the rebel entities, branded their leaders as terrorists, and considered Russia the aggressor. In the eyes of Ukrainian politicians, fulfilling the terms of Minsk II would have required Kyiv to “deal with terrorists” and eventually destabilise the country. Ukrainian radicals always considered the Minsk accords to be high treason, signed in extremis, even as the Ukrainian army was being decimated on the battlefield by the Donbas militants backed by Moscow. Essentially, the only parts of the agreement that were fulfilled, 504

505

Russia’s attitudes and policies toward Ukraine

though only partially and intermittently, were the ceasefire and prisoner exchanges. Thus, the diplomatic victory that Moscow celebrated turned out to be hollow. Over the years that followed, the line of contact in Donbas was never a quiet place. The death toll from the conflict between Kyiv and Donbas continued to rise on both sides, to a total of over 15,000 by February 2022 (International Crisis Group 2022). Ukraine’s leadership used the “continuing Russian aggression” as a tool for domestic consolidation and nation-​building, and an argument in pressing for Western economic and military support and integration. It also proceeded to sever existing links and exchanges with Russia, from transportation and culture to information and people-​to-​people contacts. In 2018, President Poroshenko persuaded the Orthodox patriarch of Constantinople to revoke the decision of his seventeenth-​century predecessor on recognising Ukraine as part of the canonical territory of the Russian Orthodox Church and helped found a separate Orthodox Church of Ukraine, under Constantinople’s aegis. At the end of 2018, Kyiv provoked Russia into firing at, and then capturing, its small naval craft that had ignored the Russian-​imposed procedure for passing the Kerch Strait (Trenin 2018). In this environment, a majority of Ukrainians developed a negative or even a strongly negative view of Russia. Moscow, for its part, successfully proceeded to integrate Crimea into Russia and to help sustain the self-​proclaimed republics of Donbas while continuing to recognise them, as per the Minsk II agreement, as Ukrainian territory. Both tasks were doable, but while the issue of Crimea was considered closed and non-​negotiable, there was much ambiguity about the future fate and status of Donbas. De facto, Moscow opted for incremental integration of the region with, though for the time being not into, Russia. By early 2022, over 700,000 people in Donetsk and Lugansk –​out of some four million –​were granted Russian citizenship (Litvinova and Karmanau 2022); the region’s economic enterprises were included in Moscow’s programmes for Russian government purchases; the Russian ruble was the currency; and the education systems were aligned with those of Russia. After the 2019 presidential election in Ukraine there was a brief period when it appeared that Moscow and Kyiv might engage in a direct dialogue to improve relations. The Kremlin cautiously welcomed the victory of Volodymyr Zelensky, who managed to get the support of the Russophone population by promising peace in Donbas. However, Zelensky’s failure to defend his policy of engagement with Russia vis-​à-​vis Ukraine’s radical nationalists put an end to that brief moment of hope. Seeking to shore up his domestic position, Zelensky from 2020 made an about-​face by toughening his stance on Donbas, reviving the issue of Crimea, and clamping down on the Moscow-​friendly opposition and its media outlets. The Kremlin, for its part, dumped the Ukrainian president as a potential partner or even a counterpart in serious negotiations. Senior Russian officials began to call the government in Kyiv a “regime” with neo-​Nazi overtones bent on building an “anti-​Russia”. During 2021 and early 2022 Russia’s policy toward Ukraine went through another major mutation. Having developed and deployed a range of new advanced weapons, including hypersonic systems, the Kremlin sought to convert that new military might into diplomatic leverage. President Putin’s design was much broader than Ukraine. His stated objective was to de facto transform the architecture of European security, which since the end of the Cold War has been dominated by the United States and centred on NATO as its main instrument, into a contractual relationship between the United States and Russia. Compared to 1991 when the USSR disintegrated, NATO has expanded from 16 members to 30, including all former members of the Moscow-​led Warsaw Pact and three former Soviet republics in the Baltic region. To press its case to stop further expansion, Russia chose Ukraine as the pressure point. This was also logical, as Ukraine was the place where the Russian-​US confrontation in Europe was most acute. 505

506

Dmitri Trenin

In March 2021 the Russian Armed forces began a massive military exercise all along the Ukrainian border, north, east, and south. The exercise was designed to appear as a real preparation for an invasion and to deter Kyiv from any attempt to regain control of Donbas by force. Ukraine, however, was not the only and not even the principal target of Moscow’s manoeuvring. The drills lasted long enough to get the attention of the United States and make newly elected President Joe Biden devote more attention to relations with Russia than he had initially allotted. In June 2021 Biden and Putin met in Geneva and agreed to start US-​Russian talks on strategic stability and cyber security. Yet European security issues important to Russia, and above all NATO enlargement to former Soviet borderlands, including Ukraine, were not addressed. After Geneva, the situation for Russia in the region began to deteriorate as NATO countries held military exercises, testing Russian defences in the Black Sea area, and stepped up arms shipments to Ukraine. In July 2021 President Putin published a long article (Putin 2021) on Russia’s relations with Ukraine in which he not only called Russians and Ukrainians essentially one people, sharing a common cultural space, but said that Russia’s adversaries had always tried to divide them. Putin accused Ukrainian elites of being self-​serving, kowtowing to the far-​r ight radicals (“neo-​Nazis”), and being a tool of the West in its anti-​Russian schemes. He blamed them for sidelining the Russian language by eliminating it from educational institutions; for denying ethnic Russians the status of a core ethnic group in Ukraine; and in general for changing, by coercion, the Ukrainian identity by imposing the Galician model on the country as a whole. For Putin, Ukraine’s sovereignty was only feasible in partnership with Russia. Three months later former Russian President and current Deputy Chairman of the Security Council Dmitry Medvedev published his own article (Medvedev 2021) on Ukraine, in which he basically called contacts with the current Ukrainian leadership useless and suggested that Moscow should wait for a change of political regime in Kyiv and the arrival of an “adequate” leadership in Ukraine. By autumn 2021 Moscow had registered a further worsening of the situation regarding Ukraine. Kyiv used a Turkish-​made armed drone to take out military targets in Donbas, which did not produce a condemnation from its Western partners. Moreover, Germany and France de facto supported the Ukrainian position on the Minsk II agreement, provoking Moscow to take the highly unusual step of publishing private diplomatic correspondence with French and German ministers. This demarche signalled the final breach of trust between Russia and the leading EU nations on the issue of Ukraine. In this environment, Russia began concentrating forces on the Ukrainian border again. From December 2021, in the US intelligence service’s assessment, a massive Russian invasion of Ukraine looked imminent. A political crisis broke out, but it was less about Ukraine per se, as it was dubbed by the Western media, and more about the European security order. As before, direct contacts between the US and Russian presidents followed, now in an online format, but this time it did not stop there. Putin succeeded in engaging Biden in a dialogue on broader European security issues. As a follow-​up, Moscow presented to Washington a list of its security concerns framed as a draft treaty. Its central point, and Russia’s key demand, was a formal and legally binding US pledge not to expand NATO, particularly by bringing Ukraine in. To the Russian political and military leadership, a Ukraine that is not only separate from Russia but hostile to it and allied with Moscow’s foreign adversaries is intolerable as an existential threat. The maximum Moscow can live with is a Ukraine that is genuinely neutral and hosting no foreign military bases and strike weapons in its territory. In another unusual step, Russia made its proposals public and insisted on negotiations proceeding on a fast track. High-​level diplomatic contacts ensued between Russian and US ministers and delegations. The United States responded to Russian demands but refused to 506

507

Russia’s attitudes and policies toward Ukraine

withdraw the promise of NATO membership made to Ukraine in 2008. The West’s response to the perceived Russian military threat by means of exercises around Ukraine’s borders was countered by US and European military reinforcements in NATO’s eastern countries and Western sanctions threats against Russia. The crisis came to a head in mid-​February 2022, when the US administration pronounced the Russian invasion of Ukraine imminent and the massive shelling in Donbas resumed. On 24 February 2022, Russian President Vladimir Putin announced a special military operation in Ukraine (Putin 2022b).

The war In 2021–​2 Moscow’s foreign policy made a sharp turn. In its relations with the West, Russia has become exceedingly more demanding and far less accommodating than even in the seven preceding years since the 2014 Ukraine crisis. Faced with the unwillingness of the United States to formally bar Ukraine’s eventual membership in NATO, Russia sought to effectively bar that membership by making clear that it regarded putting Ukraine on a path toward membership as a casus belli. Of course, Washington will never approve Kyiv’s NATO bid: Americans will not risk a collision with the other nuclear superpower over a country that is not of vital importance to US national security. So much for “no Ukraine in NATO”. Now Russia demands Ukraine’s formally codified non-​bloc status. Regarding the other key Russian demand –​no US or other Western strike weapons or military bases in Ukraine –​Moscow went further, demanding the demilitarisation of Ukraine. This would mean degrading Ukrainian forces, strengthening the country’s non-​nuclear status, stopping military assistance programmes with third countries, and barring foreign bases and training centres on Ukrainian territory –​in other words, “no NATO in Ukraine”. A new Russian demand, put forth after the launch of the Russian military campaign, is “de-​Nazification”. In the narrow sense, this is aiming at a purge of all far-​r ight elements from the Ukrainian political system, military forces, the media, and so on. In a broader sense, this demand can cover all those whom Moscow would accuse of being involved in the “anti-​ Russia” project. The Minsk agreement on Donbas is pronounced dead. Instead, just before moving forces into Ukraine, Moscow recognised the “people’s republics” of Donetsk and Lugansk as independent entities (Putin 2022a). Almost four million residents of Donbas, about a sixth of whom have Russian passports and voted in the Russian parliamentary elections in September 2021, had already been on the path to get their own representative in the State Duma. Besides demanding that Kyiv recognises the Donbas republics’ independence, Russia wants Kyiv to accept Crimea as part of the Russian Federation. Donbas is an important issue. What concerns Ukraine itself, the Russian elite’s and the population’s views have been going through a major and non-​linear transformation since the dissolution of the Soviet Union. The idea that Ukraine is an inalienable part of historical Russia, and that its independence and particularly its leaders’ pursuit of rapprochement with Moscow’s adversaries constitutes some form of treason, is being overlaid by the more recent experience of the passionate popular support for independence from Russia within Ukraine itself, and the passive attitudes of the local ethnic Russian or Russian-​speaking population to the aggressive and successful government-​driven campaign of de-​Russification. It has also dawned on Moscow that it cannot rely on any Ukrainian political formations or politicians in an attempt at integration with Russia. Even those among them who oppose the Galician version of Ukrainian nationhood support the Ukrainian political project, which is inimical to any form of integration with Russia. Buying their support would not create staunch 507

508

Dmitri Trenin

allies for Moscow, only illusions to be dispelled and regretted later. Reintegrating Ukraine with, not to speak of into, Russia is thus not a realistic goal. A Russia-​friendly Ukraine that, to Vladimir Putin, is the only guarantee of Ukrainian sovereignty is not on the cards. What is possible in principle, but hardly likely in practice for the foreseeable future, is a Ukraine that is Western leaning but nominally outside NATO, with a non-​bloc status and a military force of an agreed size, but hosting no foreign forces or bases in its territory. This, however, may be insufficient for the Kremlin. The crisis of the European security and geopolitical order had been long in coming and will not be resolved quickly. A few compromises could have been made along the way, and a few agreements on arms control and confidence-​building measures might have been signed, but the opportunity for that was forfeited in the early weeks of 2022. From now on, even when hostilities stop, extremely high tensions will stay in the region for the foreseeable future –​years, perhaps even decades. This crisis is not only about Ukraine, but Ukraine is an important element of the changing global security landscape. The Ukraine-​related developments of 2021–​2 have already become a turning point in more than Russia’s foreign policy. True, Moscow’s break with the West has turned into an irreparable rupture and can no longer be fixed; Russia’s relations with the United States are as openly hostile as they were in the first stages of the Cold War; and the gulf separating Russia from the European Union is wider than ever and probably unbridgeable. By contrast, Russia’s rapprochement with China has visibly progressed. Yet, this crisis is about more than foreign policy. It fits into a wider pattern of Russia shedding the remaining liberal and globalist vestiges of the immediate post-​Soviet period and coming closer to fully embracing a more traditional and nationally orientated vision of itself as a power sui generis and a self-​standing unit in a highly competitive world.

References Allenova, O., E. Geda and V. Novikov (2008), “Blok NATO razoshelsya na blokpakety”, Kommersant, 7 April, www.kom​mers​ant.ru/​doc/​877​224. BBC News (2014), “Putin: Russia Force Only ‘Last Resort’ in Ukraine”, 4 March, www.bbc.com/​news/​ world-​eur​ope-​26433​309. Boyes, R. (2009), “Comment: Gazprom is Not a Market Player, It’s a Political Weapon”, The Times, 7 January, www.theti​mes.co.uk/​arti​cle/​comm​ent-​gazp​rom-​is-​not-​a-​mar​ket-​pla​yer-​its-​a-​politi​cal-​wea​ pon-​nhj3​5gck​kj3. Engerman, D.C. (2003), Modernization from the Other Shore. American Intellectuals and the Romance of Russian Development (Cambridge [Mass]: Harvard University Press). Gutterman, S. (2008), “Russia: 1930s Famine Was Not Genocide”, Associated Press, 12 April, https://​ web.arch​ive.org/​web/​200​8040​8160​321/​http:/​ap.goo​gle.com/​arti​cle/​ALeqM5g24G2C82ba​yPyd​ lhVX​F5FY​jM5P​jQD8​VPUN​CG0. International Crisis Group (2022), “Conflict in Ukraine’s Donbas: A Visual Explainer”, www.cris​isgr​oup. org/​cont​ent/​confl​ict-​ukrai​nes-​don​bas-​vis​ual-​explai​ner. Litvinova, D. and Y. Karmanau (2022), “With Fast-​Track Passports, Russia Extends Clout in Ukraine”, AP News, 17 February, https://​apn​ews.com/​arti​cle/​rus​sia-​ukra​ine-​eur​ope-​rus​sia-​mos​cow-​done​tsk-​ 9e451​c5a0​94b7​b2f5​ead7​534a​3a23​740. Medvedev, D. (2021), “Pochemu bessmyslenny kontakty s nyneshnim ukrainskim rukovodstvom”, Kommersant, 11 October, www.kom​mers​ant.ru/​doc/​5028​300. NATO (2008), Bucharest Summit Declaration, 3 April, www.nato.int/​cps/​en/​natol​ive/​offi​cial​_​tex​ts_​8​ 443.htm. Nohlen, D. and P. Stöver (2010), Elections in Europe: A Data Handbook (Baden-​Baden: Nomos). Parry, K. and D. Melling (eds.) (1999), The Blackwell Dictionary of Eastern Christianity (Malden: Blackwell Publishing).

508

509

Russia’s attitudes and policies toward Ukraine President of Russia (2014), “Proposal to Federation Council to Repeal Resolution to Use Russian Armed Forces in Ukraine”, 24 June, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​46057. Putin, V. (2021), “On the Historical Unity of Russians and Ukrainians”, 12 July, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​ eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​66181. Putin, V. (2022a), “Address by the President of the Russian Federation”, 21 February, http://​en.krem​lin. ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​67828. Putin, V. (2022b), “Address by the President of the Russian Federation”, 24 February, http://​en.krem​lin. ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​67843. Solzhenitsyn, A. (1991), Rebuilding Russia: Reflections and Tentative Proposals (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux). The Guardian (2014), “Ukraine: Pro-​Russia Separatists Set for Victory in Eastern Region Referendum”, 11 May, www.theg​uard​ian.com/​world/​2014/​may/​11/​east​ern-​ukra​ine-​ref​eren​dum-​done​tsk-​luha​nsk. Trenin, D. (2018), “Containing the Kerch Crisis”, Carnegie.ru, 28 November, https://​car​negi​emos​cow. org/​com​ment​ary/​77813. UN (1994), “Ukraine, Russian Federation, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and United States of America Memorandum on Security Assurances in Connection with Ukraine’s Accession to the Treaty on the Non-​Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons”, Budapest, 5 December, https://​treat​ies.un.org/​doc/​Publ​icat​ion/​UNTS/​Vol​ume%203​007/​Part/​vol​ume-​3007-​I-​52241.pdf. Verkhovna Rada (2006) “O Golodomore 1932–​1933 godov v Ukraine”, Vedomosti Verkhovnoi Rady Ukrainy (VVP), No. 50, Art. 504, http://​uaza​kon.ru/​zakon/​zakon-​o-​gol​odom​ore.html.

509

510

44 RUSSIA AND BELARUS Rasmus Nilsson

In the post-​Soviet era, Russian policy towards Belarus has straddled the divide between foreign and domestic policy, reflecting how both countries emerged from the Soviet Union with an uncertain understanding of Self. This chapter will cover relations between Russia and Belarus as these have developed from 1992 until their allegiance in the conflict of early 2022. The purpose of the chapter is to engage with that relationship from different angles, focusing on political, military, economic and cultural interactions between the two states. The intent is to place the bilateral relationship in domestic and international contexts. While the main focus will be on policy directions as laid out by both regimes, when appropriate public sentiment will also be considered.

Russia and Belarus: Political relations Towards a union state After the failed coup in August 1991, President of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic (RSFSR) Boris Yeltsin decimated his main competitors –​the Communist Party and Mikhail Gorbachev. However, Yeltsin did want to preserve some republican collaboration around a Russian core. By December, Yeltsin had to settle for the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS), founded with the help of the Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic (BSSR) (Plokhy 2014). Even then, non-​Russian members of the CIS treated it as a means to a peaceful, gradual departure from Moscow –​the leadership of the BSSR and then independent Belarus was no different. Or, at least, it was no different until mid-​1994, when Aleksandr Lukashenka became the first Belarusian president. Lukashenka did not immediately reject the West, yet he made clear that Belarus would look to Russia as its closest partner. In May 1995, a Belarusian referendum confirmed that the country would now have Russian as an official language together with Belarusian, and state symbols such as the flag were changed to closely resemble Soviet models (Oldberg 1997: 111). And the following April, Yeltsin and Lukashenka founded the Community of Belarus and Russia. While this community was to be based on the sovereign equality of its parties, its ambitions for political and economic integration seemed reminiscent of Mikhail Gorbachev’s Union Treaty, which was to have saved the Soviet Union in a decentralised form (Belarus Republic-​Russian Federation 1996). For Yeltsin, the Community 510

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-49

511

Russia and Belarus

was a means to re-​election, indicating to voters that he retained ambitions of Russian primacy in the “Near Abroad”. Here, Belarus was a particularly attractive partner. Not only did Lukashenka seem to be a Russophile (or perhaps Sovietophile), but he also increasingly isolated Belarus from the West (Fawn 2001: 73–​4). The Belarusian leader hoped to gain supremacy in a unified Russo-​Belarusian state following his presidential peer’s departure or demise. Yeltsin, for his part, had no intent to hand control of Russia to a Belarusian outsider, yet in December 1999 he still signed the Union State treaty as a way to bookend his years in power (Marples 2008: 27).

Russian recharge Throughout his presidency, Yeltsin was dogged by accusations that he had destroyed a Russian-​ led empire. It is possible, therefore, to see integration with Belarus as his, albeit limited, rebuttal. His successor, Vladimir Putin, had no such need for Belarus; focus on the small neighbour seemed a distraction for the new administration (Lo 2003). Lukashenka kept pushing for further integration between Russia and Belarus, implying that leadership of the Union State could alternate between Moscow and Minsk. In return, Putin offered that Belarus could be accepted as a region in Russia, like Tatarstan or Kirov (Nygren 2008: 71). That did not appeal to Lukashenka, who complained that Russia wanted to undermine Belarusian sovereignty. Tellingly, the Belarusian leader also feared that those Belarusians supporting further integration with Russia might do so to distance themselves from him, aligning themselves with a potentially more liberal, Westernised figure in the Kremlin (Ioffe 2004: 104). Yet increasingly Putin himself became alienated from liberalism. Domestic competitors were silenced, exiled or imprisoned; elections were still less free and fair. And here Belarus might prove a role model for the Kremlin, seeking to spread authoritarianism across the post-​Soviet region (Ambrosio 2009). From 2004, while the re-​elected Putin wondered how to retain control after his second presidential term, Lukashenka had simply removed term limits for the Belarusian presidency. Even if Putin did not choose to follow suit straightaway, that option had been mooted in the Kremlin. And when the presidential re-​election of Lukashenka in 2006 was followed by overt, violent oppression against opposition protesters, the Russian regime did not mind. Following recent “coloured revolutions” in the post-​Soviet space, Russia could be content that one neighbour, at least, seemed immune to Westernised upheaval. (Wilson 2009: 381)

The backwards neighbour In 2008 Putin was replaced as Russian president by Dmitry Medvedev, who immediately proclaimed modernisation and Westernisation in Russian domestic and foreign policies, a proclamation oft repeated (Pacer 2016). Belarus briefly tried to adjust its image accordingly. During 2008 and 2009, Lukashenka carefully managed steps of domestic political liberalisation to achieve some relaxation of sanctions by America and the European Union (Bosse 2012). Come the end of 2010, though, a new presidential election saw Lukashenka’s position reaffirmed, with most electoral challengers arrested and some receiving long prison sentences. Renewed Western sanctions followed (Padhol and Marples 2011). Subsequently, diplomats from the United States and the European Union reduced contacts with Belarus, culminating in a brief recall of ambassadors from EU countries to Belarus in early 2012 after the Belarusian state had reacted to Western sanctions by expelling the EU envoy to the country. The Russian leadership was not going to join the EU in such measures and had readily acknowledged Lukashenka’s re-​election in 2010. Generally, though, Medvedev’s government had little interest in propping up Lukashenka’s Belarus. The ten-​year anniversary of the founding of the Union State had 511

512

Rasmus Nilsson

come and gone without anyone taking much notice (Shevchenko 2009). And then Russian state television used the months before and after his re-​election to lampoon the Belarusian president with The Godfather, a documentary-​style programme alleging Belarusian regime corruption promoted by provincial thugs and led by bumpkin-​in-​chief Lukashenka himself. Unsurprisingly, the Belarusian president suspected that the Russian state was preparing for a future without him (Busygina 2018: 135).

The last ally Yet where would Russia go in such a future? By early 2014, with Putin president once again, Medvedev’s modernising optimism had been replaced by a standoff between Russia and the West over the political changes in Ukraine and Russia’s military reaction to this. Worryingly for Moscow, while Belarus did not challenge Russian actions directly, neither was overt support forthcoming (Matveeva 2018: 724–​8). Indeed, after the new Ukrainian government under Petro Poroshenko had been installed in mid-​2014, Lukashenka readily met his counterpart to the south while warning outside forces against attempting to subvert Belarusian sovereignty; a warning clearly directed at Russia (Kryvoi with Wilson 2015). As before, Belarus only had to show limited political liberalisation to gain concessions from the EU and by 2016 most EU sanctions against Belarus had been lifted. Lukashenka could now reduce his dependence on Russia and even toy with the idea of regaining some respectability in the West (Bosse 2018). That political strategy was exemplified in 2017, when Belarus opened for visa-​free travel from Western countries. This initiative had a practical aim –​tourism was one economic sector in which Belarus could clearly benefit from development. Yet Belarus was also attacking the foundations of the Union State, having failed to previously consult Russia on the policy to open its borders (Filatova 2017). Still, in relations with the West Lukashenka was hampered by his wish to retain the presidency at all costs. And when his re-​election in mid-​2020 was followed by widespread violence against protesters, the Belarusian leader soon found Russia was the only country willing to back him (Bedford 2021: 816). Angered by Western criticism, Lukashenka burned his bridges with the West, even seeking to undermine EU sovereignty by importing refugees from the Middle East to throw against neighbouring borders. Whether Russia assisted Belarus in this was a moot question, yet Moscow was undoubtedly pleased to have regained the loyalty of Minsk (Mirovalev 2021).

Russia and Belarus: Military relations A sovereign buffer Within the Soviet Union, the BSSR played a prominent military role as a buffer against actual and potential Western invaders. Consequently, it was unsurprising that post-​Soviet Russia wanted to continue military collaboration with Belarus, which joined the Russian-​led Collective Security Treaty in late 1993 (Deyermond 2018: 421–​2). An immediate issue of military concern for post-​Soviet Russia was Soviet-​era nuclear weapons remaining in several successor states, including Belarus. The Belarusian leadership under first Stanislau Shushkevich and then Lukashenka readily returned all nuclear arms to Russia, a process confirmed in the 1994 Budapest Memorandum (Michelsen 1995: 583). Yet it was clear that Belarusian elites had no wider intent to subordinate their military policies to those of Russia. Thus, from early 1993 Belarus created its own military, although Minsk found it difficult to fully escape a Russian framework (Sanford 1996: 140–​2). Some in the West hoped to assist such an escape and, 512

513

Russia and Belarus

indeed, Belarus did join the NATO-​led Partnership for Peace in 1995. At that point, however, the Partnership had long included Russia, as well, and could not be seen as a conduit for Belarus into the Western alliance –​an aim also resisted by most Belarusians (Kuzio 1997: 62). Indeed, the Belarusian armed forces were not about to take on any international obligations. Instead, Lukashenka repeatedly made clear that his country was neutral in foreign affairs and that no Belarusian soldiers would serve outside the borders of the country –​a message directed not least at Russia and its armed entanglements in places like Chechnya (Rozanov 1999). Still, in principle the Belarusian regime shared Russia’s concern over an increasingly activist NATO, which by the end of the 1990s had not only moved to the border of Belarus but had also conducted out-​of-​area operations in the Balkans, leading Lukashenka to profess pan-​Slavist support for a beleaguered Yugoslavia (Ambrosio 1999).

Regional tension After Putin had taken power, Russian concerns over NATO temporarily dimmed. Once the War on Terror had begun, Moscow declared itself an ally of the Western alliance against terrorism and, unsurprisingly, highly securitised Belarus wanted to follow suit (Lieven 2002). Russia now had to accept new American bases in post-​Soviet Central Asia, yet that was an acceptable price to pay if Moscow could be regarded as equal with the West in international security affairs, a hope reinforced with the NATO-​Russia Council established in 2002 (Kulhánek 2009). If this Council had functioned as Russia hoped, it might have created a completely new security community in Europe, including a Russian de facto veto over future NATO enlargements. Yet Moscow was soon disabused of that notion, as the organisation in 2004 expanded eastwards, including now also the post-​Soviet Baltic States (Kasekamp 2020). And while NATO might claim it was focused on combating terrorism from non-​state groups and rogue states such as Iran, Russia was increasingly worried about a future of American missile defences in Europe, apparently welcomed to Polish soil in 2006 and then countered by Moscow’s threats to position nuclear missiles in Kaliningrad and Belarus (Tsypkin 2012). In this context, and with Central Europe seemingly lost to Russia for good, the Russian regime found it increasingly important to retain Belarus as a close military ally. To that end it was a comfort that Lukashenka, despite his other differences with Putin, had allowed Belarus to join the Collective Security Treaty Organisation in 2002 (Kropatcheva 2016). Being an institutionalised development of existing post-​Soviet military collaboration, the new multilateral entity, also including much of the post-​ Soviet South, might have added little to Russian military capability, but it forced countries like Belarus to declare their loyalty to Moscow now that Putin, in particular, began warning of a coming conflict with the West (Putin 2007).

End of hopes for a European security community As on other issues, there were hopes that the 2008 replacement of Putin with Medvedev might facilitate a Russo-​Western rapprochement and increase European stability. The new president soon promoted a draft Treaty on European Security to his Western interlocutors. Such a treaty would, allegedly, have confirmed Russia’s central place in a European security community (Tichý 2014: 541–​2). In that scenario, Belarus would no longer have found itself in a security borderland. However, the treaty was unappealing to the West, given Medvedev’s half-​hearted investment in it and, especially, the Russian invasion of Georgia, which occurred shortly after Medvedev’s ideas for continental stability had first been mentioned (Asmus 2010). With his initiative looking increasingly unlikely, Medvedev focused more on improving Russia’s security 513

514

Rasmus Nilsson

capacities in isolation. Domestically, the Russian leadership wanted to reconfigure the military focus from that of a large-​scale Cold War-​scenario to one of special, high-​tech forces and rapid deployment against localised threats (de la Pedraja 2019). In this context, from abroad Belarus could play an important part. In September 2009, Lukashenka hosted Russia in the large-​scale Zapad military exercises, appearing for the first time since the 1990s and involving a simulated attack on NATO-​member Poland as well as on an alleged secessionist movement within the borders of north-​western Belarus (McDermott 2009). And while this exercise might have been based on a fictional scenario, Minsk was clearly concerned about an attack from its Baltic flank. A few years later, in the midst of the Ukraine crisis, Lukashenka reacted to an increased NATO presence in the Baltic states by inviting Russia to increase its military presence in his country (RFE/​RL 2014). However, at the same time, the Belarusian president also needed to highlight Russia’s dependence on Belarus in a clash with the West. At times, Lukashenka even highlighted such dependence in a crude fashion. Thus, in 2010 Minsk had threatened to cut off electricity to the Russian military base that was in Kaliningrad, knowing the latter remained essential for Russian regional military strategy (Mauldin and Boudreaux 2010).

Ready for a new war? As the Ukraine crisis rumbled on, the Belarusian regime had little interest in joining the fighting or seeing it spill over onto Belarusian territory. However, Lukashenka saw the conflict between his neighbours as a chance to promote his country and, from the autumn of 2014, Belarus played host to the Minsk peace process (Åtland 2020). This process raised Belarus’s international profile yet increasingly seemed a failure. This was due to the intractable positions of the combatants, but it also mattered that Belarus was no neutral arbiter. Indeed, while Minsk had not directly supported Russia’s annexation of Crimea, it continued close military collaboration with Russia, periodically also including Serbia (Bechev 2017: 188). Heading to the Balkans almost made it look like the 1990s were back in vogue; Russia and Belarus were now certainly willing and able to push back against Western powers. When the Zapad exercises returned in 2017, fears were widespread in Eastern Europe that Russia could use the exercises as a cover to move through Belarus into neighbouring countries (Hughes 2020: 139). This did not happen, and more careful observers would have noticed that Minsk was periodically resisting the fraternal embrace, for instance by repeatedly refusing permission for the building of a Russian military air base in eastern Belarus, to the clear dissatisfaction of the Russian top brass. Yet it seemed increasingly unlikely that Lukashenka’s state could keep its distance from the Russian military. As mentioned above, when in 2020 the Belarusian president fought for his political future against domestic demonstrators, Russia stood out in its overt willingness to help him, including military assistance if needed (Wilson 2021: 291–​7). That option returned in 2021, when Belarus’s standoff over the migrant crisis at the borders of Poland and Lithuania saw the arrival of Russian troops in Belarus to symbolise that Lukashenka did not stand alone, but clearly also to reduce the risk of the latter striking any significant deals of his own with the West (Whitmore 2021),

Russia and Belarus: Economic relations Navigating survival A guiding principle of the Soviet Union was the economic integration that tied its republics together. Consequently, it was unsurprising that Belarusians wanted to retain close contacts to 514

515

Russia and Belarus

Russia in the post-​Soviet era. Shushkevich makes this clear in his memoirs, wherein he stresses that he took the initiative for the December 1991 meeting with the Russian and Ukrainian leaders that effectively ended the Soviet Union, but he still sought to keep these successor states close (Shushkevich 2013: 318). For the first year and a half of independence, Belarusian monetary policy tried to follow that of Russia, while the Russian ruble remained in widespread use within Belarus. However, significant divergence developed from mid-​1993 when a severe economic crisis and stunted reforms moved Russia to carry out substantial monetary reforms (Esanov et al 2005: 486). At that time, Belarus was undergoing its own hardships, with neither Shushkevich nor Prime Minister Viacheslav Kebich capable of mitigating the decline, which by 1994 had seen Belarusian GDP per capita drop significantly, while consumer price inflation in the country had reached over 2000 percent year on year (World Bank 2021). Taking power that year, Lukashenka pointed to his war on corruption, yet he also stressed that close connections with Russia were essential for his country’s future, not least in order to retain cheap fossil fuels. In 1995, the earlier-​mentioned Belarusian referendum confirmed public support for an economic union with Russia (Markus 1997: 57). Simultaneously, Lukashenka avoided –​and took public pride in avoiding –​those economic reforms that were known as “shock therapy” in neighbouring Russia and Poland, even as such avoidance reduced Belarusian access to Western financial aid (Yarashevich 2014).

Riding high on Russian energy When he came to power in 2000, Putin presented himself as business-​like, ready to engage with other countries on a basis of mutual benefit. Within the post-​Soviet region, this meant Russia would increasingly prioritise its own economic growth instead of pandering to an image as regional saviour (Schmidt 2005). For now, Belarus could retain some economic benefits. While significant Russian energy deliveries to the EU continued to transit his country, Lukashenka would continue to benefit from Russian energy subsidies and the re-​export of Russian oil (Balmaceda 2012). Moscow, however, wanted to reduce such co-​dependency. In 2005, Russia and Germany confirmed the building of the Nord Stream pipeline across the Baltic Sea. This pipeline would avoid transit countries such as Belarus, which was part of its attraction for Russia even if the implementation of Nord Stream would not make transit across Belarus obsolete (Solanko and Sutela 2009: 71–​2). Yet it would make it easier for Russia to periodically exert energy pressure on Belarus as it had done in early 2004, when Putin continued to subsidise domestic energy customers but had little problem briefly cutting off indebted Belarus. In return, Lukashenka had decried Russian “terrorist measures” (Balmaceda 2014: 525). Energy clashes between Russia and Belarus would repeat during the following years, often around the New Year as contracts were running out and it was cold outside. In early 2007, Belarus tried to take the initiative by charging transit duties for Russian oil heading west; in return, Russia shut the pipeline until Minsk gave in (Guillet 2007: 17–​18). In response to such spats, Lukashenka indicated Belarus could distance itself incrementally from the Russian economy; a new Hi-​ Tech Park was even built in Minsk to showcase the talent in computer technology that Belarus possessed. Yet as long as his reign rested mainly on subsidised Russian energy and the re-​sale value of this, Lukashenka’s addiction remained (Ioffe and Yarashevich 2011).

Emerging crises Any hopes that Russo-​Belarusian energy relations might improve under the more urbane presidency of Dmitry Medvedev were soon dispelled. Admittedly, when gas disputes and 515

516

Rasmus Nilsson

cuts again split the two countries in 2010, Russia and Belarus lessened tensions by having the argument in the summer months (Yafimava 2010). It was clear, though, that Belarus’ ability to manoeuvre was decreasing. Illusions that Minsk could act as an independent energy actor were finally dispelled in November 2011, when Lukashenka retained significant discounts on natural gas prices only by selling the state gas company, Beltransgaz, to Russia’s Gazprom (Jirušek and Kuchyňková 2018: 834). By now, the Belarusian economy needed all the help it could get. Throughout 2011, the Belarusian currency had been devalued following crises in the balance of payments. Inflation on consumer goods were unsustainably high, putting the image of a Belarusian welfare regime under pressure (Miksjuk et al 2015). This had happened even after Belarus had received Western help. In early 2009, the IMF had offered Belarus a loan of around $2.5bn, which would later increase by about another billion (Kruk 2013). Even such sums were clearly insufficient for Belarusian needs, though. Russia might do more, yet Medvedev wanted something in return. Sometimes, this was achieved through compulsion, as with the abovementioned takeover of Beltransgaz, but Moscow could also use attraction as in the customs union, agreed shortly after the 2010 gas crisis and also including Kazakhstan (Isakova et al 2016). Yet still, while the customs union offered Belarusian products easier access to Russian and Kazakhstani markets, it also allowed businesses from there into Belarus. That was not always welcome for Minsk. As seen in 2013 with the Belarusian arrest of Russian businessman Vladislav Baumgertner, Minsk remained ready to use legal measures against what it saw as predatory interest from abroad (Moshes 2014).

Belarus for sale? From 2015, economic relations between Russia and Belarus entered a new stage when Belarus joined the Eurasian Economic Union (EEU), which also included Kazakhstan, Armenia and Kyrgyzstan. The EEU seemed the culmination of post-​Soviet economic integration with substantial future potential (Sagramoso 2020). Yet Belarus remained keenly aware that the EEU might also keep Western economic partners at bay, at a time when the country was seeing a reduction in sanctions and the Belarusian public was increasingly concerned about Russian economic domination (Vieira 2017). Still, what choice did Minsk have? Not long after the currency crisis of 2011, the Belarusian economy was again struck when falling oil prices harmed the profits from re-​exporting Russian oil, at the same time as the Russian market, following the Ukraine crisis and accompanying Western sanctions, reduced its import of Belarusian products. Belatedly, Lukashenka now attempted to diversify his economic portfolio by constructing a nuclear power plant near the northern city of Astravets. Yet apart from the fact that construction still relied on Russian experts, Belarus also faced the problem that ordinary Belarusians –​and neighbouring countries –​had no faith in Minsk reliably producing such energy (Novikau 2017). So prospects for the Belarusian economy were already looking unsteady when a series of crises struck in 2020, with the abovementioned domestic political challenge to Lukashenka augmented by the damage of the global COVID crisis, against which the regime acted only belatedly. That autumn, Russia again had to step in with emergency funds (Cordell 2020). Without a credible alternative source of funds Lukashenka was at Russia’s mercy. The West had now abandoned the autocrat who, for his part, readily burned bridges. One final competitor to Russian investments might in future be found in China, but that still appeared a long shot, at best (Jakóbowski and Kłysiński 2021).

516

517

Russia and Belarus

Russia and Belarus: Cultural relations A Soviet and Russian republic? Arguably, the BSSR was the perfect Soviet republic. Although an idea of Belarusian nationhood existed before the Bolshevik takeover, sovereign statehood had never distinguished the territory of post-​Soviet Belarus until after the Second World War, when leaders such as Pyotr Masherau had embodied a Soviet ethos (Goujon 2010: 7). With the official Soviet identity and economy now centred on Russians as “first among equals”, the BSSR was by necessity closely linked to its larger neighbour. The place of the BSSR in tales of the victorious war had come to be that of a staunch defender of the Russified unionist centre, while Russian culture and language had dominated the western republic (Marples 1996: 1–​23). Therefore, it was unsurprising that a nostalgic hankering for a Russified past would play well for Lukashenka’s post-​ Soviet populism. His predecessor as leader of independent Belarus, Shushkevich, had allowed and even cherished displays of Belarusian specificity. However, Shushkevich did not pursue identity politics consistently and had less opportunity to ally with nationalist movements than in neighbouring states (Szporluk 1998). Lukashenka exploited identity to greater political effect. In the referendum of May 1995, he got public approval to give the Russian language official status. Also, Belarus reintroduced Soviet-​era symbols, or lookalikes like the new flag, while the day of the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution reappeared as a national holiday (Leshchenko 2008: 1421). Protests against these policies did occur. Opposition in the BSSR had evolved from historic grievances relating to Stalinist terror, in particular, and the short-​lived possibility of early-​twentieth-​­century Belarusian nationalism more generally. In the post-​Soviet era, though, Lukashenka soon suppressed such historical interpretations, in a manner much more consistent than the confusion dominating official Russian memory politics. As Russia increasingly moved towards rehabilitating the Soviet past, as noted in Chapter 33 by Malinova and Chapter 34 by Golubev and Nikolai in this volume, Belarus readily partook, especially by pointing out how the territories that would later become post-​Soviet Belarus had suffered relatively more human and material casualties than anywhere else on Earth during the Second World War. And when Lukashenka could not suppress memories, he could appropriate them. The legacy of the 1986 Chernobyl meltdown and its pollution of Belarusian (and Ukrainian) lands loomed large in public consciousness. So Lukashenka stressed his opposition to all forms of nuclear weaponry and energy, presenting his regime as wise and responsible and tempered by past trauma (Zhukova 2018). As European affairs again tensed up, Lukashenka remained ready to portray himself and his country as a modern-​day martyr, a defender of a free, Slavic world (Marples 2014).

Nationalising Lukashenka Lukashenka also had to acknowledge, nevertheless, that allegiance to the Soviet past had decreasing value in Belarus. Public opinion polls showed that still fewer people there wanted a return of the Soviet Union, even if the idea of unification with Russia retained majority support (Bekus 2010: 140–​1). Those tendencies offered both support and challenges to the Russo-​Belarusian relationship. A Russia that was increasingly active in the post-​Soviet space might look at Belarus as a fertile object for its identity politics, the country in which Russian public diplomacy might have the best chance of succeeding (Saari 2014). On the other hand, such Russian public diplomacy might not support the current Belarusian regime, something Lukashenka understood. So he began to take over some of the nationalist tropes previously spearheaded by his opponents while centring such nationalism around a civic identity and

517

518

Rasmus Nilsson

the concept of “sovereignty” (Frear 2019: 78–​9). Connections to Russian identity were not severed. Indeed, within the field of religion, relations strengthened after 2009, when the Russian Orthodox Church got a new patriarch in Kirill, a man focused on the expansion of his church beyond Russia and supportive of the current Belarusian leadership (Suslov 2012: 582). The Belarusian Orthodox Church allied closely with the church in Moscow. Indeed, the main difference between the Russian and Belarusian branches of the Orthodox Church seemed to be in the supineness of the latter, relative to both Moscow and the political authorities in Minsk (Vasilevich 2014). The fact that other religious denominations within Belarus sometimes championed non-​Russian identities, mostly Polishness, only distanced them from the Belarusian regime and the majority of inhabitants of Belarus for whom Polish culture remained largely alien (Wallace and Patsiurko 2017: 84).

Away from Russia? It might have been expected that Russian and Belarusian identities would have diverged following the 2014 Ukraine crisis. And, indeed, the Lukashenka regime was increasingly wary of Russian propaganda; a much-​published court case even accused Belarusians writing for Russian media of subverting Belarusian culture (Nimmo and Barojan 2016). Putin increasingly highlighted commonalities between his realm and those of the East Slavic neighbours and post-​Soviet states broadly worried about their autonomy. Concerns about Russian-​inspired Eurasianism was increasingly widespread. In Belarus, Lukashenka reacted by permitting displays of Belarusian historical symbols connected to entities such as the Belarusian People’s Republic, the object of substantial commemorations and public marches for its 100-​year anniversary in 2018. The regime might not have spearheaded much of this activity, yet it was permitted and offered some (limited) support (Ioffe 2018). Clearly, though, Lukashenka had no intention of changing the ethos of his state. Indeed, in its authoritarianism and militarism, his regime even set an example to follow for Russia, such as when Minsk, but not Moscow, in May 2020 brashly celebrated victory in World War II in the face of the COVID pandemic (Roth 2020). Events such as this underlined how Belarus still looked to Russia as its closest counterpart. Belarusian cultural figures might exist, but even the most famous of these, Svetlana Alexievich, received her Nobel Prize in 2015 for literature written in Russian and engaging with topics belonging to a “Soviet-​Russian” memory sphere (Lenart-​Cheng 2020: 90). Alexievich was no supporter of Lukashenka’s vision for Belarus, and neither were the thousands of people protesting on the streets following the 2020 presidential election. Yet among those people, including their de facto leader Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya, the identity link to Russia still remained firm (The Moscow Times 2020).

Epilogue: And then there was 2022 In February 2022, Russia invaded Ukraine. Part of the Russian invasion had been launched from the territory of Belarus. It could be argued that Minsk had finally succumbed to its neighbour. That Belarus was now a Russian region in all but name (and soon might even be officially absorbed into Russia). Lukashenka followed the Russian regime in blaming Ukraine and the West for the war. Together with his regime and that of Russia, the Belarusian president was duly the target of new Western sanctions. Lukashenka seemed to have failed in his decades-​long quest to keep Belarus as a fully sovereign actor next to Russia. Yet it was telling that he still sought to keep Belarusian troops out of the war. Clearly, Lukashenka realised direct military involvement might not only be dangerous for 518

519

Russia and Belarus

the Belarusian forces but could also damage the political and economic stability of the country. As indicated in this chapter, since 1992 most ordinary Belarusians had wanted to stay close to Russia and Russians; a desire from which Lukashenka had profited. Yet now, with a bloody war damaging the prestige of the Russian regime at home and abroad, the Belarusian leader had to consider carefully if he should continue hoisting his flag on Putin’s mast. Or if he could try, one last time, to reinvent himself and his country as something other than Russia’s appendage. On that choice rested, perhaps, the fate of Belarus, of Russia, and of Europe as a whole.

References Ambrosio, T. (1999), “The Geopolitics of Slavic Union: Russia, Belarus, and Multipolarity”, Geopolitics 4, 3: 73–​90. Ambrosio, T. (2009), Authoritarian Backlash: Russian Resistance to Democratization in the Former Soviet Union (Aldershot: Ashgate). Asmus, R. (2010), A Little War That Shook the World: Georgia, Russia and the Future of the West (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). Åtland, K. (2020), “Destined for Deadlock? Russia, Ukraine, and the Unfulfilled Minsk Agreements”, Post-​Soviet Affairs 36, 2: 122–​39. Balmaceda, M. (2012), Living the High Life in Minsk: Russian Energy Rents, Domestic Populism and Belarus’ Impending Crisis (Budapest: Central European University Press). Balmaceda, M. (2014), “Energy Policy in Belarus: Authoritarian Resilience, Social Contracts, and Patronage in a Post-​Soviet Environment”, Eurasian Geography and Economics 55, 5: 514–​36. Bechev, D. (2017), Rival Power: Russia in Southeast Europe (New Haven: Yale University Press). Bedford, S. (2021), “The 2020 Presidential Election in Belarus: Erosion of Authoritarian Stability and Re-​Politicization of Society”, Nationalities Papers 49, 5: 808–​19. Bekus, N. (2010), Struggle over Identity: The Official and the Alternative “Belarusianness”, (Budapest: Central European University Press). Belarus Republic-​Russian Federation: Treaty on the Formation of the Community of Belarus and Russia (1996), International Legal Materials 35, 5: 1190–​4. Bosse, G. (2012), “A Partnership with Dictatorship: Explaining the Paradigm Shift in European Union Policy towards Belarus”, Journal of Common Market Studies 50, 3: 367–​84. Bosse, G. (2018), “EU-​Belarus Relations in the Context of the European Neighbourhood Policy”, in T. Schumacher, A. Marchetti and T. Demmelhuber (eds.), The Routledge Handbook on the European Neighbourhood Policy (Abingdon: Routledge): 290–​301. Busygina, I. (2018), Russia-​EU Relations and the Common Neighborhood: Coercion vs. Authority (Abingdon: Routledge). Cordell, J. (2020), “ ‘Harsh Times Ahead’: Russia’s Emergency Loan to Belarus Changes Little for Embattled Lukashenko”, The Moscow Times, 17 September. de la Pedraja, R. (2019), The Russian Military Resurgence: Post-​Soviet Decline and Rebuilding, 1992–​2018 (Jefferson: McFarland). Deyermond, R. (2018), “The Collective Security Treaty Organization”, in A. Tsygankov (ed.), The Routledge Handbook of Russian Foreign Policy (Abingdon: Routledge): 421–​9. Esanov, A., C. Merkl and L. Vinhas de Souza (2005), “Monetary Policy Rules for Russia”, Journal of Comparative Economics 33, 3: 484–​99. Fawn, R. (2001), “Death Penalty as Democratization: Is the Council of Europe Hanging Itself?” Democratization 8, 2: 69–​96. Filatova, I. (2017), “Visa-​Free Travel to Belarus Another Casualty in Row with Moscow”, Deutsche Welle, 10 February. Frear, M. (2019), Belarus under Lukashenka: Adaptive Authoritarianism (Abingdon: Routledge). Goujon, A. (2010), “Memorial Narratives of WWII Partisans and Genocide in Belarus”, East European Politics and Societies 24, 1: 6–​25. Guillet, J. (2007), “Gazprom as a Predictable Partner: Another Reading of the Russian-​Ukrainian and Russian-​Belarusian Energy Crises”, Russie.Nei.Visions 18. Hughes, G. (2020), “War in the Grey Zone: Historical Reflections and Contemporary Implications”, Survival 62, 3: 131–​58.

519

520

Rasmus Nilsson Ioffe, G. (2004), “Understanding Belarus: Economy and Political Landscape”, Europe-​Asia Studies 56, 1: 85–​118. Ioffe, G. (2018), “Belarus: Paradoxes of National Memory and Freedom of Speech”, Eurasia Daily Monitor, 25 January. Ioffe, G. and V. Yarashevich (2011), “Debating Belarus: An Economy in Comparative Perspective”, Eurasian Geography and Economics 52, 6: 750–​79. Isakova, A., Z. Koczan and A. Plekhanov (2016), “How Much Do Tariffs Matter? Evidence from the Customs Union of Belarus, Kazakhstan and Russia”, Journal of Economic Policy Reform 19, 2: 166–​84. Jakóbowski, J. and K. Kłysiński (2021), “The Non-​Strategic Partnership: Belarus-​China Relations”, OSW Studies 81. Jirušek, M. and P. Kuchyňková, (2018), “The Conduct of Gazprom in Central and Eastern Europe: A Tool of the Kremlin, or Just an Adaptable Player?”, East European Politics and Societies: and cultures 32, 4: 818–​44. Kasekamp, A (2020), “An Uncertain Journey to the Promised Land: The Baltic States’ Road to NATO Membership”, Journal of Strategic Studies 43, 6-​7: 869–​96. Kropatcheva, E. (2016), “Russia and the Collective Security Treaty Organisation: Multilateral Policy or Unilateral Ambitions?”, Europe-​Asia Studies 68, 9: 1526–​52. Kruk, D. (2013), “Belarus’ Anti-​Crisis Management: Success Story of Delayed Recession?” Europe-​Asia Studies 65, 3: 473–​88. Kryvoi, Y. with A. Wilson (2015), “From Sanctions to Summits: Belarus after the Ukraine Crisis”, European Council on Foreign Relations and the Ostrogorski Centre, May. Kulhánek, J. (2009), “Putin’s Foreign Policy and the Founding of the NATO-​Russia Council”, Central European Journal of International and Security Studies 3, 1: 136–​53. Kuzio, T. (1997), “NATO Enlargement: The View from the East”, European Security 6, 1: 48–​62. Lenart-​Cheng, H. (2020), “Personal and Collective Memories in the Works of Svetlana Alexievich”, History and Memory 32, 2: 78–​109. Leshchenko, N. (2008), “The National Ideology and the Basis of the Lukashenka Regime in Belarus”, Europe-​Asia Studies 60, 8: 1419–​33. Lieven, A. (2002), “The Secret Policemen’s Ball: The United States, Russia and the International Order after 11 September”, International Affairs 78, 2: 245–​59. Lo, B. (2003), Vladimir Putin and the Evolution of Russian Foreign Policy (London: RIIA). Markus, U. (1997), “Russia and Belarus: Elusive Integration”, Problems of Post-​Communism 44, 5: 55–​61. Marples, D. (1996), Belarus: From Soviet Rule to Nuclear Catastrophe (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). Marples, D. (2008), “Is the Russia-​Belarus Union Obsolete?”, Problems of Post-​Communism 55, 1: 25–​35. Marples, D. (2014), “Our Glorious Past”: Lukashenka’s Belarus and the Great Patriotic War (Stuttgart: ibidem Press). Matveeva, A. (2018), “Russia’s Power Projection after the Ukraine Crisis”, Europe-​Asia Studies 70, 5: 711–​37. Mauldin, W. and R. Boudreaux (2010), “Tensions Flare in Russia-​Belarus Pipeline Talks”, The Wall Street Journal, 5 January. McDermott, R. (2009), “Zapad 2009 Rehearses Countering a NATO Attack on Belarus”, Eurasia Daily Monitor, 30 September. Michelsen, N. (1995), “The Nuclear Legacy of the Soviet Union”, Southeastern Political Review 23, 4: 581–​97. Miksjuk, A., M. Pranovich and S. Ouliaris (2015), “The Game of Anchors: Studying the Causes of Currency Crises in Belarus”, IMF Working Paper, 15/​281. Mirovalev, M. (2021), “What’s Putin’s Gain in the Belarus Migrant Crisis?”, Al-​Jazeera, 15 November. Moshes, A. (2014), “Lukashenka as Machiavelli”, openDemocracy, 9 January. Nimmo, B. and D. Barojan (2016), “Slavic Brotherhood?” Medium.com, 20 December. Novikau, A. (2017), “Nuclear Power Debate and Public Opinion in Belarus: From Chernobyl to Ostrovets”, Public Understanding of Science 26, 3: 275–​88. Nygren, B. (2008), The Rebuilding of Greater Russia: Putin’s Foreign Policy towards the CIS Countries (Abingdon: Routledge). Oldberg, I. (1997), “Sunset over the Swamp: The Independence and Dependence of Belarus”, European Security 6, 3: 110–​30. Pacer, V. (2016), Russian Foreign Policy under Dmitry Medvedev, 2008–​2012 (Abingdon: Routledge).

520

521

Russia and Belarus Padhol, U. and D. Marples (2011), “The 2010 Presidential Election in Belarus”, Problems of Post-​ Communism 58, 1: 3–​16. Plokhy, S. (2014), The Last Empire: The Final Days of the Soviet Union (New York: Basic Books). Putin, V.V. (2007), “Speech and the Following Discussion at the Munich Conference on Security Policy”, Kremlin.ru, 10 February. RFE/​RL (2014), “Belarusian President Says Crimean Annexation ‘Bad Precedent’”, 23 March. Roth, A. (2020), “Victory Day: Belarus Swaggers on Parade as Russians Leave Red Square Deserted”, The Guardian, 9 May. Rozanov, A. (1999), “Belarus: Foreign Policy Priorities”, in S. Garnett and R. Levgold (eds.) Belarus at the Crossroads (Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace). Saari, S. (2014), “Russia’s Post-​Orange Revolution Strategies to Increase Its Influence in Former Soviet Republics: Public Diplomacy po russkii”, Europe-​Asia Studies 66, 1: 50–​66. Sagramoso, D. (2020), Russian Imperialism Revisited: From Disengagement to Hegemony (Abingdon: Routledge). Sanford, G. (1996), “Belarus on the Road to Nationhood”, Survival 38, 1: 131–​53. Schmidt, M. (2005), “Is Putin Pursuing a Policy of Eurasianism?”, Demokratizatsiya: The Journal of Post-​ Soviet Democratization 13, 1: 87–​100. Shevchenko, K. (2009), “Grustnaya saga o Soyuznom gosudarstve”, Nezavisimaya gazeta, 8 December. Shushkevich, S. (2013), “The End of the Soviet Union”, Demokratizatsiya 21, 3: 315–​38. Solanko, L. and P. Sutela (2009), “Too Much or Too Little Russian Gas to Europe?”, Eurasian Geography and Economics 50, 1: 58–​74. Suslov, M. (2012), “Geographical Metanarratives in Russia and the European East: Contemporary Pan-​ Slavism”, Eurasian Geography and Economics 53, 5: 575–​95. Szporluk, R. (1998), “Nationalism after Communism: Reflections on Russia, Ukraine, Belarus and Poland”, Nations and Nationalism 4, 3: 301–​20. The Moscow Times (2020), “Belarus Opposition Leader: We’re not Anti-​Russian”, 22 September. Tichý, L. (2014), “Security and Foreign Policy of Dmitry Medvedev in the Period 2008–​2012”, The Journal of Slavic Military Studies 27, 4: 533–​52. Tsypkin, M. (2012), “Russia, America and Missile Defense”, Defense & Security Analysis 28, 1: 55–​64. Vasilevich, N. (2014), “The Belarusian Orthodox Church in the Shadow of the State”, Russian Politics and Law 52, 5: 7–​31. Vieira, A. (2017), “A Tale of Two Unions: Russia-​Belarus Integration Experience and Its Lessons for the Eurasian Economic Union”, Journal of Borderlands Studies 32, 1: 41–​53. Wallace, C. and N. Patsiurko (2017), “Relational Identities on EU Borderlands: The Case of Poles in Belarus and Belarusians in Poland”, Ethnic and Racial Studies 40, 1: 77–​95. Whitmore, B. (2021), “Russian-​Belarusian Military Merger Accelerates on NATO’s Eastern Flank”, Atlantic Council, 15 September. Wilson, A. (2021), Belarus: The Last European Dictatorship (New Haven: Yale University Press). Wilson, J. (2009), “Coloured Revolutions: The View from Moscow and Beijing”, Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics 25, 2-​3: 369–​95. World Bank (2021), “Inflation, Consumer Prices (%)”, data.worldbank.org. Yafimava, K. (2010), “The June 2010 Russian-​Belarusian Gas Transit Dispute: A Surprise That Was to be Expected”, Oxford Institute for Energy Studies, NG 43. Yarashevich, V. (2014), “Political Economy of Modern Belarus: Going Against Mainstream?” Europe-​Asia Studies 66, 10: 1703–​34. Zhukova, E. (2018), “Chernobyl, Responsibility and National Identity: Positioning Europe and Russia in the Media of Belarus and Ukraine (1992–​2014)”, Europe-​Asia Studies 70, 7: 1055–​82.

521

522

45 RUSSIA’S FOREIGN POLICY IN CENTRAL ASIA In search of privileged partnership Kirill Nourzhanov

Over the past two decades, Central Asia, a region comprising the former Soviet republics of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan, has been steadily gaining in importance in the eyes of Russian foreign policy makers. While it may never reach the level of significance Moscow attaches to relations with the US or China, or even Ukraine and Belarus in Western Eurasia, Russia’s security, political and economic interests condition its deep and multifaceted involvement in the region.

The lost decade of the 1990s In the wake of the USSR’s collapse, President Boris Yeltsin’s government regarded Central Asia as a low priority area steeped in entrenched backwardness and alien values. Russia’s foreign minister in 1992–​6, Andrei Kozyrev, considered the region’s “Asiaticism” as a distraction from his country’s imminent merger with the community of European nations (Kozyrev 1993). Yeltsin neither paid much attention to maintaining good working relations with Central Asian leaders nor treated them as sovereign equals, and when Moscow was forced to interfere on the ground, such as during the civil conflict in Tajikistan during 1992–​7, it did so in a half-​hearted and awkward manner (Kozyrev 2019: 94–​105). This neglect was augmented by the Kremlin’s “extremely path-​dependent” (Nalbandov 2016: 163) conviction that the region would continue to be tethered to the former Russian “big brother” within the framework of the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) by virtue of their long-​shared history. In the meantime, Russia’s economic relations with the region collapsed in the 1990s. Mutual trade decreased from $60bn in 1991 to a miserly $3.7bn in 1999 (Paramonov 2019: 6–​7). Broke and chaotic, Russia could not afford to invest in Central Asia and missed out on a chance to be involved in the lucrative mineral resource development that eventually formed the backbone of many national economies in the post-​Soviet period. By the beginning of the twenty-​first century, Moscow’s influence in Central Asia had reached a low point. The region’s countries had evolved genuinely independent political systems and functioning economies integrated into the global market (Pomfret 2021: 537–​40). Moreover, they had diversified their international relations embracing “multi-​vector” foreign 522

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-50

523

Russia’s foreign policy in Central Asia

policies (Hanks 2009). A tilt towards the West as the preferred choice for engagement could be observed even in Tajikistan, where the incumbent president had only been propelled to power thanks to Moscow’s reluctant intervention. Western commentators had good reason to predict that “an orientation towards Russia will remain, although it is inevitable that this direction will no longer be a priority for Tajikistan” (Jonson 2006: 196).

The Russian strategic vision of Central Asia: The Putin years The new Russian president, Vladimir Putin, made an effort to put relations with Central Asia on a steady keel. His first official visit abroad in 2000 as the elected head of state was to Uzbekistan. In just four years, Putin made 14 official trips to the region and hosted an even greater number of visits by Central Asian heads of state in Russia. The frequency and density of high-​level contacts has been maintained to date. By contrast, a serving president of the United States has never set foot on Central Asian soil. A spike in regular diplomacy notwithstanding, Russia has never elaborated and promulgated a specifically Central Asia strategy, unlike the US and the EU. Until recently, it habitually subsumed the region’s countries into the broad category of CIS/​former Soviet republics in official documents such as the Foreign Policy Concept and the National Security Strategy of the Russian Federation. This has often caused external observers to extrapolate Moscow’s policy action elsewhere in the post-​Soviet space rather mechanically to Central Asia –​hence, for instance, an expectation that the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022 would lead to a similar attack on Kazakhstan and its neighbours (Merkel 2022). The so-​called “Wilsonian bias” is also salient in interpretations of Russian foreign policy. It is based on the assumption that Putin’s inherent revanchism, aggressiveness and Soviet nostalgia determine Russia’s international relations (Gunitsky and Tsygankov 2018). In general, characterisations of Moscow’s Central Asia strategy as an exercise in neo-​imperialism are quite common (Sagramoso 2020; Dadabaev 2022). Equally common is the perception that Russia’s Central Asia policy in the twenty-​first century continues to be reactive, chaotic and desperately under-​resourced (Malashenko 2013). Both images –​the imperialist predator, and the waning and rudderless former hegemon –​ are misleading. Over the past two decades Russia has developed a fairly consistent and pragmatic strategy on Central Asia as a distinct and self-​contained part of the “Near Abroad”. It views the region as its sphere of interests, which is not as compelling and all-​embracing as a zone of influence and does not entail any hint of political control (Trenin 2009). The Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MFA) currently sees Central Asia as “an important partner for privileged cooperation in the military-​ political, trade-​ economic and cultural-​ humanitarian spheres as well as in the matter of ensuring common Eurasian security from the southern direction” (MFA 2022). This definition illustrates three trends in the evolution of the government’s strategic thinking under Putin. First, it has moved from the pursuit of wholesale integration of the post-​Soviet space to seeking specific areas of common interest where Russia can exercise leadership. Security understood both as protection against external threats and maintenance of regime stability is paramount in this regard, followed by political stability and economic development. Second, Moscow acknowledges it has both to compete and cooperate with other external actors to achieve its objectives –​Russia is a “privileged” but by no means an exclusive partner. Finally, it distinguishes Central Asia from other regions in the moribund CIS where partnership, privileged or otherwise, has been elusive. Russia regards the entire region as a zone receptive to its constructive initiatives. Indeed, since 2018, Moscow has engaged specifically with the Central Asian countries via the “C5 +​1” format of high-​level 523

524

Kirill Nourzhanov Table 45.1  Countries’ ratings in the Index of Military-​Political Cooperation with Russia (2014–​18) Position

Country

Index of military-​political cooperation with Russia

Cluster

1 2 3 4 5 26 34 159 172 192

Belarus Tajikistan Kyrgyzstan Armenia Kazakhstan Turkmenistan Uzbekistan Georgia Moldova USA

6.78 4.80 4.80 4.63 4.59 0.15 0.03 -​0.37 -​0.43 -​1.19

Formal alliance and actual cooperation

Actual cooperation without formal alliance No cooperation

Source: Adapted from Fomin et al 2020: 117–​23.

consultations, adding a regional dimension to bilateral ties and relations within multilateral blocs and organisations. Moscow categorises the region’s five countries into “allies” and “strategic partners”. The former group comprises Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan who have membership in Moscow-​led alliances –​the Collective Security Treaty Organisation (CSTO) and the Eurasian Economic Union (EEU). Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan belong to the latter group. The Central Asian republics rate highly on various lists of nations friendly to Russia, such as the Index of Military-​Political Cooperation calculated periodically by foreign policy experts in Moscow (see Table 45.1). The Kremlin’s fundamental interests in Central Asia, the methods it uses in their pursuit and their relative effectiveness are discussed in the sections below.

The primacy of security Security concerns are paramount to Russian strategic interests in Central Asia. Sharing a porous and virtually unprotected 7,644 km-​long land border with Kazakhstan, Moscow views the region as a buffer zone shielding it against threats from the south but also as a potential source of insecurity in its own right. Russia’s official policy documents have clearly and consistently identified the main security challenges it must address in Central Asia: •​ terrorism and religious extremism; •​ narcotics trafficking; •​ illegal migration. Many of these threats are associated with the situation in Afghanistan, and in Moscow’s security calculus it is preferable to deal with them on the Central Asia–​Afghanistan border than on Russia’s own territory. Russia is also worried about the flows of refugees that could move north in their millions should the region experience an interstate conflict or state collapse. In terms of the conventional military balance of power, the Kremlin is wary of Western presence in Central Asia. It begrudgingly accepted US and NATO deployment between 2001 and 2006 during the early phase of the American-​led campaign against the Taliban in Afghanistan but has resisted it ever since (Hedenskog et al 2019: 17–​34). 524

525

Russia’s foreign policy in Central Asia

Moscow’s forward defence in Central Asia follows three main modalities. First, it maintains close bilateral ties with the military-​ security establishments in Central Asia, providing equipment, training, logistical support and intelligence sharing. The armed forces of Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan are essentially dependent on Russia’s largesse, having signed long-​term free arms transfers in 2013–​14 worth $1bn and $1.2bn respectively. A vast majority of officer cadets and technical specialists in these countries are educated either at Russian military institutions or in situ using Russian expertise. Kazakhstan can afford to buy its weapons in the international market, yet Moscow has been its leading supplier in the post-​independence period, clocking an impressive $1.8bn in sales between 1992 and 2019, leaving the second-​placed Spain far behind with $96m. A 2022 comprehensive military cooperation agreement between Russia and Kazakhstan indicated a high degree of interoperability between the countries’ armed forces providing for joint action in regional conflicts and in the areas of counter-​terrorism and cybersecurity. In many ways, Moscow and Astana work as equal partners, while Bishkek and Dushanbe are led by this tandem. In the wake of NATO’s withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2014, the governments of Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan have sought greater military cooperation with Russia, too. Moscow has been only too happy to oblige, supplying increased quantities of hardware and know-​how without insisting on formal agreements or tighter policy coordination (Parkhit’ko et al 2020: 32–​7). The Russian intelligence community has forged an especially cosy relationship with the massive secret service apparatuses across the region. They work in unison on the matter of safeguarding secular authoritarian regimes against the challenge of Islamic radicalism, actual or perceived (Skalamera 2017: 125–​30). Second, Moscow runs a network of military installations on Central Asian territory that enhances regional security. The 201st military base in Tajikistan is Russia’s largest garrison abroad, leased until at least 2042. Numbering 7,000 servicepeople, it is comparable in size to the entire Tajik army but is much better trained and equipped. The base’s official mission is to provide all-​round support to Tajik units stationed on the Afghan border. At the same time, it is capable of projecting Russian hard power to other Central Asian republics and, following an upgrade in 2021, it also acts as a strategic early warning and air defence outpost. A smaller 999th air base in Kyrgyzstan performs similar functions and enjoys the same extraterritorial status. Finally, the CSTO is used by the Kremlin to effect multilateral security action and policy coordination. This Russia-​led bloc took shape in 2002 largely in response to Islamist incursions from Afghanistan to the territory of Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan in 1999 and 2000. Its remit has gradually grown from collective defence against external aggression to include action against international terrorism, drug trafficking, illegal migration, cybercrime and information warfare, as well as peacekeeping operations and disaster relief. As of 2018, the CSTO’s rapid reaction forces can be deployed to quell domestic security threats upon request from the government of a member-​state. The first such deployment took place in January 2022 when the CSTO despatched a 2,000-​strong contingent (80 percent of which consisted of Russian paratroopers) to Kazakhstan in order to assist President Kassym-​Jomart Tokayev with restoring law and order amid mass and violent unrest. Uzbekistan left the bloc in 2012 but resumed limited participation in the CSTO drills and exercises in 2020. In August 2021, the sudden collapse of the US-​propped government of Ashraf Ghani in Afghanistan and the return of the Taliban to power led to a further confluence of interest between Russia and the Central Asian states. In January 2022, Tajikistan’s president Emomali Rahmon claimed that there were over 40 training camps in northern Afghanistan harbouring 6,000 terrorists poised to move across the border and called for the creation of an even tighter 525

526

Kirill Nourzhanov

regional “belt of security” with Russia and the CSTO at its core. The suggestion was warmly received in Moscow (RIA Novosti 2022). Overall, the military-​security element of Russian strategy in Central Asia can be seen as reasonably successful. Moscow has established itself as a privileged security provider and guarantor in the region. While the Central Asian states pursue security cooperation with other great powers too, China abstains from serious commitment on the ground and generally defers to the Kremlin’s leading position, and the US is too distant and unreliable to offer a genuine alternative. The last remaining American base in the region was ejected by Kyrgyzstan in 2014, and Washington’s attempts to set up new bases following the evacuation from Afghanistan in August 2021 were rebuffed by all five Central Asian republics.

Upholding stability, authoritarian status quo and non-​interference Closely related to security is Russia’s strategic interest in maintaining stable and friendly political regimes in Central Asia. Moscow’s consistent support for incumbent authoritarian governments stands in contrast to Western efforts to foster democracy around the world. Russian officials were mortified by the onset of the “colour revolutions” in the 2000s in some former Soviet republics, including the 2005 regime change in Kyrgyzstan. Interpreting them as a geopolitical ploy by the West rather than popular uprisings, and fearing that the contagion might spread to Russia, the Kremlin has tried to position itself as a champion of sovereignty and conservative continuity in the region. The Director of the MFA’s Third CIS Department responsible for Central Asia stated recently that “at present, the most efficient system of power is the one headed by a strong and popular leader to whom the elites and policy-​forming groups are directly morally responsible”, warned against the dangers of externally-​ induced “galloping democratisation” and reiterated Moscow’s commitment to “blocking transgressions on secular traditions of power in Central Asia and any interference into the region’s domestic affairs under whatever guise” (Sternik 2018: 10–​11). Such a stance is keenly appreciated by the Central Asian leaders. Russia legitimises their questionable electoral practices, keeps a tight lid on Central Asian dissidents on its soil and, through its powerful media, helps present Western-​sponsored pro-​democracy and human rights organisations as subversive agents. The Kremlin does not forcefully impose its authoritarian norms and values: the region’s governing elites themselves actively and creatively adapt Russian domestic political innovations to local conditions (Roberts 2015). Russia does not openly challenge the multi-​vector foreign policies of the Central Asian republics. Provided they participate in the Moscow-​led regional security architecture and avert the Ukrainian Maidan-​style scenario of power transition, the Kremlin shows moderation vis-​à-​ vis their policy preferences, including on matters that are quite central to Russia’s international conduct. For example, it does not insist that its Central Asian allies and partners support its moves against Georgia and Ukraine. None of the Central Asian states has recognised the annexation of Crimea in 2014 or the independence of Abkhazia, South Ossetia and Donbas. All of them, however, have refused to support anti-​Russian resolutions at the UN and adopted a neutral stance on the 2022 war in Ukraine; this is good enough as far as pragmatic Moscow is concerned. Central Asia remains one region in the former USSR where the Kremlin has not instrumentalised Russian minorities to exert pressure on unfriendly regimes. By contrast, governments in the Baltic states, Georgia, Moldova and Ukraine have had to deal with their Russophone populations in the context of asymmetrical and open warfare (Laruelle 2015: 18–​ 19). Although the size of the Russian diaspora in Central Asia has shrunk by nearly half from 526

527

Russia’s foreign policy in Central Asia

10 million persons in 1991, potentially it can still serve as a lever of influence, especially in Kazakhstan where ethnic Russians live compactly in the north and north-​east of the country.

The weakest link? Russian economic policies Russia’s strategic economic interests in Central Asia comprise trade and investment, access to human resources and the development of transcontinental transport routes. Western sanctions imposed on Moscow in 2014 and especially in 2022 have increased the region’s material value to Russia considerably. Russia’s annual trade turnover with Central Asia grew nearly five-​fold between 2000 and 2021, reaching $30bn. This makes it a close third-​most significant trading partner for the region, just behind the EU and China. Central Asia is relatively more important to Russia, though: in 2018, the region accounted for 4 percent of Russia’s total exports, compared to a 0.5 percent share in China’s exports. Moreover, two thirds of Russian commodities sold in Central Asia consisted of manufactured goods, whereas globally their share did not exceed 20 percent (Polivach 2019). Russian machinery, food, hi-​tech products and services such as mobile telephony and IT are competitive and enjoy high demand in Central Asia. Between 2015 and 2019, Russian public and private investment in Central Asia grew by 8 percent on average annually, totalling $30bn. Over 11,000 joint ventures with Russian capital were more or less evenly spread across countries and sectors of the economy as opposed to, say, nominally much larger US investment, 99 percent of which went to Kazakhstan’s oil sector. In their turn, Central Asians invested $5.5bn in Russia (Paramonov 2019). While Kazakhstan remains Russia’s main security, political and economic partner in Central Asia, Moscow has paid particular attention to developing ties with Uzbekistan since the death of the autarchic president Islam Karimov in 2016. In 2021, the new president, Shavkat Mirziyoyev, mentioned $14bn worth of new development projects with Russia, including a nuclear power station, and characterised bilateral relations as “deep integration at a qualitatively new level” (Mirziyoyev 2021). Russia’s economic recovery in the twenty-​first century, combined with a shrinking and ageing population, has expedited extensive labour migration from the former Soviet republics. In 2019, guest workers constituted 12 percent of the country’s workforce, generating 7.7 percent of its GDP. Central Asia, primarily Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan, supplied 71 percent of these migrants, or 3.9 million people. They have become virtually indispensable in such sectors as construction and retail trade, as well as in strategic development projects in the Arctic, Siberia and the Far East. In 2018, Russia adopted a new framework strategy that helped liberalise and regularise the inflow of migrants and better prepare them for work and life in the host country. Labour migration benefits source countries, too. It reduces unemployment in societies experiencing a demographic bulge and generates rentier income in the form of remittances. In 2019, the last pre-​COVID year, migrant workers from Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan transferred $9.23bn from Russia. That year, remittances accounted for 27, 28 and 14 percent of the GDP in those countries, respectively. Labour migration gives Russia a major advantage as an economic actor in Central Asia over the EU and China and compensates somewhat for its relatively modest trade and investment profile. Central Asia features prominently in Russia’s plans to develop latitudinal and meridional transport corridors criss-​crossing Eurasia. In gestation since 2000 and most recently articulated in the 2019 Spatial Development Strategy, they envisage the modernisation and construction of railways in the east-​west and north-​south direction, connecting Russia with major deep-​sea 527

528

Kirill Nourzhanov

ports and logistical hubs in North-​East Asia and South Asia, respectively. In 2014, state-​owned rail monopolies from Belarus, Russia and Kazakhstan formed the United Transport and Logistics Company –​Eurasian Rail Alliance to service cargo traffic from China to Europe via the dry port of Khorgos on the Kazakh-​Chinese border. The venture has been a success, seeing the volume of transited goods rise seven-​fold between 2016 and 2021 and reducing pressure on the overloaded Trans-​Siberian railway. The International North-​South Transport Corridor (INSTC) aims to connect St Petersburg with the Iranian port of Bandar Abbas and onwards by ship to Mumbai. Its integrated overland route via Russia, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan and Iran is supposed to be operational by the end of 2024. It could also offer landlocked Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan easy access to the Indian Ocean (Vinokurov et al 2021). Moscow uses the EEU as a vehicle to advance all its economic interests in Central Asia listed above. Set up as a joint initiative between Kazakhstan and Russia in 2015 after several false starts, this free trade bloc also incorporates Armenia, Belarus and Kyrgyzstan. Uzbekistan joined as an observer in 2020. The EEU’s promotion of the free movement of goods, services, capital and people within a single market has been reasonably effective, with both businesses and ordinary people in Russia and Central Asia viewing its accomplishments in a positive light (Vinokurov 2018; Chimiris et al 2022). During a summit between Putin and Xi Jinping in 2015, Moscow and Beijing committed to cooperation between the EEU and China’s Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) in what became known as the “Greater Eurasia” construct. While the agreement presented Russia and China as equal partners, there is little doubt that it is the latter that will finance and hence direct the development of connectivity infrastructure in Central Asia, including possible linkages to the INSTC (Skalamera 2017: 131–​2). However, Russia’s relative economic weakness and ongoing relationship crisis with the collective West create major impediments to its endeavours in Central Asia. The region’s states are hesitant to pursue deeper integration and coordination of macroeconomic policies, including monetary and financial matters, with Moscow. They fear that a recession such as took place in 2009 and 2014 or the devaluation of the Russian ruble might hurt them should they follow this path. They certainly do not want to be caught up in the campaign by the US and its allies to cripple and isolate Russia in the wake of the 2022 conflict in Ukraine. A government official from Kazakhstan, commenting on the British threat to sanction all EEU states “to close a perimeter” around Russia, said that his country would continue regular trade and investment activities with its giant northern neighbour while upholding all Western restrictions (Suleimenov cited in Gotev 2022). How practical such a balancing act may prove is unclear.

Soft power projection Any account of Russia’s strategy in Central Asia would be incomplete without a reference to its soft power. Defined as a process of creating and maintaining a positive national image abroad resting on a cultural foundation, it entered the arsenal of Moscow’s foreign policy tools comparatively late, around 2010. Even now, Russian officials treat it as an instrument to augment the hard power of military, security and economic resources rather than a sui generis and comparatively inexpensive way to win the hearts and minds of Central Asians. Moscow promotes “Brand Russia” through public diplomacy, humanitarian cooperation and strategic communication. Its education programmes targeting Central Asia are particularly well endowed: in 2020, 171,000 Central Asian students were studying at Russian universities. Since 2010, the intake of students from Uzbekistan has increased six-​fold, Tajikistan and Turkmenistan five-​fold and Kazakhstan 2.5-​fold. 528

529

Russia’s foreign policy in Central Asia Table 45.2  Preferred country for Central Asian youth contemplating relocation (% polled) Answer options

Kazakhstan

Kyrgyzstan

Tajikistan

Uzbekistan

Russia China USA EU countries Turkey South Korea

54.7 3.8 9.4 12.3 2.8 1.9

41.8 3.5 22.7 10.6 3.5 2.8

64.4 -​ 6.7 7.8 2.2 2.2

32.3 1.5 13.8 15.4 3.1 6.2

Source: Adapted from Rakisheva 2017: 32.

Russian media (including social networking platforms) are widely spread in Central Asia and have a far greater impact on the local political, historical and cultural discourse than any other foreign competitor (Kosmarskaya 2021). This is not to say that the current Russophone momentum in the region owes everything to the Kremlin’s policy; much of it has complex endogenous roots (Nourzhanov 2021). With the exception of Turkmenistan, the use of the Russian language in the public sphere in Central Asia has grown in recent years as opposed to the Baltic republics, Georgia, Moldova and especially Ukraine where it has shrunk (Osadchii 2022). There is no universally accepted way to measure cross-​border attraction, but answers to the question “Where would you like to live other than in your own country?” are often used as an indicator. In 2016, young people from four Central Asian republics who came of age after the Soviet collapse and had access to alternative cultural milieux were unequivocal in choosing Russia as a preferred destination for relocation in a representative opinion survey (see Table 45.2). National opinion polls consistently identify Russia as the most reliable international partner to whom a Central Asian country should first appeal for help in solving economic and other problems. In one such poll conducted in late 2021 in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, 54 percent of those interviewed in both countries chose Russia, while China got 5 and 3 percent of the vote, respectively, and the US 3 and 2 percent (Woods and Baker 2022). Soft power is a key asset for Russia’s strategy in Central Asia. It is difficult to find another place in the former USSR or indeed in the world where Russia is regarded by so many as the land of opportunity, an old friend one can trust and a vibrant place with a rich and accessible culture.

Conclusion Russian foreign policy in Central Asia has changed dramatically over the past 30 years. From a chaotic start in the 1990s when it displayed a strange mix of neglect and imperial hubris, it has evolved into a rational strategy pursuing clearly articulated national interests. No longer striving for hegemony, Moscow has tried to ensure good will and cooperation from countries in the region based on common concerns and mutual benefits. Although all Central Asian republics have diversified their foreign relations, Russia has succeeded in recovering and maintaining a privileged position as their preferred partner in some crucial areas. Russia is the key security guarantor of the region. Central Asia provides it with strategic depth and shields it from traditional and non-​traditional threats. Stability, regime continuity and the authoritarian status quo form the normative continuum between Moscow and the Central Asian governments cementing their political partnership. 529

530

Kirill Nourzhanov

In absolute figures, Moscow cannot compete with China as the chief economic partner for Central Asia. However, Russia’s trade and investment activities are often more equitable and conducive to the growth of national manufacturing capacity in the region. Since 2018, Moscow has managed to woo Uzbekistan with targeted development programmes, turning it into a de facto ally. Russia provides the largest external labour market for Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan and performs a unique “social stabiliser” function for these countries suffering from high unemployment rates. Last but not least, Russia’s soft power in Central Asia is unmatched by any other external actor. Russia’s tangible foreign policy accomplishments in Central Asia are not immune to setbacks and reversals. On the security front, Moscow and the CSTO have failed to prevent periodic border clashes between Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan over land and water disputes. Having committed itself to the upkeep of authoritarian stability, Russia does not cultivate relations with opposition forces and counter-​elites in Central Asia. Its clout may be drastically undermined should an Arab Spring-​like regime change occur in the region. An economic slowdown or recession would jeopardise the nascent common market and development projects steered by Russia. In 2022, the greatest risk factor is the Kremlin’s confrontation with the West over Ukraine. A wholesale blockade and isolation of Russia may compel the Central Asian states to reconsider their orientation towards Moscow. The future of the EEU and large-​scale transport infrastructure projects looks particularly uncertain. A lot will depend on China’s position, whose stock will inevitably rise in Central Asia amid the current geopolitical turmoil.

References Chimiris, E., A. Almakaeva, A. Nemirovskaya, N. Soboleva and V. Pereboev (2022), EDB Integration Business Barometer. Report 22/​1 (Moscow: Eurasian Development Bank). Dadabaev, T. (2022), Decolonizing Central Asian International Relations: Beyond Empires (Abingdon: Routledge). Fomin, I., N. Silaev, A. Makarycheva, S. Stolyarova and E. Shavlai (2020), “Soyuzniki Rossii. Formalnye obyazatelstva i fakticheskoe sotrudnichestvo”, Mezhdunarodnye protsessy 17, 2(57): 101–​30. Gotev, G. (2022), “Kazakh Official: We Will Not Risk Being Placed in the Same Basket as Russia”, Euractiv.com, 30 March, www.eurac​tiv.com/​sect​ion/​cent​ral-​asia/​interv​iew/​kaz​akh-​offic​ial-​we-​will-​ not-​r isk-​being-​pla​ced-​in-​the-​same-​bas​ket-​as-​rus​sia/​. Gunitsky, S. and A. Tsygankov (2018), “The Wilsonian Bias in the Study of Russian Foreign Policy”, Problems of Post-​Communism 65, 6: 385–​93. Hanks, R. (2009), “‘Multi-​Vector Politics’ and Kazakhstan’s Emerging Role as a Geo-​Strategic Player in Central Asia”, Journal of Balkan and Near Eastern Studies 11, 3: 257–​67. Hedenskog, J., E. Holmquist and J. Norberg (2019), Security in Central Asia: Russian Policy and Military Posture (Stockholm: Swedish Defence Research Agency). Jonson, L. (2006), Tajikistan in the New Central Asia: Geopolitics, Great Power Rivalry and Radical Islam (London: I.B. Tauris). Kosmarskaya, N. (ed.) (2021), Otnoshenie k Rossii v Tsentralnoi Azii: istoriya, politika, kultura (Moscow: IVRAN). Kozyrev, A. (1993), “What Foreign Policy Russia Should Pursue”, International Affairs (Moscow) 2: 3–​21. Kozyrev, A. (2019), The Firebird. The Elusive Fate of Russian Democracy (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press). Laruelle, M. (2015), The “Russian World”: Russia’s Soft Power and Geopolitical Imagination (Washington DC.: Center on Global Interests). Malashenko, A. (2013), “Interesy i shansy Rossii v Tsentralnoi Azii”, Pro et Contra 58: 21–​34. Merkel, D. (2022), “After Ukraine, Could Central Asia Be Next?”, The National Interest, 11 March, https://​natio​nali​nter​est.org/​print/​feat​ure/​after-​ukra​ine-​could-​cent​ral-​asia-​be-​next-​201​114.

530

531

Russia’s foreign policy in Central Asia MFA (2022), “Rossiya i Tsentralnaya Aziya”, Foreign Ministry of the Russian Federation, www.mid.ru/​ ros​sia-​i-​probl​emy-​cent​ral-​noj-​azii/​. Mirziyoyev, S. (2021), “Uglublennaya integratsiya idet po vsem napravleniyam”, Gazeta.uz, 19 November, www.gaz​eta.uz/​ru/​2021/​11/​19/​pre​side​nts/​. Nalbandov, R. (2016), Not by Bread Alone: Russian Foreign Policy under Putin (Lincoln: Potomac Books). Nourzhanov, K. (2021), “Russian Soft Power in Central Asia: Government Policy Helped by Resurgent Russophilia”, in K. Nourzhanov and S. Peyrouse (eds.), Soft Power in Central Asia. Politics of Influence and Seduction (Lanham: Lexington Books): 57–​84. Osadchii, M. (ed.) (2022), Indeks polozheniya russkogo yazyka v mire. Vypusk 2 (Moscow: Gosudarstvennyi institut russkogo yazyka im. A.S. Pushkina). Paramonov, V. (2019), “Rossiya i Tsentralnaya Aziya: istoriya i sovremennost’ ekonomicheskikh otnoshenii”, Vestnik KazNU 4, 88: 4–​12. Parkhit’ko, N., K. Kurylev and D. Stanis (2020), “Voenno-​ politicheskoe i voenno-​ tekhnicheskoe sotrudnichestvo gosudarstv Tsentralnoi Azii”, Voennaya mysl’ 7: 22–​39. Polivach, A. (2019), “Torgovlya stran Tsentralnoi Azii s Rossiei i Kitaem”, Rossiya i novye gosudarstva Evrazii IV (XLV): 136–​47. Pomfret, R. (2021), “Central Asian Economies: Thirty Years After Dissolution of the Soviet Union”, Comparative Economic Studies 63, 4: 537–​56. Rakisheva, B. (2017), Youth of Central Asia: Comparative Review (Almaty: Friedrich Ebert Stiftung). RIA Novosti (2022), “V MID otsenili ideyu sozdat’ ‘poyas bezopasnosti’ vokrug Afganistana”, 13 January, https://​r ia.ru/​20220​113/​bezo​pasn​ost-​176​7701​732.html. Roberts, S. (2015), “Converging Party Systems in Russia and Central Asia: A Case of Authoritarian Norm Diffusion?”, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies 48, 2-​3: 147–​57. Sagramoso, D. (2020), Russian Imperialism Revisited: from Disengagement to Hegemony (Abingdon: Routledge). Skalamera, M. (2017), “Russia’s Lasting Influence in Central Asia”, Survival 59, 6: 123–​42. Sternik, A. (2018), “Vystuplenie direktora Tret’ego departamenta stran SNG MID Rossii”, in Rossiya i Tsentralnaya Aziya: novye perspektivy (Moscow: MGIMO-​Universitet): 8–​14. Trenin, D. (2009), “Russia’s Spheres of Interest, not Influence”, The Washington Quarterly 32, 4: 3–​22. Vinokurov, E. (2018), Introduction to the Eurasian Economic Union (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan). South Vinokurov, E., A. Ahunbaev, M. Shashkenov and A. Zaboev (2021), The International North–​ Transport Corridor: Promoting Eurasia’s Intra-​and Transcontinental Connectivity (Almaty: Eurasian Development Bank). Woods, E. and T. Baker (2022), “A More Integrated Future –​Mapping Central Asian Optimism”, Central Asia Barometer, 28 March, https://​ca-​barome​ter.org/​en/​publi​cati​ons/​a-​more-​int​egra​ted-​fut​ure-​ mapp​ing-​cent​ral-​asian-​optim​ism.

531

532

46 THE KREMLIN’S REVERSE DEMOCRACY Relations with the Caucasus region Lilia A. Arakelyan

Introduction What are the current political and security dynamics in the South Caucasus? To what extent, and under what conditions, can Russia bargain with state leaders and influence foreign or security policies in the region? These are important questions that I will tackle in this chapter using a new theory of reverse democracy. Reverse democracy is defined as Russia’s foreign policy approach in the Near Abroad based on the promotion of authoritarianism while using democratic rhetoric. The former Soviet Union states (FSU) belong to the third wave of democratisation, where countries have introduced competitive elections prior to establishing fundamental institutions of a modern state such as the rule of law, civil society, and the accountability of leaders (Rose and Shin 2001: 331). As a result, the FSU states, with the exception of the Baltic states, which joined the EU and NATO in 2004, continue to experience daily violations of the rule of law, corruption, and unaccountable government. It did not help that President Vladimir Putin took a sharp turn in Russia’s foreign policy in 2007 when he announced, during his speech at the Munich Security Conference, that Moscow was not happy with the unipolar international system under US dominance, a world “in which there is one master, one sovereign” (Putin 2007). Putin openly accused NATO of threatening Russia’s security by expanding eastward, and when in 2008 it appeared that Ukraine and Georgia would eventually join the alliance, Russian troops invaded Georgia and fought the five-​day war. The West condemned Moscow’s aggression of August 2008 but did not intervene to support the pro-​Western government of Mikheil Saakashvili in Georgia. This short-​lived war changed the geopolitics of the region. Russia took control over two breakaways states, Abkhazia and South Ossetia, and Moscow’s standing in the international arena fell. The US and EU had a rude awakening, however; they still believed that this was the exception rather than the Kremlin’s new assertive foreign policy. The annexation of Crimea in 2014, the outbreak of the second Nagorno-​Karabakh war in 2020 and the deployment of Russian peace-​keepers in the area, and the invasion of Ukraine in 2022 proved them wrong. 532

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-51

533

The Kremlin’s reverse democracy

This article focuses on Russia’s foreign policy in the three South Caucasian states –​Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia –​since the early 2000s. Recent developments, including the invasion of Ukraine, which is the high point of this more assertive foreign policy, help to provide a more accurate analysis of Moscow’s aggressive foreign policy in the Near Abroad that I have termed the theory of reverse democracy. Central to reverse democracy are two assumptions: 1) Russia presents itself as the higher authority in the Near Abroad that can impose order and resolve conflicts, and 2) the FSU states struggle to survive and maintain state autonomy. These assumptions are the scope conditions for when reverse democracy is applicable as a theory. This study uses the dispute between Armenia and Azerbaijan over Nagorno-​Karabakh and the frozen conflicts in Georgia to illustrate the theory of reverse democracy and to analyse its utility for understanding Moscow’s foreign policy in the South Caucasus. Writing in 1991, Samuel Huntington conceptualised the formation of democracies within the framework of political, cultural, and social waves (Huntington 1991). This was the third wave of democracy. He also identified some of the factors that would affect the future contraction of democracy in the world, including the weakness of democratic values among key elite groups, severe economic setbacks, social and political polarisation, the breakdown of law and order resulting from terrorism or insurgency, and “reverse snowballing” prompted by the collapse of democratic systems in other states (Huntington 1991: 18). Huntington correctly predicted that the inauguration and consolidation of democracy within the Russian state would be the most substantial gain for democracy since the end of World War II (Huntington 1991: 14). The latter is considered the starting point of the neoliberal international order created under American leadership. This study furthers Huntington’s argument by contending that Russia’s move toward authoritarianism was the most dramatic loss for democracy not only in the country but also across the post-​Soviet space. Putin’s authoritarian regime has been a major contributing factor in the theory of reverse democracy, which led to unfavourable conditions for sustaining democracy in Armenia and Georgia; Azerbaijan has been ruled for almost three decades by an authoritarian regime controlled by a single family, the Aliyevs. However, it was the absence of basic institutions of the modern state that helped Putin to successfully undermine democratisation in the South Caucasian states in recent years. This chapter will proceed as follows: first, it will identify factors that contributed to the occurrence and timing of the transition to reverse democracy in the South Caucasus. It then will show how the Putin regime used the so-​called frozen conflicts in the region to bring under its orbit Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia. And finally, we will identify the possible ways to prevent the continuation of Putin’s reverse democracy in the Near Abroad.

It was Stalin’s fault One of the chief obstacles to democratic developments in the South Caucasus can be traced back to the Tsarist “divide and rule” policy that also became central to Soviet and Russian policies in the Near Abroad. For example, in order to undercut organised and effective opposition to the Soviet regime in the future Soviet Socialist republics, Joseph Stalin and his fellow Bolsheviks tailored the boundaries among the Soviet republics according to their loyalty to communist principles and the Kremlin rather than to their ethno-​national makeup. They deliberately overlapped traditional territories and administrative boundaries in order to ensure the creation of potential ethnic “fifth columns” within the individual republics of the USSR. This was meant to undermine any potential development of a united anti-​Moscow front and to 533

534

Lilia A. Arakelyan

ensure that Moscow served as the arbiter of relationships between these groups (Arakelyan 2017b: 100). This occurred especially in the regions with a history of ethnic rivalry and violence such as the Caucasus and Central Asia and was the situation inherited by the Soviet successor, the Russian Federation.

No, it was Gorbachev’s fault After the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, democratic processes in many former Soviet republics were hindered by ethnic heterogeneity and the unwillingness of the dominant nationality to allow self-​determination for ethnic minorities. Ethnic conflicts erupted in the South Caucasus in the early stages of the dissolution of the USSR after Mikhail Gorbachev introduced glasnost and perestroika. In December 1989, the Supreme Soviet of Armenia and the National Council of the Nagorno-​Karabakh Autonomous Region, which was situated within the Azerbaijan Soviet Republic, declared the unification of Karabakh (Artsakh) and Armenia. However, in response, the Azeri Supreme Soviet revoked the region’s autonomy and declared central rule. The inhabitants of Karabakh now demanded independence from Azerbaijan, and the majority of the Armenian-​populated region voted for this in December 1991; they announced the establishment of the Independent Nagorno-​Karabakh Republic in January 1992. A full-​scale ethnic war now broke out between Armenia and Azerbaijan, which ended in 1994 (Herzig 1999: 66). Armenian forces held Nagorno-​Karabakh and declared a de facto independent state. The Georgian conflicts erupted in the autonomous regions of Ossetia and Abkhazia from 1989 onwards. In October 1990, the nationalist coalition led by ex-​Soviet dissident Zviad Gamsakhurdia came to power in Georgia. The country declared its independence on 9 April 1991 when the Georgian parliament voted for secession from the Soviet Union, and Gamsakhurdia became the president of the new state in May of the same year (Mouritzen and Wivel 2012: 11). Abkhazia had demanded independence from Georgia in 1988 and a year later South Ossetia agitated for integration with Russia’s North Ossetia. President Gamsakhurdia’s uncompromising “Georgia for Georgians” approach (he played a critical role in organising the march on Tskhinvali in November of 1989, when, in a meeting with South Ossetian leader Kim Tsagolov, he declared that “not a single Ossete will remain” in South Ossetia) provoked fear among all Georgian minorities –​Adjars, Armenians, Azeris, Greeks, Russians, Abkhazians, and Ossetians. Like Armenians in Nagorno-​Karabakh, Abkhazians and Ossetians were also eager to protect their cultural interests and exercise their rights to self-​determination after Gorbachev started his perestroika and glasnost reforms. Gamsakhurdia’s chauvinist hysteria, demonising Abkhazians and Ossetians as “traitors” and “enemies”, brought further violence between Georgians and the ethnic minorities. Some scholars contend that Gamsakhurdia’s chauvinistic rhetoric and vindictive policies toward ethnic minorities was a desire to settle scores with Ossetians and Abkhazians (he called them “ungrateful guests in the Georgian home”), who were seen as having been the Kremlin’s loyalists since 1921 when the Bolsheviks used minority-​separatist movements among the Abkhaz and Ossetians to weaken the independent Georgian state (Horowitz 2005: 91; English 2008). In any case, Russia-​Georgia relations become more troubled when Georgian elites, led by Gamsakhurdia, tried to construct Georgian identity in opposition to historical Russian domination, which led to strong anti-​ Russian sentiments in the country. Georgia had long been considered the most nationalistic and anti-​Russian republic in the former USSR. Relations between the two countries soured even more after the violent overthrow of Gamsakhurdia and the return of former Soviet Foreign

534

535

The Kremlin’s reverse democracy

Minister Eduard Shevardnadze to power in 1992, first as the head of the newly formed State Council and eventually as president in 1995.

The factors that affect reverse democracy The core argument of reverse democracy is that central to Moscow’s foreign policy toward the South Caucasian states is the democratic deficit in the states of the FSU, including Russia itself. Consider the following: after the disintegration of the Soviet Union in 1991, Armenia and Georgia made considerable efforts to implement democratic reforms and market liberalisation. In Azerbaijan, on the other hand, the concentration of power in the hands of the president (especially since Heydar Aliyev was elected in 1993) and the distribution of key political and economic positions to members of his family and the ruling clan have created a regime in which there was a distinct split between political insiders and outsiders. Despite the early moves for democratisation in Armenia and Georgia, President Levon Ter-​Petrosian of Armenia (1991–​8) and President Shevardnadze of Georgia (1995–​2003), like Aliyev of Azerbaijan (1993–​2003), all succeeded in introducing constitutions that granted them extensive presidential powers. They were also able to assess configurations of forces, gauge the public mood, seize opportunities, create alliances, neutralise opponents, and build presidential apparatuses that kept them at the front lines of domestic politics (Herzig 1999: 27–​31). In Russia, President Boris Yeltsin and his administration attempted to carry out four revolutions simultaneously: the dissolution of the Soviet empire, the creation of a free market economy, the development of Russian democracy, and a new geopolitical role for a former nuclear superpower. While all successful post-​communist changes started with political reforms, the Yeltsin regime started with failed market and trade liberalisation. At the time, Moscow also faced internal security threats when Chechnya declared independence from Russia in 1991, followed by the outbreak of the first Chechen war in 1994. Moscow could not afford to lose an oil-​r ich province in the North Caucasus and, on 11 December 1994, Russian troops crossed the border into the region; the war lasted two years. Yeltsin’s decision to go to war was in part an attempt to shift the attention of ordinary Russian people away from his administration’s failure to deliver the long-​promised economic reforms. Russia’s economy shrank considerably and so did the income of ordinary citizens due to the “shock therapy” implemented by the Yeltsin administration (Tsygankov 2019: 96). Instead of a gradual transition from a command economy to a market one and the creation of functioning institutions, such as independent courts, working capital markets, and strong regulatory bodies, Russia underwent a rapid privatisation in the 1990s that gave rise to the Russian oligarchy. The FSU states –​third wave democracies –​started democratisation with free elections prior to the establishment of fundamental institutions and without completing the process of becoming modern and democratic states. The leaders of the states of the FSU struggled to complete the construction of a modern state and, concomitantly, to compete with their opponents in free elections. Consequently, when Putin was handpicked by Yeltsin in December 1999 as the new president, Russia was neither a complete democracy nor a completely undemocratic state. There are different ways in which a new regime can be an incomplete democracy or incompletely undemocratic. While Russia is an extreme case of democratisation backwards according to Rose and Shin (2001), Armenia is incompletely undemocratic, and Georgia (the most pro-​ Western country in the South Caucasus) has featured backsliding into an incomplete democracy in recent years thanks to increased oligarchic influence affecting the country’s political

535

536

Lilia A. Arakelyan

institutions and free press. Azerbaijani leader Ilham Aliyev, who succeeded his father in 2003, continued the feudal system established by Heydar Aliyev, in which the ruler delegates certain economic functions to a bureaucrat in exchange for loyalty (Cornell 2015). According to the Freedom House Report (2021), since the early 1990s elections in Azerbaijan have not been considered to be credible or competitive by international watchdogs. The first lady of Azerbaijan, Mehriban Aliyeva, was appointed by her husband as vice-​president in 2016, a move that many analysts consider a step toward the future transition of power within the family. In none of these states were the essential attributes of a modern state –​the rule of law, institutions of civil society, and an accountable government –​established. In Russia around the transition of power from Yeltsin to Putin, the combination of the role of the oligarchs in ruling the country, severe economic setbacks, social and political polarisation, and the breakdown of law and order within resulting from terrorism and insurgency in Chechnya, led to the contraction of democracy. The collapse of the democratic system in Russia, consolidated after Putin took office in 1999, led to what Huntington calls reverse “snowballing” in Armenia and Georgia and strengthened the de facto totalitarian regime in Azerbaijan.

A state of chaos or the higher authority of Putin’s regime? At the centre of Russia’s current foreign policy toward the South Caucasus is the idea that uncertainties of anarchy create pressures for Moscow to act as a higher authority for Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia, and to enforce order and resolve ethnic conflicts in the region. To what extent, and under what conditions, can Russia bargain with state leaders and influence foreign or security policies in the region? First, Putin was able to restore the authority of the Russian state within the country and in the Near Abroad, successfully reduce Moscow’s dependence on Western economic aid due to the rise in oil prices, and project Russian opposition to US hegemony. Second, Russia’s president turned his attention to the former Soviet states, seeking to deepen economic and security integration with Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia. However, at the time, Putin still tried to present Russia as a democratic state and, accordingly, promoted his own vision of political and economic development. Moscow’s foreign policy toward the South Caucasian states was shaped not only by the pressure of the international system but also by the above-​noted absence of the essential attributes of a modern state (the rule of law, institutions of civil society, and an accountable government) in the FSU states. Systemic pressure took a number of forms.

Systemic pressure The problems with democratic regimes in the world starting with the Bush doctrine The Bush doctrine was adopted after the large-​scale terrorist attacks on US soil on 11 September 2001. If prior to 9/​11 the Bush administration considered the military use of force restricted to defending narrow and vital US interests, afterwards, President George W. Bush based his doctrine on four elements: a strong belief in the importance of a state’s domestic regime in determining its foreign policy; the view that this is an opportunity to change world politics; the perception of great threats that can be defeated only by new and vigorous policies including preventive war and a willingness to act unilaterally when necessary; and an overriding sense that peace and stability require Washington to assert its primacy in the international arena (Jervis 536

537

The Kremlin’s reverse democracy

2003: 365). The invasion of Iraq was the best manifestation of the Bush doctrine. While some scholars believe that Putin adopted his own version of the Bush doctrine in the Near Abroad after the 9/​11 attacks, I argue that Moscow used the new discourse in US foreign policy to justify its own imperialist activities in the CIS states (Wilhemsen and Flikke 2005). For instance, in the now infamous February 2007 Munich speech (Putin 2007), Putin warned European leaders that Russia would not tolerate a unilateral international system that is detrimental to world politics and acts as a catalyst for human tragedies. Referring to US military interventions in the former Yugoslavia and Iraq, Putin noted that the use of force and disregard of international norms and laws –​the common features of the US model of foreign policy, according to him –​are pernicious for the world. He accused the United States of holding up the ratification of the 1999 Agreement on the Adaptation of the Treaty on Conventional Armed Forces in Europe. The treaty was negotiated in the months after the Cold War ended among the then-​22 member states of NATO and the Warsaw Pact countries with the goal of achieving verifiable reductions in conventional military equipment. Putin argued that Russia, Belarus, Ukraine, and Kazakhstan ratified the agreement, while the NATO states held out until the Russian withdrawal of its forces from Georgia and Moldova (John and Brunnstrom 2007). Overall, Putin sent a clear message to Western leaders that Russia sees NATO’s eastward expansion as a security threat and will not tolerate US hegemonic behaviour in the international arena, clearly including the Caucasus region.

EU energy policy in the Caspian Sea region The establishment of the Eastern Partnership (EaP) initiative in 2009, which sought open cooperation between the EU and Armenia, Azerbaijan, Georgia, Moldova, Ukraine, and Belarus, is another factor that contributed to Moscow’s implementation of reverse democracy in its foreign policy approach toward the South Caucasus. While the EU cited the promotion of democracy, human rights, and market liberalisation as some of the main goals behind this initiative, Russia correctly assumed that Brussels wanted to control a south energy corridor from the Caspian region to Europe to bypass Russia. Sergei Lavrov, the Russian foreign minister, condemned the establishment of the EaP without Moscow’s participation and compared it to the creation of an “EU zone of interest in Eastern Europe”. In addition, the underlying objective of the EaP initiative remained unclear to the EU itself and was contingent on different priorities, usually determined by the dominant group’s interests within the Union (Arakelyan 2017a). Furthermore, since EU membership was not formally on the table for the EaP states, the EU’s asymmetric bilateral approach has been proven weak and inefficient in the South Caucasus. The six EaP member states were not willing to adhere to the standards set out by the Copenhagen criteria –​a functioning market economy, stable democracy, strong rule of law, and acceptance of all EU legislation –​without the prospect of joining the bloc. Russia retaliated by founding its own Eurasian Economic Union in 2015 and pressuring FSU states to join the bloc. Putin was successful in bringing Armenia into the Moscow-​led union thanks to Yerevan’s heavy reliance on Russia’s economy as well as security concerns over the Nagorno-​Karabakh conflict. In addition, Armenia’s political regime at the time, dominated mainly by oligarchic groups with close ties to Russia, was reluctant to undertake the political changes that would have been required had they initialled an Association Agreement with the EU. Azerbaijan and Georgia were able to resist Moscow’s pressure to join the Russia-​led bloc, but it seems that, after letting Baku grab a big chunk of Nagorno-​Karabakh in 2020, the Kremlin’s wishes would come true. Azerbaijan and Russia signed a 43-​point bilateral agreement to “deepen their diplomatic and military cooperation” on 22 February 2022, two days before 537

538

Lilia A. Arakelyan

the invasion of Ukraine. According to point 25 of the document, Baku and Moscow agreed to “refrain from carrying out any economic activity that causes direct or indirect damage to the interests of the other party” (Isayev and Kucera 2022). This was an obvious nod toward the EU’s energy projects with Baku. Consider the Southern Gas Corridor (SGC), a $40 billion system of pipelines running from Azerbaijan to Italy, funded with $8.1 billion from international development banks, that was approved over widespread objections that the influx of money will strengthen the corrupt Aliyev regime. Nevertheless, the pipeline shipped its first gas from the Caspian to Europe in December 2020, immediately after one of the bloodiest wars launched by Baku and Ankara in the South Caucasus in the twenty-​first century (see below). Georgia has been successfully marginalised by Russia, despite the fact that the country had signed an Association Agreement with the EU in 2014 and had officially applied for EU membership amid the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022.

The Trump presidency 2016–​20 and the decline of US global leadership While the Aliyev regime backed by Turkey is currently enjoying massive public support due to its victory in the autumn 2020 war with Armenia, the conflict remains a source of instability and tensions among Armenia, Azerbaijan, de facto state Artsakh, Russia, Iran, and Turkey. However, the Ukraine war brought Western attention not only to Eastern Europe but also to the South Caucasus, mainly due to its vast energy resources that are transported to Europe via Turkey. The collective West finally understood that peace and stability in the volatile region go hand in hand with energy security. Indicatively, neither the presence of authoritarian actors (Azerbaijan and Turkey) nor the lack of democratic progress in Armenia and Georgia made Brussels and Washington think twice before undertaking a “new era” of peace in the South Caucasus. Their efforts would be admirable had they shown a little bit more concern in regard to human losses, when thousands of soldiers and hundreds of civilians died on both sides, and tens of thousands were displaced by the fighting. When the war erupted, neither the EU nor the United States, two of the three co-​chairs of the Minsk Group (comprised of Russia, France, and the US) that has mediated the dispute over Nagorno-​Karabakh in the last three decades, went beyond declaratory statements and demands for a peaceful resolution of the conflict. American influence in the international arena diminished under the Trump presidency in 2016–​20, which made it possible for Putin, Erdoğan, and Aliyev to use the absence of the benign hegemon to achieve their territorial gains in the region. French President Emmanuel Macron had struggled to retain his country’s influence over the resolution of the Nagorno-​Karabakh conflict after the outbreak of the 2020 war. Macron criticised the Aliyev regime for launching a military offensive against Artsakh on 27 September 2020 and NATO member Turkey for supporting Baku and despatching Syrian jihadists to fight on the Azeri side (France 24 2020). He was the only Western leader who expressed dissatisfaction with the Russia-​brokered ceasefire in November 2020 and who still tried to solve the conflict within the Minsk Group framework. However, Macron’s concerns were not shared by EU officials nor by the US administration at the time. On the contrary, the West praised Russia for bringing “peace” to the region, which was achieved on Azerbaijan’s and Russia’s terms, while Armenian Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan was forced to sign an agreement on 9 November 2020 that is considered a capitulation in Armenia. Taking advantage of the decline of US global leadership during the Trump era and the lack of unity among Western democracies, Moscow sidelined the Minsk Group. Currently, Russia handles the external and internal affairs of Nagorno-​Karabakh, as well as Armenia’s relations with Azerbaijan and Turkey. 538

539

The Kremlin’s reverse democracy

The outbreak of COVID-​19 became another factor at play in the successful implementation of Putin’s reverse democracy in the South Caucasus. Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia were hit hard by the pandemic and did not have enough resources to contain the disease. Armenia had the highest infection rates in Europe and Central Asia (ECA), its economy contracted by 6.3 percent, and the poverty rate increased by 4.8 percentage points in 2020 according to a World Bank report (Wheeler 2021). The pandemic had a devastating impact on the Georgian economy as well, which shrunk by over 16 percent in 2020, resulting in a spike in unemployment and poverty (Human Rights Watch 2021). The Azerbaijani dictatorial regime used the outbreak of the pandemic to restrict media freedom and online discussion on the spread of COVID-​19 in the country. For authoritarian leaders everywhere, from Aliyev, Erdoğan and Putin to Aleksandr Lukashenka and Kim Jong-​Un, the pandemic offered a pretext to silence their critics and consolidate power.

The activities of the Eastern Orthodox Church as the defender of authoritarian regimes and traditional values Moscow uses its soft power in Armenia and Georgia with the help of the Russian Orthodox Church to define the “moral” aspect of its foreign policy. The Church has repeatedly denounced the “moral decadence” of the West and advocated closer ties with the Georgian Orthodox Church and the Armenian Apostolic Church in order to pursue shared spiritual and cultural values. Russia also uses its TV channels and cyberspace to promote anti-​Western and pro-​ Russian sentiments in the South Caucasian states. It is important to note that Putin’s vision of Russia as a global superpower includes the state, the military, and the Church.

The domino effect: The rise of illiberal democracies in Central and Eastern Europe after the end of the Cold War Finally, the rise of illiberal democracies in Central and Eastern Europe after the end of the Cold War provided models for subsequent efforts at totalitarisation in the Near Abroad. Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orbán was re-​elected in April 2022 and continued to provide support to Putin, even amid the Russian invasion of Ukraine, while simultaneously redefining the Hungarian model of democracy. Orbán, Putin and Erdoğan are considered the epitome of strongmen in the region, and their governments provide models for subsequent efforts at totalitarisation in the South Caucasus. Even Pashinyan, who was once seen by Western powers as a democratic leader of Armenia, declared that “we must establish a dictatorship of law, a dictatorship of the free will of the people” (Demytrie 2021). He ultimately won a snap parliamentary election in June 2021 but has failed to bring stability or economic prosperity to the Armenian people. Political crisis has also consumed Georgia, where a showdown between the party in power, Georgian Dream, and the main opposition party, the United National Movement, has held back Georgia’s democratic development. Also, while many European countries introduced anti-​Russian sanctions amid the war in Ukraine, Georgia, having close economic and military ties with Kyiv, refused to follow suit. Georgian Prime minister Irakli Garibashvili called his decision “pragmatic policy”, and Georgian Dream refused to hold a special session of parliament to address the Russian invasion of Ukraine. With Russian troops on the ground, it is clear that Tbilisi is afraid to provoke Moscow, despite the condemnation for its silence coming from Ukrainian officials and the Georgian people. Eleven years after the establishment of the EaP, Brussels has abandoned its declaratory rhetoric and turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to the Azeri government’s human rights violations, 539

540

Lilia A. Arakelyan

oppression of opposition, racist politics, restriction of NGOs, and use of military force and foreign fighters in 2020 to regain the large part of the Nagorno-​Karabakh territory. The reason for the EU’s position is a desperate need to replace around 100 bcm of Russian gas with alternative gas supply sources, including the Caspian Sea reserves. Thus, not only has Russian foreign policy in the South Caucasus given rise to or strengthened autocratic regimes, but so too have commercial interests in the West. Instead of helping Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia to build modern states, the Caucasian nations have been used as either the source of raw materials or tools against Putin’s regime.

Reversed democracy in action Moscow advocates a peaceful resolution of the Nagorno-​Karabakh conflict to achieve stability in the South Caucasus. The Organization for Security and Co-​operation in Europe’s (OSCE) Minsk Group has been mediating the Nagorno-​Karabakh conflict since the 1994 ceasefire. As part of mediation efforts, the OSCE has had a standing request that the participating countries impose an arms embargo on the Armenian and Azeri armies engaged in combat in Nagorno-​ Karabakh. However, the request does not apply to arms deliveries to the states as a whole (Wezeman et al 2021). Russia is a co-​chair of the Minsk Group and is often considered a key peace-​keeping force in the region. Armenia is the closest Russian ally in the South Caucasus and has membership of several Moscow-​led regional institutions, including the CSTO and the EEU. In August 2010, Russia extended its lease on a military base in Gyumri, the second largest city in Armenia, which has a closed western border with NATO member Turkey until 2044. At the time, Yerevan praised the deal, arguing that the continued Russian military presence in the country serves as a security guarantee in case of a new conflict with Azerbaijan over Nagorno-​ Karabakh. However, when full-​scale military operations did break out in 2020, Russia did not despatch a single soldier to defend its so-​called ally, although the Armenian city of Vardenis was attacked multiple times by Azeri forces. Furthermore, Putin waited 10 days from the outbreak of the conflict to declare on 7 October 2020 that Moscow would support Armenia within the CSTO framework. Putin also reiterated that Russia’s security obligations excluded the unrecognised Republic of Artsakh. Nevertheless, the Kremlin’s reluctance to openly support Yerevan in autumn 2020 raised suspicions among political analysts that Putin was the one who gave a green light to Azeri President Aliyev, backed up by the Turkish army and foreign fighters from Libya and Syria, to retake a large part of Nagorno-​Karabakh in order to bring Azerbaijan back into Russia’s orbit (Hill 2022). Baku’s and Ankara’s timid reactions to the Russian invasion of Ukraine reflects Putin’s deal: the exchange of part of Nagorno-​Karabakh for Aliyev’s and Erdoğan’s compliance. Another feature of Russia’s reverse democracy in the South Caucasus is arms sales. In 2011–​ 20, Russia supplied nearly all of Armenia’s major arms and almost two-​thirds of Azerbaijan’s. We can safely conclude that the Kremlin uses the arms trade to maintain regional parity while assuming the role of peace-​keeper in the region (Wezeman et al 2021). Hypocritically, Putin does not consider Moscow’s policy of selling arms to both Yerevan and Baku as promoting the conflict in Nagorno-​Karabakh. Yet, Western military aid for Ukraine to defend itself against Russian aggression is treated by the Russian president as an intervention in the Kremlin’s “special military operation” in a sovereign state. Nevertheless, after Russian mediation ended the Second Nagorno-​ Karabakh War in November 2020, Putin can boast of having boots on the ground in all three South Caucasus countries (see Figure 46.1). To monitor the ceasefire, Russian troops have returned to Azerbaijan 540

541

The Kremlin’s reverse democracy

Figure 46.1  Nagorno-​Karabakh. Source: Radio Free Europe/​Radio Liberty, 2021, www.rferl.org/​a/​arme​nia-​pashin​ian-​putin-​pows-​aze​ rbai​jan-​karab​akh/​31192​048.html.

for the first time since 1991. Meanwhile, Turkey has a troop presence in the region for the first time in a century, once again thanks to Putin’s reverse democracy tactic in the South Caucasus. Teaming up with the friendly authoritarian regime of Turkey seems like the best solution to cement Russia’s influence in the oil-​r ich Caspian region, rather than trying to solve the Nagorno-​Karabakh conflict by peaceful means within the framework of the Minsk Group. Russia’s brokered ceasefire brought neither peace nor stability to the region. To illustrate the challenges, consider the situation across the international Armenian-​Azerbaijani border after the end of the Second Nagorno-​Karabakh War in 2020, which resulted in the recapturing (or returning) of seven so-​called buffer zones around Artsakh to Azerbaijan. Some of these territories border the Armenian provinces of Syunik and Gegharkunik. However, the Soviet-​era borders (designed as internal boundaries of the USSR) had never been properly demarcated. Russia, once again, took upon itself a decision-​making role and supervised a process of border demarcation between Armenia and Azerbaijan using Soviet-​era maps and GPS coordinates. The existence of various maps from the time when the Soviet government had been tailoring the region as it pleased has frustrated the process of borderisation, a term used in the context of contested territories to describe the process of transforming a line of actual control into an international border (Broers 2021). The Aliyev regime capitalised on this uncertainty in May 2021, when hundreds of Azerbaijani troops advanced 40 kilometres into the territory of Armenia’s Syunik and Gegharkunik provinces. Pashinyan, unable to defend his country’s territorial integrity, once again turned to the Kremlin for help and even proposed to deploy Russian border guards along Armenia’s entire border with Azerbaijan. This proposal 541

542

Lilia A. Arakelyan

had not materialised at the time of writing. However, with the EU’s larger involvement in the region, and Baku’s advances into the sovereign territory of Armenia as well as the Armenian-​ controlled part of Nagorno-​Karabakh, Moscow might take Pashinyan up on his offer to patrol the Armenian-​Azerbaijani international border.

Conclusion Thus, following the disintegration of the USSR in 1991, a series of ethnic conflicts broke out in the South Caucasus region. Moscow was not only responsible for the creation of the conditions underpinning these ethnic conflicts, but also skilfully used them to keep all three South Caucasian states under control. Abkhazia and South Ossetia are considered de facto states and recognised by Russia, Venezuela, Syria, Nicaragua, and Nauru, as well as by other unrecognised states such as Transdnistria and Artsakh. These de facto states (three in the South Caucasus and one in Moldova) formed the Community for Democracy and Rights of Nations, an international organisation aimed at strengthening links between them. Russia has provided economic, political, and security support to Abkhazia, South Ossetia, and recently to Nagorno-​ Karabakh. In addition, the de facto government of South Ossetia announced in early 2022 that the region will hold a referendum on joining Russia. These conflicts are considered one of the most important parts of Moscow’s foreign policy in the South Caucasus, since they give the Kremlin a chance to act as the arbiter of justice in the region. In order to prevent the continuation of Putin’s reverse democracy in the South Caucasus, the EU and the US should stop using the South Caucasus as either the source of raw materials or the instrument to contain Russia in the region. The international community should help Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia to establish fundamental institutions of a modern state such as the rule of law, civil society, and the accountability of leaders. The peaceful resolution of ethnic conflicts in the South Caucasus within the Minsk Group framework must be the priority despite the current tensions between Moscow, Paris, and Washington. Flirting with Baku’s authoritarian regime for the sake of energy supplies to Europe should be avoided, and the Azerbaijani government should be held accountable and face condemnation like any other repressive regime. The Armenian and Georgian regimes, incomplete democracies with free elections but lacking the fundamental elements of modern states, may survive for a long period of time. However, the absence of the rule of law and unreliable civil society institutions will limit the effectiveness of what Rose and Shin (2001) call the “broken-​back” democracies in the South Caucasus.

References Arakelyan, L.A. (2017a), “EU-​Russia Security Relations: Another Kind of Europe”, in R.E. Kanet (ed.), Challenges to the Security Environment in Eurasia (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). Arakelyan, L.A. (2017b), Russian Foreign Policy in Eurasia: National Interests and Regional Integration (London: Routledge). Broers, L. (2021), “New Armenian-​Azerbaijani Border Crisis Unfolds”, Chatham House, 27 May, www. chath​amho​use.org/​2021/​05/​new-​armen​ian-​azer​baij​ani-​bor​der-​cri​sis-​unfo​lds. Cornell S.E. (2015), Azerbaijan Since Independence (New York: Routledge). Demytrie, R. (2021), “Armenia’s War Defeat Prompts Bitter Vote on Rebuilding Country”, BBC News, 19 June, www.bbc.com/​news/​world-​eur​ope-​57511​357. English, R. (2008), “Georgia: The Ignored History”, The New York Review of Books, 6 June. France 24 (2020), “France Struggles to Retain Karabakh Sway after Armenia Defeat”, 27 November, www.franc​e24.com/​en/​live-​news/​20201​127-​fra​nce-​strugg​les-​to-​ret​ain-​karab​akh-​sway-​after-​arme​ nia-​def​eat.

542

543

The Kremlin’s reverse democracy Freedom House (2021), Freedom in the World 2021: Azerbaijan, https://​freed​omho​use.org/​coun​try/​aze​rbai​ jan/​free​dom-​world/​2021. Herzig, E. (1999), The New Caucasus: Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia (London: The Royal Institute of International Affairs). Hill, F. (2022), “Russia’s Assault on Ukraine and the International Order. Assessing and Bolstering the Western Response”, U.S. Commission on Security and Cooperation in Europe, Testimony, 2 February, www.csce.gov/​sites/​hel​sink​icom​miss​ion.house.gov/​files/​Fiona%20Hi​ll_​H​elsi​nki%20Com​ miss​ion%20Te​stim​ony%20F​ebru​ary%20202​2_​Fi​nal.pdf?mc_​cid=​559​80b1​31e&mc_​eid=​855​5e56​17a. Horowitz, S. (2005), From Ethnic Conflict to Stillborn Reform: The Former Soviet Union and Yugoslavia (College Station: Texas A&M University Press). Human Rights Watch (2021), Azerbaijan: Events of 2020, www.hrw.org/​world-​rep​ort/​2021/​coun​try-​ chapt​ers/​aze​rbai​jan. Huntington, S.P. (1991), “Democracy’s Third Wave”, Journal of Democracy 2, 2: 12–​34. Isayev, H. and J. Kucera (2022), “Ahead of Ukraine Invasion, Azerbaijan and Russia Cement ‘Alliance’ ”, Eurasianet, 24 February, https://​eur​asia​net.org/​ahead-​of-​ukra​ine-​invas​ion-​aze​rbai​jan-​and-​rus​sia-​cem​ ent-​allia​nce. Jervis, R. (2003), “Understanding the Bush Doctrine”, Political Science Quarterly 118, 3: 365–​88. John, M. and D. Brunnstrom (2007), “Putin Comments Escalate U.S.-​Russia Missile Shield Row”, Reuters, 26 April, www.reut​ers.com/​arti​cle/​us-​shi​eld-​nato/​putin-​comme​nts-​escal​ate-​u-​s-​rus​sia-​miss​ ile-​shi​eld-​row-​idUSL2​6720​8232​0070​426. Mouritzen, H. and A. Wivel (2012), Explaining Foreign Policy: International Diplomacy and the Russo-​Georgian War (Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers). Putin, V. (2007), “Speech and the Following Discussion at the Munich Conference on Security Policy”, 10 February, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​tran​scri​pts/​24034. Rose, R. and D.C. Shin (2001), “Democratization Backwards: The Problem of Third-​Wave Democracies”, British Journal of Political Science 31, 2: 331–​54. Tsygankov, A.P. (2019), Russia’s Foreign Policy: Change and Continuity in National Identity (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield). Wezeman, P.D., A. Kuimova and J. Smith (2021), “Arms Transfer to Conflict Zones: The Case of Nagorno-​Karabakh”, Commentary, SIPRI Newsletter, (Solna: Stockholm International Peace Research Institute). Wheeler, C.M. (2021), “Europe and Central Asia”, Global Economic Prospects, World Bank Group, June. Wilhemsen, J. and G. Flikke (2005), “Copy That:” A Russian “Bush Doctrine” in the CIS?”, NUPI Reports (Oslo, Norway: Norwegian Institute of International Affairs).

543

544

47 US–​RUSSIAN RELATIONS Angela Stent

For the past thirty years, US–​Russian relations have fluctuated between periods of cooperation and confrontation. But since 2014 they have been on a steady downhill trajectory. Every US president since the Soviet collapse has come into office vowing to find a more productive way to deal with Russia, and the Kremlin has also sought to improve ties with the United States. But all of these attempts at resets have ended in disappointment and mutual recrimination, so much so that the Biden administration came into office in 2021 vowing not to seek a reset of ties with Russia. One year later, US–​Russian relations deteriorated dramatically following the Russian invasion of Ukraine on 24 February 2022. The bilateral relationship is now worse than at any time since the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis. Simply stated, the US and Russia have very different ideas about what a productive relationship would look like. Their contrasting world views, attitudes toward what drives international politics and basic understanding of the meaning of sovereignty have made it very challenging to move the relationship forward to greater stability. The ideological conflicts of the Cold War may be gone, but the two countries espouse very different values both domestically and internationally. The US–​Russian relationship is unique inasmuch as the two countries, as the world’s only two nuclear superpowers, bear a special responsibility for preserving world peace. Their bilateral ties are largely determined by this issue, as they were during the Cold War with the Soviet Union. There is little that binds them economically, since neither of Russia’s two major exports –​weapons and hydrocarbons –​are in demand in the US. The stakeholders in this relationship are far fewer, therefore, than is the case for most European countries who have extensive economic ties to Russia. Since the Soviet collapse, the two countries have sought to manage five sets of issues: nuclear arms control and missile defence; non-​proliferation of weapons of mass destruction, particularly the nuclear programmes of Iran and North Korea; Russia’s neighbourhood and the respective roles of Russia and the United States in what the Kremlin calls its “near abroad”, especially in Ukraine; Russia’s place in the Euro-​Atlantic security architecture, and questions of the respective roles of NATO and the OSCE in that architecture; and the activities of Russia and the United States in the Middle East, especially in Syria (Stent 2014: xii). This chapter will describe what has and has not worked in the US–​Russian relationship over the past decades. Ties have been most productive when both countries shared the same 544

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-52

545

US–Russian relations

targeted goals, the best example being cooperation during the initial phase of NATO’s military operations in Afghanistan in the autumn of 2001. The Russians, with their own nine-​year experience of war in Afghanistan, were helpful in providing information that enabled the US to achieve their joint goal: removing the Taliban from power. Conversely, the most challenging aspect of the relationship has been dealing with Russia over, for want of a better word, what is still called the post-​Soviet space, where the United States and Russia disagree about the right of Russia’s neighbours to enjoy true sovereignty.

The Yeltsin years –​a tale of two narratives Bill Clinton came into office in 1993 determined to help reshape post-​communist Russia and develop an entirely new relationship with the Kremlin. He was, according to his chief Russia advisor, “the U.S. government’s principal Russia hand” and remained so for the rest of his presidency (Talbott 2003: 5). In a 1993 speech on Russia, he called for “strategic alliance with Russian reform,” warning that “the danger is clear if Russia’s reforms turn sour –​if it reverts to authoritarianism or disintegrates into chaos” (Remarks by President Clinton 1993). Boris Yeltsin also wanted a close relationship with the United States and was impressed after his first meeting with Clinton: “I was completely amazed by this young, eternally smiling man who was powerful, energetic and handsome” (Yeltsin 2000: 134). The two developed a working relationship that largely drove ties between the two countries. Yeltsin sought US assistance in helping to reconstruct post-​communist Russia, whose economy was in free-​fall and which had to retreat from many parts of the world where the USSR had been influential. Yet Russia wanted the United States to treat it as if it were still a great power –​albeit a reduced one. And therein lies the origin of many of the subsequent tensions between the United States and Russia over the past decades. A weakened Russia very reluctantly followed an American foreign policy agenda, particularly during the two Balkan wars where Russia cooperated with a NATO-​led coalition fighting Serbia, who Moscow claimed was a traditional ally. Likewise, when NATO enlarged to include Poland, Hungary and the Czech Republic in 1999, Yeltsin was aggrieved. He believed that promises made to him in 1994 when Russia joined the NATO Partnership for Peace (PfP) programme had been broken. He was told then that the other Central and East European countries joining the PfP would not be offered NATO membership (Goldgeier 2016). Nevertheless, the NATO–​Russia Council was established in 1997 and Russia was admitted to the G7 group of industrialised democracies. The United States and its allies also sought to create a Euro–​Atlantic security architecture in which Russia had a stake. So far, however, that has been impossible. Today, Vladimir Putin and much of the Russian establishment depict the 1990s as a time of the Western humiliation of Russia, of domestic economic and political chaos and Russia’s loss of its rightful status as a great power. Some American scholars agree and criticise the Clinton administration for foisting economic shock therapy on the impoverished Russian people while a small group of corrupt oligarchs became outrageously rich (Reddaway and Glinski 2001; Cohen 2001). Former Ambassador Jack Matlock argues that Washington was unwilling to put itself into Moscow’s shoes and craft policies that treated Russia with greater empathy (Matlock 2010). Others describe the 1990s in Russia as a time of greater pluralism, personal freedoms and freewheeling capitalism and Yeltsin as a genuine democrat (Aron 2000). Certainly, by the end of the 1990s the US–​Russian relationship had dramatically deteriorated in the wake of Russia’s economic crash in 1998 and the US bombing of Serbia during the 1999 Kosovo war. 545

546

Angela Stent

The Putin reset When the largely unknown former mid-​level KGB case officer Vladimir Putin became president in Russia’s first managed leadership transition in 1,000 years, he was determined to reverse the humiliation of the 1990s and to restore Russia to its rightful place as a great power. As he wrote on becoming president, “Russia was and will remain a great power. This is preconditioned by the inseparable characteristics of its geopolitical, economic and cultural existence” (Putin 1999). However, he also sought better relations with the United States. His chance came after the terrorist attacks on New York’s Twin Towers on 11 September 2001. Having warned the new US President George W. Bush about the dangers of fundamentalist terrorism during their first encounter two months earlier, Putin was the first to call Bush after the attacks and offer his support. Russia facilitated the establishment of two US military bases in Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan and shared intelligence about Afghanistan with Washington during the first months of the war. Putin visited the United States and Bush hosted him at his ranch in Crawford, Texas. The Russians likened their partnership with the United States to the Grand Alliance against Hitler, two great powers defeating a common enemy (Stent 2014: 62–​72). The problem was that Putin was seeking “an equal partnership of unequals” (Dmitry Trenin cited in Stent 2014: 69), and his expectations turned out to be misguided. The initiative he took to reset ties with the United States failed to yield what he wanted: US acceptance of Russia’s right to a sphere of influence in the post-​Soviet space, including Russia’s right to prevent its neighbours from joining Western institutions such as NATO and the European Union. The Putin–​Bush honeymoon began to fall apart in 2002 after the United States withdrew unilaterally from the ABM Treaty, then invaded Iraq, toppling its leader Saddam Hussein in the name of spreading democracy, and supported “colour” revolutions against pro-​Russian leaders in Georgia and Ukraine. Moreover, NATO expanded in 2004 to include the Baltic states, although at the time Putin did not raise any objections. Putin began to introduce more repression domestically as he depicted the United States as a growing threat to Russia. The culmination of this disillusionment with Washington was Putin’s fiery speech at the 2007 Munich Security Conference, where he lambasted the United States: “Today we are witnessing an almost uncontained hyper use of force –​military force –​in international relations, force that is plunging the world into an abyss of permanent conflicts. One state, and, of course, first and foremost the United States, has overstepped its borders in every way”(Putin 2007).

The Medvedev interlude The US–​Russian relationship received a new lease on life when Putin stepped away from the Kremlin between 2008 and 2012 to become prime minister and Dmitry Medvedev became president (although in reality Putin was still running the country). The new Russian president and his US counterpart Barack Obama came from a different generation than their predecessors. This time the United States initiated a reset. Indeed, then Vice-​President Joe Biden at the 2009 Munich Security Conference announced “It is time –​to paraphrase President Obama –​it’s time to press the reset button and revisit the many areas where we can and should be working together with Russia” (Biden 2009). What was the Obama–​Medvedev reset? It was one of realistic expectations and tangible results. Obama and Medvedev developed a working relationship and Putin appeared willing to let his protégé manage the American account during his time in the Kremlin. Arms control again became a priority and, after arduous negotiations, the New START Treaty regulating strategic nuclear weapons was signed in 2010, the first major arms control agreement in a 546

547

US–Russian relations

quarter century. According to the chief American negotiator, the negotiations only concluded successfully after Medvedev apparently overruled Putin on some sensitive issues (Gottemoeller 2021: 94). The reset also led to cooperation on curbing the Iranian nuclear programme and on establishing the Northern Distribution Network to facilitate NATO’s operations in Afghanistan. After nineteen years of negotiations, Russia joined the World Trade Organization. The hope was that integration into global economic structures might have a beneficial impact on political ties. Even when ten Russian sleeper spies were expelled from the United States just after Medvedev’s cordial visit to Washington and Silicon Valley, relations remained cooperative (Baker 2010). Nevertheless, issues that had long been a source of contention remained. Russia was adamantly opposed to the US missile defence, and attempts to come to an agreement on this issue failed. And Russia’s place in Europe remained ill-​defined. Medvedev proposed a new Euro–​ Atlantic security treaty in 2009 that would have effectively given Moscow veto power over some NATO decisions. (President of Russia 2009). The US and its allies began a series of discussions on this treaty in the OSCE, but the Russians complained that the US did not take their proposals seriously (Francois 2011). Hopes that US–​Russian relations might yet improve were dashed when Putin announced in September 2011 that he and Medvedev would switch jobs and he would return to the Kremlin. Three months later tens of thousands of Muscovites demonstrated against Putin reclaiming the presidency. He blamed the United States –​particularly Secretary of State Hillary Clinton –​ for paying the demonstrators and interfering in Russia’s elections. The initial Western belief that Medvedev represented the future of a more modern, pluralistic Russia had clearly been misplaced. In an essay Putin penned prior to his re-​election in 2012, he accused the Americans of being “obsessed with the idea of ensuring their absolute invulnerability –​but absolute invulnerability for one means absolute vulnerability for all the others” (Putin 2012).

Putin redux The current negative trajectory of US–​Russian relations began when Putin returned to the Kremlin. At that point, Russia showed scant interest in improving ties with the United States. By this time, Putin’s list of grievances against the United States was extensive. He did not want to restore the Soviet Union but he was determined to have the United States treat Russia as if it were the USSR –​a great power to be respected and feared, and whose interests were as legitimate as those of the US. Instead, President Obama dismissively described Russia as a “regional power,” undoubtedly to Putin’s great ire (Shear and Baker 2014). After Putin granted political asylum to Edward Snowden, the NSA employee who stole and leaked millions of classified documents to the media and provided classified material to the Russians (Epstein 2017), Obama said that Putin’s slouch reminded him of a “bored kid in the back of the classroom” (Holland and Chadbourn 2013). The G7, which had welcomed Yeltsin during the 1990s, expelled Russia from its ranks after the 2014 annexation of Crimea. During the second Obama term there were minimal areas where Russia and the United States cooperated, and the few encounters that took place between the two presidents were testy. Three issues dominated US–​Russian relations during the second Obama term. The first was Russia’s annexation of Crimea and launch of a war in the Donbas region of Ukraine in 2014. Putin moved after the pro-​Russian President Yanukovych fled Ukraine in the face of massive protests against his corrupt rule. The Kremlin was concerned that the new Ukrainian government would bring Ukraine into NATO. As Putin said in his speech following the Crimean referendum: “What would this have meant for Crimea and Sevastopol in the future? It would 547

548

Angela Stent

have meant that NATO’s navy would be right there in this city of Russia’s military glory, and this would create not an illusory but a perfectly real threat to the whole of southern Russia” (President of Russia 2014). By forcibly taking Crimea, Putin had shattered the post-​Cold War consensus on respecting the borders of the new states following the Soviet breakup. Indeed, Russia was a co-​signatory of the 1994 Budapest Memorandum guaranteeing Ukraine’s territorial integrity after Ukraine transferred its nuclear weapons to Russia (Memorandum 1994). The Obama administration, working with Germany and other EU countries, imposed financial and other sanctions on Russia (Radio Free Europe/​Radio Liberty 2014; see Chapter 25 by Rosefielde in this volume). But Obama was clear-​eyed about the limits of US support for Ukraine: “The fact is that Ukraine, which is a non-​N ATO country, is going to be vulnerable to military domination by Russia no matter what we do,” he said. When asked whether his position on Ukraine was realistic or fatalistic, he said, “It’s realistic. But this is an example of where we have to be very clear about what our core interests are and what we are willing to go to war for” (Goldberg 2016). The second issue was the impact of the Arab Spring and the war in Syria. Whereas the Obama administration welcomed the Arab Spring, the Kremlin saw it as another iteration of “colour” revolutions and regime change supported by Washington. Nevertheless, the two countries were able to work together in 2013 to eliminate Syria’s’ stockpile of chemical weapons after an arduous series of negotiations (Warrick 2020). Whereas the United States worked with forces battling President Bashar al-​Assad during the Syrian civil war, Russia supported Assad, and in 2015 when it appeared that he might be defeated, Russia began a bombing campaign in Syria after giving the US one hour’s notice (Stent 2016). Thereafter, the US and Russian militaries were in daily contact to deconflict their respective air operations lest there be some unforeseen encounter in the skies. The third –​and arguably most challenging –​issue was Russia’s interference during the 2016 US presidential election campaign. The two candidates –​Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump –​articulated very different views about relations with Russia. Clinton was highly critical of Putin, while Trump countered “it would be great if we could get along with Russia.” The Russian interference campaign was multi-​pronged, involving everything from sophisticated cyber-​operations to the exploitation of social media. Russian actors linked to the GRU hacked into the Democratic National Committee servers and into the email accounts of Democratic officials and leaked the documents to WikiLeaks. The Russians, working from a troll factory in St Petersburg, also exploited social media by creating thousands of bots and trolls to spread false news, explicitly pitting opposing groups against each other. The Obama administration was slow to respond to the growing evidence of Russian interference but, at the end of December, imposed sanctions on Russia, expelling diplomatic personnel and closing down two diplomatic recreational facilities that it claimed were being used for espionage (Stent 2020: 313–​24). Obama also ordered the Intelligence Community to look into the Russian interference, and the unclassified conclusions of their assessment were published in January 2017: We assess Russian President Vladimir Putin ordered an influence campaign in 2016 aimed at the US presidential election. Russia’s goals were to undermine public faith in the US democratic process, denigrate Secretary Clinton, and harm her electability and potential presidency. We further assess Putin and the Russian Government developed a clear preference for President-​elect Trump. Office of the Director of National Intelligence 2017

548

549

US–Russian relations

Trump and Russia As a result of the Russian election interference and Trump’s extravagant praise for Putin, Russia became an unprecedentedly polarising and toxic domestic issue during the Trump presidency. Trump voters held a largely positive view of Russia. Those who opposed him believed he was only in the White House because of Russian support. Trump refused to admit that the Russians had interfered, perhaps because he believed that such an admission would cast doubt on the legitimacy of his election victory. In retrospect it might have been wiser if he would have appointed a commission to look further into it and moved on. As it was, the Kremlin’s shadow hung over the White House for four years, making it difficult to conduct a coherent Russia policy (Stent 2021). Although the Independent Counsel appointed to examine Trump’s ties to Russia concluded that there was no evidence of collusion between his campaign and the Russians, questions about why he lauded Putin while criticising allies such as Angela Merkel remained (Mueller 2019). According to his top Russia advisor, Trump preferred dealing with autocrats rather than democrats (Hill 2021: 219). Trump cast even more doubt on his dealings with Russia during a controversial press conference following a summit with Putin in Helsinki in 2018. In answer to a question about whether he agreed with his own intelligence experts about Russian interference, he responded: “President Putin says it’s not Russia. I don’t see any reason why it would be” (BBC News 2018). The Kremlin may ultimately have experienced buyer’s remorse because the knowledge of its interference hamstrung Trump’s ability to pursue the reset he advocated during the election campaign. The rest of the executive branch and the US Congress did not share his positive view of Russia and resisted every effort to advance his agenda. The substance of US–​Russian relations under Trump was erratic and limited. The main feature was the rafts of sanctions that were imposed on Russia as a result of election interference and the 2018 poisoning with a deadly nerve agent of former GRU double agent Sergei Skripal and his daughter in Salisbury, England. These included sanctions on individuals and entities and wholesale diplomatic expulsions that left both countries with minimal diplomatic representation by the time that Biden took office, hampering the daily business of foreign relations (US Department of the Treasury 2017). Unlike its predecessors, the Trump administration downplayed the importance of arms control and did not conclude any new agreements with Russia. Indeed, it withdrew from two of them –​the 1987 Intermediate-​Range Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty, after both sides accused each other of cheating, and the multilateral 2002 Treaty on Open Skies, which permits each state party to conduct short-​notice, unarmed reconnaissance flights over the others’ entire territories to collect data on military forces and activities. Russia followed suit and left both treaties. The one remaining treaty was New START, which limited strategic nuclear weapons and provided for on-​site verification inspections and was set to expire on 5 February 2021. It could be extended for five years without a Senate vote, but the administration was determined to negotiate a new deal that would include China’s nuclear weapons. The Chinese repeatedly refused to join the negotiations, pointing out that their own nuclear arsenal was much smaller than those of the US and Russia (Quinn 2019). Russia remained non-​committal about whether Chinese weapons should be included. Ukraine became a polarising issue in US–​Russian relations as Trump approached the 2020 presidential election. Trump had always been ambivalent about Ukraine and in 2016 had implied that Crimea was Russian and that Russia had not invaded Ukraine (Naylor 2016). Moreover, Trump became convinced that the Ukrainians had interfered on Clinton’s behalf

549

550

Angela Stent

in the 2016 election. Ukrainians with ties to Russian intelligence came to occupy an outsize role in the events leading to Trump’s first impeachment trial in January 2020 and in the 2020 presidential campaign. Trump and his advisors sought to collect damaging information on the activities of his rival Joe Biden’s son Hunter, who sat on the board of the Ukrainian gas company Burisma. They were aided by Ukrainian politicians connected to Russian intelligence (Office of the Director of National Intelligence 2021). In the course of his election campaign, Trump warned the recently elected Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky that the US would withhold security assistance to Ukraine unless the Ukrainians provided compromising material on the Bidens. This information was leaked to the media and eventually led to Trump’s first impeachment by the House of Representatives and subsequent acquittal by the Senate. The United States and Russia continued their deconfliction activities in Syria but also came into direct conflict on the ground. Most US troops had left Syria, but a contingent remained in the northeast. There they encountered troops from the Wagner mercenary group owned by Yevgeny Prigozhin, a close Putin associate. The Russian troops had entered an area controlled by US and allied forces next to the Tabiya natural-​gas plant in Deir ez-​Zor. In the ensuing battle, 200–​300 Russians were killed, but the Kremlin refused to even acknowledge publicly that the firefight had taken place, although it appears to have understood that Wagner should not repeat this provocation (Gibbons-​Neff 2018). The Trump administration and Russia also clashed over Venezuela. After the authoritarian Nicolás Maduro remained in power following a disputed election in 2018, Russia was instrumental in preventing his rival, Juan Guaidó (president of the National Assembly of Venezuela), who was recognised by 60 countries, including the United States, from becoming president. In April 2019, an attempted uprising by forces loyal to Guaidó failed to install him as president. There is some evidence that Russia had dissuaded Maduro from leaving the country to go into exile (Gaouette and Hansler 2019). Trump officials viewed Russia as the main spoiler as Venezuela descended into repression, poverty and violence. When Trump left the White House, US–​Russian relations were worse than they had been when he entered it because of continuing questions about election interference in 2016 and 2020, the ongoing conflict between Russia and Ukraine, cyber-​attacks, and the poisoning and imprisonment of the Kremlin’s opponents. In the end, the Kremlin had come to believe that Trump was too unpredictable and unable to deliver the improved relationship that he had initially promised and that Moscow desired. Nevertheless, Putin waited until 14 December 2020, after the vote of the electoral college, to congratulate Biden on his victory in the presidential election in November. Moreover, some Russian media outlets continued to propagate Trump’s “stolen election” myth both before and after the 6 January 2021 assault on the US Capitol.

Biden’s first year in office Joe Biden came into office saying that his main goal was to create a “stable and predictable” relationship with Russia. His administration spoke about establishing “guard rails” around the relationship so that Russia would not create constant problems and the US could focus on its major political challenge –​dealing with China. But, as 2021 unfolded, it became clear that Putin’s Russia was not interested in constructing guard rails or taking second place to a rising China. A major difference between the Biden and Trump approaches to Russia is that, with Trump gone, Russia ceased to be the toxic domestic political issue it was during the previous four years. No one suggested that there were questionable ties between Biden and Russian actors. Indeed, Biden has on several occasions reminded Americans that he told Putin in 2011 that 550

551

US–Russian relations

he “had no soul” (Reuters 2014). Policy is also much better coordinated between the different branches of government and with the US’s European allies than it was under Trump. The Kremlin welcomed the incoming Biden administration inasmuch as it was committed to restoring the traditional arms control negotiating framework where Russia and the United States meet as equals. One of Biden’s first acts was to extend the New START Treaty by another five years. The current treaty does not cover new classes of strategic and non-​strategic weapons, nor does it cover cyber-​weapons or space weapons. Russia and the United States agree that it would be best to negotiate a new treaty to replace New START by 2026, though that treaty would have to be ratified by the US Senate, which could prove to be very challenging. The Kremlin had also been pushing to restart talks on Strategic Stability, a flexible concept that covers a range of weapons-​related issues. After the June 2021 bilateral summit in Geneva, both sides agreed to begin regular talks on enhancing strategic stability (The White House 2021b). The United States was hit by ransomware attacks starting in May 2021 that temporarily shut down petrol supplies via the Colonial pipeline in the Eastern United States and affected hospitals and many other businesses. The attacks were traced to individuals operating out of Russia. Russia had for some time advocated bilateral talks on cyber issues with a view to concluding a treaty on cyber rules of the road and the Biden administration agreed to begin discussions. Despite all the tensions in US–​Russian relations, and the Kremlin’s denial of knowledge about the ransomware attacks, these talks began to produce results (US Department of State 2021a). Washington and Moscow also focused on other areas of cooperation. Climate change –​a priority for the Biden administration –​was an issue that the Kremlin belatedly acknowledged as a threat and US and Russian negotiators began to discuss, including in the Arctic (US Department of State 2021b). Both countries worked together to resurrect the JCPOA, the nuclear deal with Iran, from which the Trump administration had withdrawn. Even as channels of communication with Russia were restored, the Biden administration imposed new sanctions on Russia related to Russia’s interference in the 2020 US election, its disinformation campaigns, the 2020 SolarWinds cyber-​attacks by the SVR that had affected US government computers as well as private businesses and Russia’s occupation of Crimea. These included a ban on the participation of US financial institutions in the primary market for ruble-​ denominated bonds issued after 14 June 2021 by Russia’s central bank, National Wealth Fund or Ministry of Finance, and on lending ruble-​denominated funds to these entities (The White House 2021a). More sanctions were threatened were Russia to continue its cyber-​attacks. As Biden’s first year in office drew to a close, the unresolved issue of Russia’s place in Europe and its right to a sphere of influence in the post-​Soviet space reappeared in stark form. US intelligence agencies revealed that Russia had amassed up to 100,000 troops near the border with Ukraine, and the capabilities assembled there suggested that a new invasion of Ukraine might be imminent (Barnes and Schmitt 2021). Putin had manufactured a crisis in order to demand concessions from the United States and its NATO allies. He was determined to relitigate the settlement reached at the end of the Cold War. Claiming that the presence of US and NATO military advisors and equipment in Ukraine and Kyiv’s imminent move to retake the Donbas constituted an existential threat to Russia, he issued a series of ultimatums. NATO should give security guarantees to Russia, including agreeing that Ukraine could never join NATO. But he went further than that, essentially saying that NATO should turn back the clock to before 1999 when Poland, Hungary and the Czech Republic joined (Euronews 2021). Amidst uncertainty about what Putin’s intentions were, the US and its allies agreed to three sets of discussions –​bilateral US–​Russian talks, discussions at the NATO-​Russia Council, and talks at the OSCE that would include Ukraine. Russia had presented two draft treaties on 551

552

Angela Stent

European security and on NATO–​Russia relations. Although neither of these was acceptable to NATO, there was agreement that diplomacy must be tried and that both sides should explore what compromises were possible. But Biden also warned that, should Russia take military action against Ukraine, tougher sanctions would be imposed and there would be increased military assistance to Ukraine (The White House 2021c). Putin responded that Russia would retaliate by breaking off diplomatic relations (Sanger and Kramer 2021). After increasingly bellicose rhetoric from Putin and several attempts by US and European officials to seek a negotiated response to Russia’s ultimatums, Russian troops began a full-​scale invasion of Ukraine. It was an unprovoked attack and the Kremlin apparently believed that Ukraine would capitulate within 72 hours. But the Ukrainians fought back, the Russian army was not prepared for this kind of resistance and the war dragged on with heavy civilian casualties and the destruction of cities, creating an acute humanitarian crisis. The US response –​coordinated closely with European and Asian allies and partners –​was to impose crippling sanctions on the Russian financial system, sanctions on key Putin-​connected oligarchs and officials and sweeping export controls that will have a major impact on Russia’s future economic development. Russia will become increasingly isolated from the West, even as China, India and other countries refuse to join the sanctions. The United States also became the largest supplier of military hardware to Ukraine, providing weapons and training that enabled the Ukrainians to counter the Russian offensive. The Biden administration’s response was unprecedented as the first major war in Europe since 1945 threatened to upend thirty years of Western attempts to integrate Russia into a rules-​based international order.

The outlook for US–​Russian relations US–​Russian relations have always been compartmentalised, with areas of cooperation coexisting with competition and rivalry. In the 1990s and early 2000s –​and during the Medvedev presidency –​cooperation prevailed over competition. But competition and antagonism increasingly became the norm once Putin returned to the Kremlin and have become more intense since the Russian annexation of Crimea, the launch of the war in the Donbas and the full-​scale invasion of Ukraine. Moreover, Putin has increasingly turned to China since 2014, as Beijing has provided economic, political and military support, while Moscow’s ties with the West have deteriorated (Lo 2017). Putin has made his goals toward the United States quite clear. With Joe Biden he is now dealing with his fifth US president, but his central objectives remain constant. He demands recognition of Russia as a great power whose interests are as legitimate as those of the United States. This gives Russia the right to have a say in all important international decisions. He seeks acceptance of Russia’s right to a sphere of influence in the post-​Soviet space, which means that Russia’s neighbours have limited sovereignty and cannot join Euro–​Atlantic structures because these are deemed a security threat to the Russian heartland (Stent 2020: 348–​51). As long as the United States insists on the right of Russia’s neighbours to choose their own foreign policy orientation, the relationship will remain largely adversarial. It will at best be one of managed competition with a focus on regulating both countries’ nuclear, conventional, cyber and space arsenals. It remains to be seen whether Putin’s successors will change this trajectory.

References Aron, L. (2000), Yeltsin: A Revolutionary Life (New York: St. Martin’s Press). Baker, P. (2010), “Despite Arrests, Working to Rebuild Ties with Russia”, The New York Times, 30 June.

552

553

US–Russian relations Barnes, J.E. and E. Schmitt (2021), “U.S. Warns Allies of Possible Russian Incursion as Troops Amass Near Ukraine”, The New York Times, 19 November, www.nyti​mes.com/​2021/​11/​19/​us/​polit​ics/​rus​ sia-​ukra​ine-​biden-​adm​inis​trat​ion.html. BBC News (2018), “Trump Sides with Russia Against FBI at Helsinki Summit”,16 July, www.bbc.com/​ news/​world-​eur​ope-​44852​812. Biden, J. (2009), Speech at Munich Security Conference, https://​obam​awhi​teho​use.archi​ves.gov/​the-​press-​off​ ice/​rema​rks-​vice-​presid​ent-​biden-​45th-​mun​ich-​con​fere​nce-​secur​ity-​pol​icy. Cohen, S. (2001), Failed Crusade: America and the Tragedy of Post-​Communist Russia (New York: Norton). Epstein, E.J. (2017), How America Lost Its Secrets: Edward Snowden, the Man and the Theft (New York: Vintage Books). Euronews (2021), “Putin Set to Talk with US amid Desire to Stop NATO Expansion in Europe”, 24 December, www.euron​ews.com/​2021/​12/​24/​putin-​set-​to-​talk-​with-​us-​amid-​des​ire-​to-​stop-​nato-​ expans​ion-​in-​eur​ope. Francois, I. (2011), Whither the Medvedev Initiative on European Security? (Washington DC: National Defense University), https://​cata​log.libr​ary.van​derb​ilt.edu/​discov​ery/​full​disp​lay/​alm​a991​0367​0006​9703​276/​ 01V​AN_​I​NST:vanui. Gaouette, N. and J. Hansler (2019), “Pompeo Claims Russia Stopped Maduro Leaving Venezuela for Cuba”, CNN, 1 May, www.cnn.com/​2019/​04/​30/​polit​ics/​pom​peo-​mad​uro-​rus​sia/​index.html. Gibbons-​Neff, T. (2018), “How a 4-​Hour Battle Between Russian Mercenaries and U.S. Commandos Unfolded in Syria”, The New York Times, 4 May, www.nyti​mes.com/​2018/​05/​24/​world/​mid​dlee​ ast/​ameri​can-​comman​dos-​russ​ian-​merc​enar​ies-​syria.html. Goldberg, J. (2016), “The Obama Doctrine”, The Atlantic, April, www.thea​tlan​tic.com/​magaz​ine/​arch​ ive/​2016/​04/​the-​obama-​doctr​ine/​471​525/​. Goldgeier, J. (2016), “Promises Made, Promises Broken: What Yeltsin Was Told about NATO in 1993 and Why It Matters”, War on the Rocks, https://​waront​hero​cks.com/​2016/​07/​promi​ses-​made-​promi​ses-​ bro​ken-​what-​yelt​sin-​was-​told-​about-​nato-​in-​1993-​and-​why-​it-​matt​ers/​. Gottemoeller, R. (2021), Negotiating the New START Treaty (Amherst New York: Cambria Press). Hill, F. (2021), There is Nothing for You Here (Boston and New York: Mariner Books). Holland, S. and M. Chadbourn (2013), “Obama Describes Putin as ‘Like a Bored Kid’”, Reuters, 9 August. Lo, B. (2017), A Wary Embrace: What the Russia-​China Relationship Means for the World (New York: Penguin Random House). Matlock, J. (2010), Superpower Illusions (New Haven: Yale University Press). Memorandum (1994), “Memorandum on Security Assurances in Connection with Ukraine’s Accession to the Treaty on the Non-​Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons”, www.pircen​ter.org/​media/​cont​ent/​ files/​12/​1394​3175​580.pdf. Mueller, R.S. (2019), Report on the Investigation into Russian Interference in the 2016 Presidential Election, www.just​ice.gov/​archi​ves/​sco/​file/​1373​816/​downl​oad. Naylor, B. (2016), “How the Trump Campaign Weakened the Republican Platform on Aid to Ukraine”, National Public Radio, 6 August, www.npr.org/​2016/​08/​06/​488876​597/​how-​the-​trump-​campa​ign-​ weake​ned-​the-​rep​ubli​can-​platf​orm-​on-​aid-​to-​ukra​ine. Office of the Director of National Intelligence (2017), Assessing Russian Activities and Intentions in Recent U.S. Elections, www.dni.gov/​files/​docume​nts/​ICA_​2017​_​01.pdf. Office of the Director of National Intelligence (2021), Foreign Threats to the 2020 U.S. Elections, www.dni. gov/​files/​ODNI/​docume​nts/​asse​ssme​nts/​ICA-​decl​ass-​16MA​R21.pdf. President of Russia (2009), European Security Treaty, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​6152. President of Russia (2014), “Address by President of the Russian Federation”, 18 March, http://​en.krem​ lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​news/​20603. Putin, V. (1999), “Russia at the Turn of the Millennium”, Nezavisimaya gazeta, 31 December. Putin, V. (2007), Speech at the Munich Security Conference, http://​en.krem​lin.ru/​eve​nts/​presid​ent/​tran​scri​ pts/​240​34z. Putin, V. (2012), “Russia and the Changing World”, 27 February, https://​rus​emb.org.uk/​press/​612. Quinn, L. (2019), “China’s Stance on Nuclear Arms Control and New START”, Arms Control Association, 23 August, www.arms​cont​rol.org/​blog/​2019-​08-​23/​chi​nas-​sta​nce-​nucl​ear-​arms-​cont​ rol-​new-​start. Radio Free Europe/​Radio Liberty (2014), “Russia Sanctions Explainer”, www.rferl.org/​a/​rus​sia-​sancti​ ons-​explai​ner/​25475​746.html.

553

554

Angela Stent Reddaway, P. and D. Glinski (2001), The Tragedy of Russia’s Reforms (Washington DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace). “Remarks by President Clinton to the American Society of Newspaper Editors”, (1993), The White House, 1 April. Reuters (2014), “U.S. Vice President Biden Says Putin Has No Soul: New Yorker”, 21 July, www.reut​ers. com/​arti​cle/​us-​usa-​rus​sia-​biden-​idUSKB​N0FQ​1CU2​0140​721. Sanger, D.E. and A. Kramer (2021), “Putin Warns Biden of ‘Complete Rupture’ of U.S.-​ Russia Relationship Over Ukraine”, The New York Times, 31 December, www.nyti​mes.com/​2021/​12/​30/​ us/​polit​ics/​biden-​putin-​ukra​ine-​call.html. Shear, M. and P. Baker (2014), “Obama Dismisses Russia as a ‘Regional Power’ Acting out of Weakness”, The New York Times, 25 March. Stent, A. (2014), The Limits of Partnership: U.S.-​Russian Relations in the Twenty-​First Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Stent, A. (2016), “Putin’s Power Play in Syria”, Foreign Affairs, January-​February, www.for​eign​affa​irs. com/​artic​les/​uni​ted-​sta​tes/​2015-​12-​14/​put​ins-​power-​play-​syria. Stent, A. (2020), Putin’s World: Russia Against the West and with the Rest (New York: Twelve Books). Stent, A. (2021), “Trump’s Russia Legacy and Biden’s Response”, Survival 63, 4: 55–​80. Talbott, S. (2003), The Russia Hand: A Memoir of Presidential Diplomacy (New York: Random House). The White House (2021a), “Fact Sheet: Imposing Costs for Harmful Foreign Activities by the Russian Government”, 15 April, www.whi​teho​use.gov/​brief​i ng-​room/​sta​teme​nts-​relea​ses/​2021/​04/​15”/​ fact-​sheet-​impos​ing-​costs-​for-​harm​ful-​fore​ign-​act​ivit​ies-​by-​the-​russ​ian-​gov​ernm​ent/​. The White House (2021b), “Remarks by President Biden in Press Conference”, 16 June, www.whi​teho​ use.gov/​brief​i ng-​room/​speec​hes-​rema​rks/​2021/​06/​16/​rema​rks-​by-​presid​ent-​biden-​in-​press-​con​fere​ nce-​4/​. The White House (2021c), “Background Press Call on President Biden’s Call with the President of the Russian Federation”, 30 December, www.whi​teho​use.gov/​brief​i ng-​room/​press-​briefi​ngs/​2021/​12/​ 30/​bac​kgro​und-​press-​call-​on-​presid​ent-​bid​ens-​call-​with-​presid​ent-​putin-​of-​the-​russ​ian-​fed​erat​ion/​. US Department of State (2021a), “U.S.-​Russia Joint Statement Addressing the Climate Challenge”, 15 July, www.state.gov/​u-​s-​rus​sia-​joint-​statem​ent-​add​ress​ing-​the-​clim​ate-​challe​nge/​. US Department of State (2021b), “Online Briefing with Anne Neuberger, Deputy Assistant to the President and Deputy National Security Advisor for Cyber and Emerging Technology”, National Security Council, 9 November, www.state.gov/​onl​ine-​press-​brief​i ng-​with-​anne-​neuber​ger-​dep​uty-​ assist​ant-​to-​the-​presid​ent-​and-​dep​uty-​natio​nal-​secur​ity-​advi​sor-​for-​cyber-​and-​emerg​ing-​tec​hnol​ ogy-​natio​nal-​secur​ity-​coun​cil/​. US Department of the Treasury (2017), “Countering America’s Adversaries through Sanctions Act 2017”, https://​home.treas​ury.gov/​pol​icy-​iss​ues/​financ​ial-​sancti​ons/​sancti​ons-​progr​ams-​and-​coun​try-​info​ rmat​ion/​cou​nter​ing-​ameri​cas-​adve​rsar​ies-​thro​ugh-​sancti​ons-​act. Warrick, J. (2020), Red Line: The Unraveling of Syria and America’s Race to Destroy the Most Dangerous Arsenal in the World (New York: Penguin). Yeltsin, B. (2000), Midnight Diaries (New York: Public Affairs).

554

555

48 RUSSIA AND THE EUROPEAN UNION The path to a strategic disengagement Andrey Kortunov

Future historians will probably define the eight-​year period between 2014 and 2022 as a time of strategic transition for European politics in the twenty-​first century. Many trends and processes initially manifested in 2014 took their final shape eight years later. Looking back, we can conclude that the dramatic and unexpected events of 2014 only resulted in a temporary truce between Moscow and European capitals, reflecting a precarious balance of power between the East and the West and the parties’ mutual unwillingness or unreadiness to escalate further immediately. With a temporary truce recorded, both sides commenced active preparations for another round of confrontation. This could not be derailed by the tumultuous four years of Donald Trump’s presidency in the United States, Britain’s dramatic retreat from the European Union, the chronic security crises in the Middle East, the persisting rise of Beijing’s global influence, or the coronavirus pandemic. Russia proceeded with a rapid modernisation of its armed forces, pursuing programmes of import substitution, accumulating foreign exchange reserves, expanding trade with China and deepening political and military-​technical cooperation with its partners across the CSTO. Europe established various formats and mechanisms of sanctions pressure, boosted NATO’s eastern flank and increased policy coordination both within the Alliance and within the European Union as well as its military-​technical assistance to Ukraine, while consistently attacking Russia in a variety of international settings ranging from the UN General Assembly to OSCE and Council of Europe ministerials.

“Selective engagement” In March 2016, High Representative of the European Union for Foreign Affairs and Security Policy Federica Mogherini announced that Brussels was looking at new approaches to building relations with Moscow (TASS 2016). These approaches would later become known as the “five Mogherini principles” (European Parliament 2016). These principles represented the culmination of a long and emotionally taxing discussion within the EU that represented the varied positions of the 28 member states. A difficult compromise was reached between those who favoured a hardline approach towards Russia and those who preferred a softer approach. Such DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-53

555

556

Andrey Kortunov

a compromise prevented a split, something the EU has been unable to achieve on a range of other pressing issues. In terms of a specific policy, the most significant is the fourth of the five guiding principles –​ “Selective Engagement with Russia.” On the whole, “selective engagement” appeared to be a reasonably logical approach given the “post-​Ukrainian reality.” Europe could not conceivably go back to cooperating with Russia the way it had done in the past, turning a blind eye to the dramatic events in Crimea and Donbas, as this would mean it was somehow condoning the “aggressive behaviour” of the Kremlin. Nor was it inclined to shut itself off from Moscow completely with another cordon sanitaire. The judicious decision was thus made to work with Russia only when and where it would serve the specific interests of the EU. Mogherini’s statement touched upon potential points of contact with the Russian side, including Iran, Syria, the Middle East as a whole, migration, the fight against terrorism and climate change. “Selective engagement” can be compared to a “buffet” in a restaurant, where patrons serve themselves from a wide selection of dishes instead of being offered a set meal from the menu. As far as we can tell, the principle of “selective engagement” was mostly supported in Moscow, albeit with little enthusiasm. Generally speaking, cooperation between Russia and the European Union was selective before 2014 anyway, and the prospect of creating a unified “Greater Europe” had more or less fizzled out by the end of the 2000s. This is why, three months after the “five guiding principles” had been announced, the Russian side presented President of the European Commission Jean-​Claude Juncker with a list of proposals regarding possible areas of “selective engagement” during his visit to the St Petersburg International Economic Forum (Dudina 2016). Thus in 2016 cautious hopes were expressed that the new approach could indeed work, at least for a transitional period (Kortunov 2017). The principle of “selective engagement” enjoyed at best only limited success in a number of areas (Fischer and Timoveev 2018). Not a single “road map” or holistic strategy emerged from it, nor did it serve as a basis for marking out clear “red lines” in bilateral relations. In fact, “selective engagement” remained nothing but a general political declaration on the part of the EU. Relations between the eastern and western parts of Europe continued to be built by fumbling around in the dark, through trial and error. And since no one wanted to risk making a political faux pas, there was no great desire to try something new. Any step forward was taken with enormous difficulty, political inertia extinguished new ideas, and discussions of Europe–​ Russia relations increasingly came down to rehashing old, worn out and decrepit initiatives that had been previously bandied around. The failure of “selective engagement” stems principally from objective factors. First, there is nothing close to a consensus on either side as to what degree of “selectivity” would be optimal for engagement. There were two distinct camps in the EU. The first was made up of those who advocated the “historical reconciliation” of Russia and Europe, while the second consisted of those who wanted to stand up to the “Putin regime” (Shagina 2017), a division that remained until Moscow’s operation in Ukraine in February 2022. This is why the European Union merely continued to renew the 2014 sanctions, each time announcing a victory for “European unity.” Agreeing on such an important and very specific issue as the feasibility of building the Nord Stream 2 pipeline proved impossible. Perhaps this is why the substantive content of the “selective engagement” with Moscow has never been brought up as a topic for serious political discussion in Brussels. After all, any discussion in this vein would inevitably have jeopardised the much-​vaunted “European unity,” laying bare the fundamental incompatibility of opinions within the EU regarding the state of and prospects for relations with Moscow. 556

557

Russia and the EU: The path to a strategic disengagement

While a fierce behind-​the-​scenes struggle has raged among individual EU member states for eight years in Brussels regarding the limits and possibilities of “selective engagement” with Russia, in Moscow the concept of “selective engagement” continued to be a subject of equally fierce confrontation among influential institutional and group interests as well as within Russian society at large (Deriglazova 2019). Europe did not have a consistent long-​term strategy with regard to Moscow, but neither did Russia have such a strategy with regard to Brussels. In some cases, the confrontation between Moscow’s “Europhobes” and its “Europhiles” even spilled over into the public space. For example, official and semi-​official assessments of the impact of EU sanctions and Moscow’s countersanctions on the Russian economy, as well as estimates regarding the success of the import substitution strategy, varied greatly from the clearly alarmist to the unabashedly triumphant (Aris 2015). If the parties could not work out their own positions on the matter, how could one expect them to find common ground in negotiations with one another? Second, Russia and the European Union have always been very different players on the international stage, with different comparative advantages and different sets of instruments of power and influence. Significant asymmetries of both interests and opportunities between the “Russian elephant” and the “European whale” were inevitable, and this made it extremely difficult to find a “fair” balance of interests in each specific case. For example, Mogherini talked about the desirability of working with Moscow on such regional issues as Syria, Iraq, Libya, Iran and North Korea (EURACTIV 2015). But what exactly could Brussels offer Moscow in this area? Moscow, for its part, was trying to get the European Union to recognise the Eurasian Economic Union (EEU) as an equal partner, but the economic potential of the EEU was minuscule compared to that of the EU. Third, while Moscow took pride in its sovereignty and the fact that it can make independent decisions, the sovereignty of the European Union was limited by the one-​sided nature of its relations with the United States. And this meant that attempts to create a balance between the EU and Russia would ultimately turn into a far more complicated game involving the decidedly scalene Brussels–​Moscow–​Washington triangle. Even if there was still some hope for the “Russian elephant” and “European whale” to come to an agreement, the “American tyrannosaurus” would do its best to make sure that did not happen. Fourth, we should not lose sight of the fact that “selective engagement,” as well as the balanced exchange of mutual concessions and the tactical coordination of the positions of the parties, are mainly applicable as mechanisms for resolving specific issues in the here and now. For example, offering mutual concessions on the post-​conflict reconstruction of Syria, salvaging the Iranian nuclear deal or resolving issues related to the de-​escalation of the Libyan Civil War are acceptable solutions. These areas can, to a certain degree, be isolated from the general background of relations, while at the same time preserving individual islands of cooperation in the vast ocean of confrontation (Barnes-​Dacey and Kortunov 2021). But the fact of the matter is that the most fundamental challenges facing Russia and Europe were not and are not tactical in nature but strategic. These include the reduced clout of the two sides in the world economy and population, the technological inferiority of Europe and Russia compared to North America and East Asia, the rise of political populism and radicalism and the long-​term decline in stability in neighbouring regions. In confronting these challenges, trading specific concessions and negotiating tactical compromises did very little. Such agreements were not a substitute for a common vision of the long-​term future of Russia–​Europe relations and, more broadly, a shared view of the direction in which the world is headed. Agreements on specific issues should, in one way or another, be embedded in this common vision. 557

558

Andrey Kortunov

An inevitable collision? Was another collision between Russia and the EU –​on a larger scale –​inevitable? During the eight years of relative calm, attempts have repeatedly been made to turn the temporary truce into a lasting and stable peace. On both sides, diplomats, international experts and public figures worked hard to solve this difficult task. Many practical proposals have been prepared on both Ukraine and broader issues pertaining to European security (see, for example, Dobbs and Kearns 2016). Unfortunately, none of these proposals have become a cut-​off point for an agreement. The gap between Russia and the European Union was widening while tensions around Ukraine continued to build up. As a result, the eight-​year truce ended in February 2022 with Moscow’s diplomatic recognition of the DNR (Donetsk People’s Republic) and the LNR (Lugansk People’s Republic) in the Donbas region as well as with the Russian military operation on Ukrainian soil. The conflict has once again entered a dangerous phase, and this time on a fundamentally different level. The truce ended with a new crisis that has inevitable and irreversible consequences –​not only for Ukraine but also for relations between Russia and the West as a whole. It would probably not be correct to draw direct parallels between the coming European reality of 2022 and the Cold War of the second half of the past century. In all probability, times lie ahead that are darker and more dangerous than even those that ended in perestroika and “new thinking” or in the final collapse of the socialist system globally and the Soviet Union regionally. During the Cold War, especially in the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, the parties had a sound understanding of each other’s red lines, trying not to cross them whenever possible. Today, red lines are not recognised as truly red, while repeated statements about such lines are perceived on the other side as bluffing and empty rhetoric. During the Cold War, a stable balance was maintained between the two military-​political blocs in Europe. Today, NATO is much stronger than Russia in most military-​technical parameters, even if we consider the potential of Minsk as an ally of Moscow. The asymmetry of economic power between the European Union and the Russian Federation is even more striking. During the Cold War, the relations between West and East –​despite all the contradictions and conflicts –​had a degree of mutual respect and even mutual trust that gave hope for predictable, albeit mostly adversarial, patterns of interaction. Today, nobody is talking about respect or trust any longer, and the relationship has entered a phase of high risks and unpredictability. How long will this period of strategic disengagement between Russia and the European Union last and how is it likely to end? Many liberal analysts in Moscow and in European capitals view a Russian return to the European fold as foreordained (as an example, see the “European Dialogue” Expert Group established by a number of prominent intellectuals in Moscow in 2016 [“European Dialogue” Expert Group n.d.]). The return is believed to be inevitable, and the uncertainties are related mostly to the timing of the next Russian pivot or repivot to the West, as well as to the probable cost that the Russian state and Russian society will be required to pay in order to be welcomed back by Europe. These beliefs are based on at least three arguments. First, Russians (not only Orthodox Russians, but also members of Russia’s many non-​Orthodox minorities), according to their history, culture, lifestyle and core values, are fundamentally Europeans, not Asians. Europe remains the principal magnet for Russia’s students, cultural figures, artists, business people, scientists, intellectuals and civil servants. Europe has the world’s largest Russian and Russian-​speaking diasporas, including mixed marriages between people with two or more cultural identities (one 558

559

Russia and the EU: The path to a strategic disengagement

of them Russian or post-​Soviet). In short, Russia is an organic part of European civilisation. As such, it is pointless to speak of the “European option” for Russia. This is not a choice, but rather destiny. Second, only Europe can serve as an effective driver for Russian economic and social modernisation. Despite all its shortcomings and deficiencies, Russia still has a very significant R&D capacity that is not properly converted into an innovative economy able to compete globally. Europe is genuinely interested not only in consuming Russia’s natural resources but also in making use of the country’s now mostly untapped human capital, which could well serve as a catalyst for European technological and economic development. By contrast, Russia’s Asian partners remain perfectly content to continue to use Russia strictly for its abundant reserves of raw materials and energy resources. In short, for Asia, the development of Russian human capital is not a top priority. Third, only in concert with Europe, where Russia would find itself in the company of comparable states in terms of economic weight and demographic potential, can Russia remain a veritable influential player in global politics. On its own, it is clear that Russia does not have any near-​or medium-​term potential to claim for itself the role of a fully fledged power centre at a global level. In the exclusive company of the rising nations of Asia (not only China and India, but also, for example, Indonesia and Pakistan), which significantly outpace Russia in economic growth, not to mention demographic dynamics, Moscow would inevitably soon find itself in a disadvantageous position, regardless of the geopolitical constructions that may determine the Eurasian world. Indeed, the relegation of Russia to the second tier of Asian politics would be merely a function of the rapidity of the depreciation of Russia’s remaining foreign policy assets (nuclear weapons, P5 membership of the UN Security Council and energy resources). If this logic is correct, Europe has no need to worry. Russia, like a disobedient teenager who runs away from home, will soon have to face up to the alien, harsh and not very friendly world of Eurasia and will before long draw the appropriate conclusions and return to where it really belongs. The main task for Europe, then, is to ensure that the rebellious teenager does not harm himself and others in the interim or, more concretely, does not get involved in risky and dangerous enterprises (which, as the 2022 conflict in Ukraine suggests, it has an inclination to). In the meantime, the doors to the European household should remain open. Having this predetermined return of the prodigal son in mind, it is hardly worth reproaching Europe for the fact that, over eight years between 2014 and 2022, it has not been able to work out a comprehensive strategy vis-​à-​vis Moscow. The future of the EU–​Russia relations depends mostly on developments on the Russian side of the Eurasian fault line. In the best case, perhaps, from the Western side of the fault line, systematic support can be offered to accelerate the inevitable changes to come inside Russia through the expansion of contacts at the civil society level, as well as through targeted collaboration with specific groups in Russia –​young Russians, innovative businessmen and technocrats in Moscow and in the regional and local governments. At the same time, Russia should be invited to cooperate with the West along those vectors where the interests of all sides manifestly coincide, notably the fight against international terrorism, countering nuclear weapons proliferation and, inter alia, the regulation of regional crises. After the 2022 conflict in Ukraine, such cooperation will be difficult and complicated, but it should nevertheless be explored where possible. Brussels should also maintain in its arsenal a sufficiently large number of “negative stimuli” –​ sanctions or other instruments of pressure –​such that Russia can understand that there are “red lines” beyond which it cannot go. One can argue about the relative balance of negative versus positive stimuli or incentives, but the EU must show strategic patience and be prepared for future changes in Russian politics and policy. 559

560

Andrey Kortunov

The liberal narrative of Russia’s inevitable re-​communion with Europe at large or with the EU in particular would be persuasive but for one important complication: Europe itself does not remain the same over time. The Western-​oriented discourses in Moscow would have a lot of sense if Russia could simply return to the European world order that existed some ten, twenty or even thirty years ago. In that European order, there was no conflict over Ukraine, no sharp Eurozone crisis, no migration crisis on the present scale, no Brexit and no rise of right-​wing populism. That world order did not experience the transatlantic split; there was no spectacular economic rise of China, no almost universal return to international protectionism and no Arab Spring with its tragic consequences. In sum, that European order did not contain many of the threats and challenges that determine the priorities of the European Union today. So whither, all things considered, should Russia return: to the romantic Europe of 1990, full of optimism and courage, or to the triumphant, self-​assured Europe of 2004, confident in its power, legitimacy and historical rightness? Or should it return to the frightened and strategically disoriented Europe of 2016? Or perhaps to the wonderful and perfect Europe of 2040, which exists today only in the imaginations of a small handful of European visionaries and analysts? The contemporary political discourse in Russia mostly shares the criticism regarding the current state and future of the EU (for a very graphic illustration of this position, see Bogomolov 2021; Bogomolov is the husband of one-​time presidential candidate Kseniya Sobchak). This criticism is driven not only by numerous problems that the EU encounters today, but also by the dire relations between Moscow and Brussels. While setting the tone for expert and public discussions, official statements are marked by unprecedented toughness and undisguised pessimism regarding a common European future (for example, at the 20 November 2019 “Russia Calling!” Investment Forum, Putin argued that the EU might follow the fate of the dissolved USSR [Prezident Rossii 2019]). Under the sway of this rhetoric, most Russian experts focus on the multiple challenges that the EU encounters today rather than on the obvious historical achievements of the European project. As a result, such forecasts suggest the EU’s prospects appear bleak and pitiful. Still, the Russian academic community has a vocal group of Euro-​optimists, mainly comprised of experts who deal with European issues and a number of liberally minded politicians from the opposition (see, for example, Yavlinsky 2015). It is only natural that the views of the EU shared by this group are drastically different from the official voices. They consider the common European project not only as the most historically successful but also as the most promising for regional integration. While admitting certain problems and crises that accompany the EU’s development, Russian Euro-​optimists are still confident that Europe will eventually put the boot on the other foot, benefiting from the crises and adjusting the strategy for further institutional development of the EU. Although both camps of experts differ in their vision of the EU, they concur on several material challenges to the legitimacy of the EU and its successful operation. It is the response to these challenges that they believe will define the future of the EU. First, Russian experts refer to the poor strategic autonomy of the EU (Danilov 2019). Despite numerous declarations of the need to become strategically autonomous, independent from the US, little of this has essentially translated into practice. Moreover, Joe Biden’s coming to the presidency is frequently interpreted by the EU as meaning there is no longer a need to be more independent. The de facto abandoning of the objective of achieving strategic autonomy, divorcing from the US, simplifies the EU’s strategic planning, while also narrowing the room for European policy-​making, including with regards to Russia. 560

561

Russia and the EU: The path to a strategic disengagement

Most Russian observers believe that Europe will pay a heavy price for this lack of strategic autonomy, with these costs only going up over time; the balance of powers between Brussels and Moscow, as well as between the West and Russia, will gradually shift in favour of the latter (Karaganov 2016). In particular, the EU will be affected by the inevitable exacerbation of Sino-​ American confrontation as well as the resulting pressure exercised on Brussels from Washington in order to strengthen the common anti-​Chinese stance of the West. Amid a more pronounced bipolar nature of global politics, the EU will have to follow in the US’ footsteps, thus giving up its own agency. Projects similar to Nord Stream 2 will no longer be politically feasible. At the same time, reliance on the US fails to safeguard Western unity in the long run: we cannot rule out that a politician similar to Donald Trump may be sworn in in Washington as early as 2024, something for which Brussels is totally unprepared. Second, many in the Russian expert community argue that the EU is losing its economic and technological competitiveness. Despite its considerable economic, scientific and technological potential, the EU today is lagging behind North America and East Asia in many key technological areas (Bezrukov et al 2021). If this gap widens further, the EU may eventually turn into the world’s industrial museum. Subsequently, it may be driven to the sidelines of global economic and technological development. Problems that have to do with the traditional features of the European social model will grow in number; more than lavish welfare programmes will see the European workforce become too expensive to be competitive on global markets. At the same time, the professional and geographic mobility in many EU member states remains relatively low. For Russia, such negative tendencies within the EU would accelerate the country’s pivot from the EU to China, South-​East Asia and other Asian nations. This pivot could get further impetus once the EU introduces more sectoral sanctions against Russia in the area of high technologies or copies similar exterritorial sanctions to those instituted by the US. In broader terms, loss by the EU of its economic and technological competitiveness may cast into doubt the value of the European social model as a token of modernity and an example to be followed by other countries, including Russia. Third, another potential liability of the European Union is the exacerbation of European unity problems. Many in Russia warn of some dangerous potential lines of division within the EU, such as the divide between “old” and “new” Europe, North and South, bigger and smaller member states, and donors and recipients of EU funding (Bordachev 2017). Brexit has only exacerbated this situation, bringing in multiple imbalances. Further break-​up processes may slow the integration down or even turn it back. National identity in many EU member states could push the common European identity to the backburner. Although most Russian experts do not believe that the EU would finally collapse, some predict that some of the functions that Brussels is now endowed with will be recovered by nation states, which in turn would be reinforced through supranational administration bodies. The consequences entailed by a potential weakening of the EU’s institutions and mechanisms are still a subject of heated discussion in Russia. Some experts believe that Moscow will benefit from such developments, as it historically achieved better results from its bilateral relations with Europe’s leading nations, Germany, France and Italy, than when dealing with the EU as a whole (Lukyanov 2020). Others believe that a weak EU, incapable of speaking in one voice, does not fit the Russian concept of a multipolar world and could not be regarded as Moscow’s reliable partner (Busygina et al 2013). In terms of security, a weaker EU would inevitably mean a stronger NATO and a more robust US presence in Europe, which does not meet Russian interests. In economic terms, a weaker EU could not adequately counterbalance the growing domination of China in Russia’s foreign trade. 561

562

Andrey Kortunov

Fourth, European isolationism is regarded as yet another challenge to the European project. Russian observers believe that further EU development and its legitimacy can be challenged by the rise of isolationist sentiments in the EU nations and de facto abandoning of an active foreign policy by the EU leaders. Failure to agree on such burning international issues as Kosovo, Venezuela and the Israeli-​Palestinian conflict could mean that the EU gives up its active role in such regional conflicts as Syria, Libya and Afghanistan, thus limiting opportunities for any Russia–​EU interaction in these conflicts (Suslov 2016). It could also mean that the EU will give up creating and promoting global commons in the areas of climate change, global web governance, human rights, food security and many others. European isolationism will have a two-​fold impact on Russia. On the one hand, Russian authorities will be happy if the EU no longer meddles in Russia’s internal affairs under the pretext of protecting human rights and if Brussels abandons its plans to possibly expand to the east in the foreseeable future. Once Europe curtails its activity to its east and to its south, this will create more opportunities for Russia in places such as Syria and Ukraine. On the other hand, if the EU is relieved of the responsibility to develop and promote new rules of the game in important domains of world politics and economy, such rules would be increasingly imposed by Washington and Beijing. We cannot take it for granted that such a change of leadership in global rules-​setting would meet Moscow’s long-​term interests. Furthermore, Russian specialists take note of the long-​term tendencies of a shrinking EU population and new possible large-​scale migration waves to Europe from the Middle East, South Asia and Africa (Apanovich 2020). Numerous Russian conservative analysts associate the drop in demography with features of modern European liberalism, such as same-​sex marriages, the collapse of the traditional family and loss of faith (Kharaluzhnyi 2020). Gradual change in the demographic structure of the EU in favour of European Arabs, European Africans and other non-​indigenous ethnic groups can be regarded as one of the most serious challenges to the very existence of the EU and to the future of European nations in general, especially since there are no optimal models for the integration and adaptation of such groups in Europe, at least not yet. In Russia, Europe’s experiments in managing international migration and its demographic strategies are closely monitored. Russian analysts regard what is going on in Europe as another reason to carefully manage and even to restrict migration inflows to Russia, thus making use of both the accomplishments and failures of the existing experiences of various EU countries (see, for example, Rozanova 2016). Some believe that Russia has to become a legitimate heir to Europe’s traditional values (such as family, faith, state), which Europe is giving up one by one (Fenenko 2022). For liberals, Russia and Europe share the same demographic problems. On the one hand, it proves that Russia is a European nation. On the other, it necessitates closer cooperation between Moscow and Brussels on demography and international migration (Malakhov 2016). Today, many in the European Union are convinced that Russia favours the failure of the “European project” (see, for example, Kirchick 2017). Such suspicions concerning Russia’s preferences have some grounds. Russian politicians and diplomats, officials and analysts often say things that leave the impression that Moscow would prefer to deal with a European Union that is weak, unstable and torn apart by internal problems. Indeed, separatist movements inside the European Union, from Scotland to Catalonia, receive favourable coverage in the Russian media. Nationalists and Eurosceptics are welcome in Moscow. The latest exacerbation of migrant problems or another terrorist attack in a European capital are presented as the beginning of the end for European civilisation.

562

563

Russia and the EU: The path to a strategic disengagement

Of course, the European Union is not the United States. The main guns of Russia’s propaganda arsenal have for many years been pointed at Washington and not Brussels. The United States is considered to be Russia’s only worthy global antagonist. For many reasons, the European Union does not fit this role. And still, the desire to live side by side with a weak European Union that is in a state of permanent crisis has a certain logic to it. But there is also a certain logic to the reasoning of those who believe that a consolidated, dynamically developing and stable European Union is more in line with Russia’s true interests. Let us compare the reasoning of those who support and those who are against a strong Europe.

Desirability of a strong Europe First, the numerous misfortunes and disasters that have befallen Brussels of late are another vivid confirmation of Moscow being on the right side of history. In other words, they confirm the ideas of the current political situation that presently dominate Russia’s political discourse. The European Union today is a clear illustration of the crisis of globalisation and apparent helplessness of political liberalism, a stark example of the global rise of nationalism and proponents of traditional values. But it is not merely a picture and an example. The EU’s misfortunes and disasters are a guarantee of the new world order not being made from Brussels’ sewing patterns. Therefore, Moscow does not need to try the European dinner jacket that has been tailored for somebody else and that restricts its movements. Second, against the background of Europe’s “Great Troubles,” Russia’s stability clearly looks better, even if it is encumbered with elements of stagnation that are becoming more and more prominent. Maybe for the first time in the last two decades, the situation in Russia looks more stable and predictable than it does in Europe. Depicting the horrors of daily life in Europe (migrants, terrorists, street clashes, same-​sex marriages, all-​powerful European bureaucrats, the crisis of the euro, the unclear future), Russian propaganda successfully deconstructs the previously exceptionally attractive “European myth” that has existed for a long time in the national public consciousness. The traditional rhetorical question of “Do you want Russia to be like Ukraine?” has found an extension in the rhetorical question of “Do you want Russia to be like Europe?” Third, the practical experience of Russia’s European policy of the last 25 years contradicts the idea of a strong European Union. Moscow has always found it easier to negotiate with individual European partners, particularly with the leading representatives of “old Europe” (Berlin, Paris, Rome, Madrid), than with Brussels as the lowest common denominator of individual EU members’ diverse interests. Moscow mostly perceives the “Brussels superstructure” on top of national states not as another opportunity but as another encumbrance. To be fair, it should be said that Moscow’s key European partners contributed to the emergence of this notion. For a long time, they have unfailingly preferred to discuss promising areas of cooperation with Moscow (economy and energy in particular) at a bilateral level, while leaving the most difficult and unpleasant issues (such as human rights) to Brussels. Fourth, Moscow supports “non-​ systemic” European opposition, various populists, nationalists and Eurosceptics because, unlike the bulk of the European political establishment, they are ready to conduct a dialogue with Moscow without any preliminary conditions or requirements. Moreover, many European populists and nationalists proclaim principled dissent from the current EU policy on Russia, express their solidarity with, or at least understanding of, those actions of the Kremlin that the European Union condemns and declare their intent

563

564

Andrey Kortunov

to push for the lifting of the EU’s anti-​Russia sanctions. Why shouldn’t Moscow bet on those who are ready for a dialogue here and now and not on some indefinite future? However, there is a comparable set of arguments for a stronger and more united Europe. First, only a strong and consolidated European Union is capable of making a significant contribution to the shaping of a truly polycentric (multipolar) world, a very popular topic in Moscow. A weak and disjointed Europe incapable of reaching a consensus within its own borders will always remain an object upon which Washington can exert pressure, manipulate in various ways and even blackmail (Bordachev 2021). Only a weak European Union will face the need to de facto join the unilateral anti-​Russia sanctions imposed by the United States. Only a strong EU can stand up to the US. A strong and successfully developing European Union is, in addition, a reliable and promising market for Russian goods, services and investments (Bordachev 2016). It also means that, among other things, from the point of view of Russia’s economic interests, Brexit is far from being a godsend. Second, even with Russia’s turn to the East, we should not forget that Europe remains Russia’s priority socioeconomic laboratory. In its social and demographic structure and its level of education and urbanisation, Russia remains closer to the EU countries than to any other region of the world. It is in the EU that most economic and social practices, the models of corporate and municipal governance, as well as technical standards and procedures are developed. They are then adapted by Russia to fit its own conditions. The development of institutions and mechanisms for the Eurasian Economic Union is also based primarily on the European Union’s rich and fruitful experience of institutionalisation. Moscow, therefore, should be interested in the European laboratory expanding its work instead of winding it down. It should be interested in the development of new practices, standards and models that can then be localised and reproduced in Russia. Third, we should not lose sight of the fact that any international organisation, including the European Union, is only as effective as its principal members want it to be. Therefore, placing Brussels in opposition to the capitals of the leading EU countries is quite unjustified. Remove the Brussels bureaucracy and it will be the bureaucrats in Berlin, Paris and Rome who have to deal with all the unpleasant aspects in Russia–​Europe relations. It should be added that for Berlin, for instance, continued European integration is a top foreign policy priority. There is no simpler way of ruining relations with Germany than demonstrating the desire to undermine European unity or just raise German suspicions that such a desire does, indeed, exist. Fourth, it should also be recognised that all those Eurosceptics, European right-​ wing populists and nationalists are highly unreliable partners. Some of them –​Polish leader Jarosław Kaczyński, for ­example –​combine a pointed dislike of Brussels with open hostility towards Moscow. Others, who position themselves as loyal friends of Moscow, in fact use their bold statements of friendship with Russia to bargain with Brussels on other issues that are of greater importance to them. Let us recall that, in the four years since the European Union first imposed sanctions on Russia, not one European populist that has come to power has ever officially raised the question of lifting them. There are reasons to believe they will not do so in future either, at least for as long as there is no preliminary agreement achieved on the matter with Berlin, Brussels and the other EU political heavyweights. Given these opposing arguments, it is difficult to establish a constructive dialogue on this topic. One party emphasises fundamental values, while the other talks about specific economic interests. One focuses on the geopolitical picture of the world, while the other is more focused on its social dimension. Some participants in the discussion operate with primarily positive and negative emotions generated by past experiences, while others attempt to distance themselves

564

565

Russia and the EU: The path to a strategic disengagement

from these experiences as they think of the future. But these difficulties are no reason to abandon discussion. Of course, the exponents of a “return to Europe” start from the premise that time is on the side of the European project (Romanova 2013). Having coped with and survived the diseases of growth and expansion, the EU will emerge, on this logic, from its tests, crises and problems seasoned, renewed and filled with new energy. To be sure, most Europeans and most Russians should only wish for this to happen. But such an optimistic scenario is driven more by faith than anything else. And the coming years will tell whether Europe can convert this belief into concrete actions and results. Even in the best or “honeymoon” periods of Russian–​European cooperation, Moscow was never prepared to fully support the concept of a “Greater Europe” based on the full or even selective participation of all countries on the continent in the normative and regulatory frameworks of the European Union. Moscow’s support over the foreseeable future for this concept, under the existing conditions of systemic crises in Europe and the general uncertainty over the historical prospects for the European project, seems even less probable. The incentive to “rejoin” Europe is declining as the centre of global economic activity moves increasingly to Asia, thus creating new, alternative integration opportunities for Russia and other Eurasian countries (Bordachev 2017). In turn, the Russian vision of a “Greater Europe” that would consist in a collaboration of approximate equals between the EU and the EEU –​building on existing areas of collaboration such as sectoral and visa dialogues, energy compromises and transboundary cooperation –​has elicited very little enthusiasm on the European side (Trenin 2021). This is so not only because European bureaucrats do not view the Eurasian Economic Union as an integration project that is at all comparable to the EU, not least because most of the members of the Eurasian Economic Union would, at the first opportunity, be prepared to exchange Moscow for Brussels. Rather, this is because the EU is poorly equipped to envision and advance a dialogue of equals with any opposite number whatsoever, including the US and China. The traditional, almost genetic strategy of the EU has always consisted in the geographical expansion of its standards, rules and norms to other participants in the international system, rather than in any adaptation of its internal algorithms to the particularities of other participants. Today, on the present vector and logic, a clean exit from the dead end at which EU–​Russia relations find themselves is nearly impossible. Europe, under current conditions, does not have persuasive arguments to return Russia to the pattern of relations that existed between the two sides at the start of this century. Moscow, for its part (even accounting for the not insignificant aggregate economic and strategic potential of the Eurasian Economic Union), does not have enough power to force Brussels (even when it is significantly weakened vis-​à-​vis its position a decade or two ago) to undertake a dialogue of equals with it. This stalemate will not break for the foreseeable future, even if by some miracle one succeeds in removing the main obstacle to Russian–​European cooperation –​the ongoing conflict in and around Ukraine.

References Apanovich, M. (2020), “Is the European Union Ready for an Influx of Migrants?”, Valdai Club Expert Opinions, 18 March, https://​val​daic​lub.com/​a/​hig​hlig​hts/​is-​the-​europ​ean-​union-​ready-​for-​an-​inf​ lux-​of-​migra​nts/​?sph​rase​_​id=​1376​343. Aris, B. (2015), “How Much are Western Sanctions Hurting Russia’s Economy?”, Russia Beyond, 21 December, www.rbth.com/​busin​ess/​2015/​12/​21/​how-​much-​are-​west​ern-​sancti​ons-​hurt​ing-​russ​ias-​ eco​nomy​_​553​155.

565

566

Andrey Kortunov Barnes-​Dacey, J. and A. Kortunov (2021), “First Aid: How Russia and the West Can Help Syrians in Idlib”, Russian International Affairs Council, 14 May, https://​rus​sian​coun​cil.ru/​en/​analyt​ics-​and-​ comme​nts/​analyt​ics/​first-​aid-​how-​rus​sia-​and-​the-​west-​can-​help-​syri​ans-​in-​idlib/​. Bezrukov, A., M. Suchkov, A. Sushentsov and M. Mamonov (2021), “International Competition and Leadership in the Digital Environment”, Valdai Discussion Club Report, 26 January, https://​val​daic​lub. com/​a/​repo​rts/​intern​atio​nal-​comp​etit​ion-​in-​the-​digi​tal-​envi​ronm​ent/​. Bogomolov, K. (2021), “The Rape of Europa 2.0”, Novaya gazeta, 10 February, https://​novay​agaz​eta.ru/​ artic​les/​2021/​02/​10/​89120-​pohi​sche​nie-​evr​opy-​2-​0?fbc​lid=​IwA​R3th​GXe-​4tN-​I2W7​ZwZ8​Tha-​ tB1vOeP​0WJx​momS​HLzi​8eFh​3nyK​LYRF​Iyc. Bordachev, T. (2016), “Russia and the European Union: Three Questions Concerning New Principles in Bilateral Relations”, Valdai Discussion Club Report, https://​val​daic​lub.com/​files/​10754/​. Bordachev, T. (2017), “The European Union’s Uncertain Future: What Should Russia Do?”, Valdai Discussion Club Report, May, https://​val​daic​lub.com/​files/​14294/​?ysc​lid=​l1s​v3a0​bi4. Bordachev, T. (2021), “Why We Need to Look Closely at the US-​European Relations”, Valdai Discussion Club Expert Opinions, 2 March, https://​val​daic​lub.com/​a/​hig​hlig​hts/​why-​do-​we-​need-​to-​look-​clos​ ely/​?sph​rase​_​id=​1376​343. Busygina, I., Al.A. Gromyko, N.K. Arbatova, M.V. Strezhneva, L.V. Ignatova, N.Yu. Kaveshkinov and T.A. Romanova (2013), “Russia–​European Union: Potential for Partnership”, Russian International Affairs Council Report, No. 11, https://​rus​sian​coun​cil.ru/​upl​oad/​Rus​sia-​EU-​11-​En.pdf. Danilov, D. (2019), “European Defence: Tough Questions”, Valdai Discussion Club Expert Opinions, 23 September, https://​val​daic​lub.com/​a/​hig​hlig​hts/​europ​ean-​defe​nse-​tough-​questi​ons/​?sph​rase​_​id=​ 1376​343. Deriglazova, L.V. (2019), “Russia and the European Union in Eulerian Circles of ‘Europe’ ”, Russia in Global Affairs 1, https://​eng.global​affa​irs.ru/​wp-​cont​ent/​uplo​ads/​2020/​02/​19908.pdf?ysc​lid=​l1r​ whwn​q7e. Dobbs, J. and I. Kearns (2016), “The Strategic Case for EU-​Russia Cooperation”, ELN Policy Brief, July, www.europe​anle​ader​ship​netw​ork.org/​wp-​cont​ent/​uplo​ads/​2017/​10/​THE-​STRATE​GIC-​CASE-​ FOR-​EU-​RUS​SIA-​COOP​ERAT​ION-​JULY-​2016-​KEA​RNS-​DOBBS.pdf. Dudina, G. (2016), “Vladimir Putin sdelaet Evrosoyuzu predlozhenie”, Kommersant, 16 June, www.kom​ mers​ant.ru/​doc/​3014​580. EURACTIV (2015), “Mogherini Suggests Détente with Russia”, 15 January, www.eurac​tiv.com/​sect​ ion/​glo​bal-​eur​ope/​news/​mogher​ini-​sugge​sts-​dete​nte-​with-​rus​sia/​. “European Dialogue” Expert Group (n.d.), “About us”, www.eedia​log.org/​en/​about/​. European Parliament (2016), “The EU’s Russia Policy: Five Guiding Principles”, European Parliament Briefing, October, www.europ​arl.eur​opa.eu/​RegD​ata/​etu​des/​BRIE/​2016/​589​857/​ EPRS_​BRI(2016)589857​_​EN.pdf. Fenenko, A. (2022), “Narrativy bipolyanosti”, Russian International Affairs Council, 7 April, https://​rus​ sian​coun​cil.ru/​analyt​ics-​and-​comme​nts/​analyt​ics/​narrat​ivy-​bipoly​arno​sti/​. Fischer, S. and I. Timofeev (2018), “Selective Engagement between the EU and Russia”, EUREN Interim Report, October, https://​rus​sian​coun​cil.ru/​en/​activ​ity/​publi​cati​ons/​select​ive-​eng​agem​ent-​betw​een-​ the-​eu-​and-​rus​sia/​. Karaganov, S. (2016), “We Are Smarter, Stronger and More Determined”, Spiegel International, 13 June, www.spie​gel.de/​intern​atio​nal/​world/​interv​iew-​with-​putin-​fore​ign-​pol​icy-​advi​sor-​ser​gey-​karaga​ nov-​a-​1102​629.html. Kharaluzhnyi, A. (2020), “Demograficheskaya situatsiya v Evrope: plokho i budet eshche khuzhe”, Voennoe obozrenie, 9 September, https://​top​war.ru/​174​831-​demogr​afic​hesk​aja-​situac​ija-​v-​evr​ope-​ ochen-​ploho-​a-​budet-​esche-​huzhe.html?ysc​lid=​l1s​xyxc​a55. Kirchick, J. (2017), “Russia’s Plot against the West”, Politico, 17 March, www.polit​ico.eu/​arti​cle/​rus​sia-​ plot-​agai​nst-​the-​west-​vladi​mir-​putin-​don​ald-​trump-​eur​ope/​. Kortunov, A. (2017), “Hybrid Cooperation: A New Model for Russia-​ EU Relations”, Russian International Affairs Council, 8 November, https://​rus​sian​coun​cil.ru/​en/​analyt​ics-​and-​comme​nts/​ analyt​ics/​hyb​r id-​coop​erat​ion-​a-​new-​model-​for-​rus​sia-​eu-​relati​ons/​. Lukyanov, F. (2020), “Is Russia’s Dialogue with the EU Coming to an End?”, The Moscow Times, 15 October, www.the​mosc​owti​mes.com/​2020/​10/​15/​is-​russ​ias-​dialo​gue-​with-​the-​eu-​com​ing-​to-​an-​ end-​a71​766.

566

567

Russia and the EU: The path to a strategic disengagement Malakhov, V. (2016), “Migration Crisis: International Cooperation and National Strategies”, Russian International Affairs Council, 7 December, https://​rus​sian​coun​cil.ru/​en/​activ​ity/​polic​ybri​efs/​migrat​ sion​nyy-​kri​zis-​mez​hdun​arod​noe-​sotr​udni​ches​tvo-​i-​nat​sio/​. Prezident Rossii (2019), “Investitsionnyi forum ‘Rossiya zovet!’”, 20 November, www.krem​lin.ru/​eve​ nts/​presid​ent/​news/​62073. Romanova, T. (2013), “European Union: Russia’s Interests and Transnational Relations”, Valdai Discussion Club Expert Opinions, 22 November, https://​val​daic​lub.com/​a/​hig​hlig​hts/​european_​union_​russia_​ s_​interests_​and_​tran​snat​iona​l_​re​lati​ons/​?sph​rase​_​id=​1376​343. Rozanova, M.S. (ed.) (2016), Labor Migration and Migrant Integration Policy in Germany and Russia (St Petersburg: St Petersburg State University, Center for Civil, Social, Scientific, and Cultural Initiatives “Strategia”), https://​rus​sian​coun​cil.ru/​com​mon/​upl​oad/​Labor​Migr​atio​nand​Inte​grat​ion-​En.pdf?ysc​ lid=​l1s​yg3h​p2v. Shagina, M. (2017), “Friend or Foe? Mapping the positions of EU Member States on Russia sanctions”, European Leadership Network, Commentary, 28 June, www.europe​anle​ader​ship​netw​ork.org/​com​ ment​ary/​fri​end-​or-​foe-​mapp​ing-​the-​positi​ons-​of-​eu-​mem​ber-​sta​tes-​on-​rus​sia-​sancti​ons/​. Suslov, D. (2016), “Without a ‘Common Space’: A New Agenda for Russia-​EU Relations”, Valdai Discussion Club Paper 49, June, https://​val​daic​lub.com/​files/​11424/​?ysc​lid=​l1s​wr0h​8fj. TASS (2016), “EU Foreign Ministers Agree on Five Principles in Relations with Russia”, 14 March, https://​tass.com.world/​862​255. Trenin, D. (2021), “Russia and Europe: The Current Impasse and the Way Out”, Carnegie Moscow Center, 18 February, https://​car​negi​emos​cow.org/​com​ment​ary/​83905. Yavlinsky, G. (2015), “Otnosheniya Rossii i Evropy: vchera, segodnya, zavtra”, 27 October, www.yavlin​ sky.ru/​arti​cle/​otno​shen​iya-​ros​sii-​i-​evr​opy-​vch​era-​segod​nya-​zav​tra/​.

567

568

49 RUSSIA AND CHINA Natasha Kuhrt

Post-​Soviet Russia’s relationship with China now spans three decades. While relations began to improve under Gorbachev and improved further under Yeltsin, with talks on the border, it has been under Vladimir Putin’s administration that relations have reached a new level. This is now a mature relationship –​multifaceted, multilevel, bilateral, regional and increasingly global. The Ukraine crisis that began in 2014 with the annexation of Crimea, then accelerated with the full-​scale Russian invasion in 2022, has highlighted a number of areas of the relationship: the power imbalance between Russia and China in economic terms; the extent to which it can be characterised as an alliance; and the future of the regional and global order. Debates continue as to whether the close relationship with the superpower-​in-​waiting is a question of Russian subordination to Chinese grand strategy, or more a relationship of equals seeking to manage their respective regions (Kaczmarski 2018). Scholarly writing on the relationship can be divided into two to three camps: those who see it as a de facto or “tacit” alliance or “entente” (Blank 2019; Kashin 2019; Gorenburg 2016; Lukin 2021); those who see it as a pragmatic “marriage of convenience” (Lo 2017; Roseth 2018); and those who see it as somewhere in between (Kaczmarski 2015; Kuhrt 2007; Wishnick 2017) . Realist approaches, which predominate in analyses of Russia–​China relations, see states as either balancing against threats or bandwagoning with a stronger state. Alexander Korolev provides a useful justification for using hedging as a framework for understanding Russia–​ China relations (2016), suggesting that Russia uses its relations with China to hedge against the United States. Geir Flikke sees the relationship as mutually constitutive, thus helping to balance relations with the United States (Flikke 2016). In a similar vein, Deborah Welch Larson and Anton Shevchenko examine the relationship from the perspective of mutual status exchange (2019). In my view, the fixation on whether the relationship is or is not an alliance (a fixation that has only increased since 2014) obscures some of the complexities of the relationship (although Blank 2019 suggests China and Russia are engaging in a deliberate strategic deception). These questions sit alongside larger questions surrounding the nature of the international order, especially whether we are transitioning to a “G2” world or whether China will emerge as the sole hegemon. For Russia this poses the question of its own place in that order, and the nature of its partnership with China relates to several different levels: the domestic; the regional; and the global.

568

DOI: 10.4324/9781003218234-54

569

Russia and China

During the Yeltsin period a weak Russia, both economically and militarily, faced a rising China. Yet China then remained chiefly a regional power. During the two decades of Putin’s administration, Russia has (re)emerged as a power that seeks to challenge the global order, with the annexation of Crimea and the Ukraine crisis of 2014 that erupted into full-​scale war in 2022 bringing these questions into sharper focus. In the words of the US Department of Defense under the Trump administration, Russia was “a revitalized malign actor” (US Department of Defense 2019). Yet China is now a much more robust power seeking the role of a “global responsible power”, so much so that the Biden administration characterises it as a “consequential strategic competitor”, with Russia labelled an “acute” threat (US Department of Defense 2022). In 2018, the US National Defense Strategy had also warned that the ever-​closer partnership between Russia and China might necessitate the US having to fight a war on two fronts (US Department of Defense 2018).

Alliance: What’s in a name? In 1997, Russia and China declared that theirs was “a partnership, aimed at strategic cooperation in the twenty first century”. The partnership had been evolving and maturing since the late 1980s with Gorbachev’s visit to China. When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, China expressed concern that Moscow might revert to imperialist policies, but the collapse also reconfirmed to China its wisdom in putting economic reform before political openness. By 1995, Russia was refusing to join the EU in condemning China’s human rights record, and “complete political unanimity” was declared. Moreover, Russia reaffirmed its adherence to the “one China” policy, while China expressed “complete understanding of the actions taken by the Russian side to preserve the country’s unity” (Kuhrt 2007: 18) Putin’s accession to the presidency in 2000 increased speculation regarding the durability of the bilateral relationship, as Russia’s acceptance of the US abrogation of the ABM Treaty and Putin’s apparent desire to cooperate with the West after 9/​11 irked China. However, in 2001 the relationship was further cemented with the Treaty of Friendship and Good Neighbourliness, and two decades on, in February 2022 on the eve of the Russian war in Ukraine, the two powers declared a “no limits partnership”, one which was “superior to political and military alliances of the Cold War Era” (Kremlin 2022). Russia’s China policy was initially part of a broader Asia-​Pacific approach that sought to open up the Russian Far Eastern region to trade and investment. In the 1990s the region’s governors tended to use relations with China as a bargaining chip in centre-​periphery relations, but, with the advent of the power vertical and thus unelected governors, this became a non sequitur and the question of the region’s relations with China was depoliticised, along with criticism of any negative media coverage of relations. With Dmitry Medvedev’s presidency, and in the aftermath of the 2008 financial crisis, there had been a partial recognition of the one-​dimensionality of Russia’s Asia policy. The bulk of Russian exports to China remained raw materials, in particular in the Far Eastern regions of Russia, which in the 1990s had been securitised as “raw materials appendages”. Medvedev sought to wean Russia off raw materials exports and instead to enhance the proportion of manufactured goods. Various security strategies had also singled out overdependence on raw materials as a threat to national security. Yet the Energy Strategy of 2009 noted the need to increase energy exports, in particular to Asia, to 30 percent of total energy exports (Kuhrt 2012). The 2020 Energy Strategy in turn set a target of 50 percent of energy exports to go to the Asia-​Pacific region by 2035 (Ferris and Connolly 2020: 26)

569

570

Natasha Kuhrt

In 2012, the Development Plan of Siberia and the Russian Far East (RFE) was declared a national priority for the twenty-​first century and a new Ministry of the Far East was established. Much excitement centred around the APEC summit held in Vladivostok in 2012 and it was here that the “pivot” to the Asia-​Pacific region seemed to be crystallising (Kuhrt 2014; Shagina 2020). However, it soon became clear that Russia was mainly interested in its own national priorities rather than contributing to a vision for the broader region (Kuhrt 2012). Chinese investment in Russia remains minimal, in part due to the poor investment climate and undue bureaucratisation, while China has generally been more cautious since 2014 and the imposition of sanctions, with Chinese banks avoiding Russian clients due to the sanctions risk (Kommersant 2018). Thus, the longer-​term substance of the “pivot to the East” as an alternative to the West in economic terms is, to some extent, called into question. While China remains the biggest trading partner for a number of RFE regions, it is not a big investor. Quite the contrary. Russia has long complained about the reluctance of China to invest. There are good reasons why China has not invested, among them the poor infrastructure, high labour costs and the labyrinthine bureaucracy. It seemed, moreover, that the Sino-​ Russian partnership was limited in its ability to assist in the development of the Russian Far East even though China was the major trading partner for several RFE regions (in some cases, such as Amurskaya oblast, China was the sole partner, with 83.5 percent of exports going to China in 2018) mainly consisting of hydrocarbon exports (Kuhrt 2022). It may be that this suits the RFE well, as most subjects prefer to focus on eliciting subsidies from the centre. Given the residual hostility to Chinese business and the impact of COVID-​19, which led to a further downturn in Chinese labour, the Chinese presence in the region appears to be waning. As both Russian and Chinese relations with the West have deteriorated, the prospect of a Sino-​Russian “alliance” has been increasingly referenced in Western media and policy-​making circles. Official Russian and Chinese accounts have continued to refrain from describing it as an alliance. Russia refers to a “flexible strategic partnership”. In official Chinese discourse, there is no discussion of alliances, in line with the three “nos”: non-​confrontational; non-​aligned; and not directed against third parties. Chinese white papers have never referred to the partnership as an alliance. In the 2019 white paper, the point is reiterated that China “advocates partnerships rather than alliances and does not join any military bloc”. Attention is drawn in the paper to Russia/​China relations, but they are described only as a “comprehensive strategic partnership of coordination for a new era” (State Council Information Office 2019). The very term “alliance” conjures up a particular image of solidarity and exclusivity and is generally viewed as a response to external threats. Yet any examination of existing alliances soon puts paid to such a glib notion. There is huge variation in the nature of so-​called “alliances” around the globe. Very few reach the level of the US–​Japan alliance, for example. Clearly there is also a difference between so-​called “great power alliances” and alliances between states with small militaries such as Japan and massive military machines such as the US. The case of Russia and China raises a number of questions about the strength of commitment and support: abandonment or entrapment are both equally possible. Overall, however, we should bear in mind that, in today’s multipolar world, alliances will never be set in stone. In such a world, alliances are highly mutable and we need to see Sino-​Russian relations in this context. Strong commitment means that realignment at a later stage becomes more difficult and makes an autonomous foreign policy harder. The level of trust in the relationship is hard to gauge. On the surface at least, one might surmise that relations were uncontroversial, at least in comparison to the 1990s, when the securitisation of relations was palpable (Kuhrt 2007), mainly around border issues such as criminality,

570

571

Russia and China

migration and illegal trade. In part driven by top-​down governmental messaging, the Yeltsin administration was already intent on erasing voices critical of the relationship. Opinion polls appear to show mainly positive evaluations of the trajectory of the relationship since 2006 (Kafura 2021). According to one analyst, this therefore “confirms the disappearance of the ‘China threat’ complex in Russian society” (Korolev 2015). And yet at the margins, in particular around the joint border, a certain apprehension and suspicion lingers (Kolosov and Zotova 2021). It is a matter of interpretation, then, whether one sees this as showing an intention to upgrade the relationship, as Western media would have it, or whether it is simply a description of the current state of relations. One should also bear in mind that while there is much alignment on many issues, sometimes these are coincidental, rather than coordinated. Finally, both powers have strong relationships with other partners. For example, Russia and India describe their relationship as a “Special and Privileged Strategic Partnership”. One point that should be borne in mind is that mutual support may assist each in achieving strategic goals that might otherwise be difficult. Thus some experts have suggested that “aggressive” behaviour by one country increases the possibility of the other taking action (such as China re Taiwan), as the US would want to avoid a war on two fronts (for example, Katz 2017). At the same time, the Ukraine war that intensified and widened in 2022 has shown that Beijing might also view Russian aggression as a time to tread cautiously: the overwhelming and perhaps unexpected Western unity on Russia’s aggression sent a message to China about what it might expect were it to mount an intervention on Taiwan.

Economics and energy: Improving but at a price? Once the Achilles heel of Sino–​Russian relations, economics, or at least energy, has become a major area of cooperation but is chiefly confined to state-​to-​state relations. Bilateral trade rose to more than $100 billion in 2018, and by 2020 China’s share of overall Russian trade was $147 billion, although they had hoped for $200 billion (Standish 2022). After Crimea, China sought a more compliant Russia in terms of energy deals: in May 2014, Russia sealed a gas deal with China that likely signalled a price drop, as Beijing knew Russia risked losing European gas markets The dominance of Rosneft and Gazprom is evident in relations with China, although Rosneft has by now been overshadowed by Gazprom. Both have had major roles in the “Power of Siberia” gas pipeline project, but the two companies are increasingly competing with each other –​for example, Rosneft sued Gazprom when the latter refused to allow it access through the pipeline to China for gas produced by Rosneft (Xu and Reisinger 2019: 8). While bilateral trade still lags behind each of the countries’ trade with Western partners, the huge “Power of Siberia” gas deal demonstrates the importance of Russia to China’s long-​term plans. This pipeline has a capacity of 38 bcm and began deliveries in 2020. The finalisation of this project meant that there was less incentive to finish the construction of an LNG station in Vladivostok, which was an important dimension of Russia–​Japan cooperation, and it has been postponed indefinitely, thus increasing Russia’s dependence on China (Shagina 2020: 454) With the advent of global warming, Russia has played up the prospect of the Northern Sea Route, which potentially offers a quicker route to Europe from East Asia. The Arctic, long seen by Russia as an exclusive sphere of interest from which outsiders must be kept away, has now been designated as part of the Polar Silk Road, which means that China must bend more to Russia’s will. Russia seeks to preserve its hold on transportation in the region by allowing only

571

572

Natasha Kuhrt

Russian ships to transport energy through the Northern Sea Route, which is by now treated as an internal waterway as per UNCLOS. However, while Russia may control transportation logistics, it needs Chinese capital in order to exploit the energy resources here, which again may lead to overdependence on China in the longer term. Sino-​Russian cooperation on Yamal LNG in the Arctic has been hailed as a “win-​win situation”, yet the Yamal project showed how China can take advantage of Western sanctions on Russia. As the main shareholder, Novatek, was sanctioned, China was able to finance the project with substantial loans, but with the result that two Chinese companies hold nearly a third of the shares. Cooperation on LNG in the Arctic has also meant yielding shares to China of 20 percent in exchange for loans (Spivak and Gabuev 2021). On the other hand, despite the importance of energy for the relationship, Russia has often highlighted its role as energy supplier in a negative light, suggesting that if Russia were to become a “raw materials appendage” of China, it would risk being a junior partner. For some, Russia already fulfils that role, and while mention of China as a threat has long been a taboo subject, there has recently been discussion once again of Russia as a raw materials appendage to China in Russian news media and by regional governors in the Russian Far East in particular, where some regions are almost entirely dependent on the export of mainly raw materials to China.

Military ties Military-​to-​military ties and exercises are the most obvious areas that might suggest alliance-​ type relations. The number of exercises has increased in frequency and regularity since 2009, when there was a dip in relations. This was due not only to drops in military sales but also to a large-​scale Chinese ­exercise –​Stride-​2009 –​ which included four divisions and a total of 50,000 Chinese troops. Russia responded with Vostok-​2010, which simulated a tactical nuclear weapons (TNW) strike in response to a large-​scale conventional invasion. The Vostok exercises had in the past always been directed against China. However, 2018 was the first year where the Vostok exercises, held in the Russian Far East where it adjoins China, were held with Chinese armed forces. So the inclusion of 3,000 PLA Forces, albeit not a large contingent, was a puzzle. This was interpreted as either a sign of a growing military alliance or even a “rehearsal for global war”, or, more cautiously, it could simply be about Chinese troops learning from Russian combat experience in Syria (Blank 2018). In 2018 the Peace Mission exercises held under the umbrella of the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation (SCO) included its newest members, Pakistan and India, for the first time, as well as Russia, China, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. The exercise, which concluded on 21 September, involved some 128,000 military personnel, 20,000 pieces of heavy equipment, 600 aircraft and 15 warships –​mostly Russian. In 2019 these exercises were repeated (Baev 2019). In line with the military cooperation agreement signed by China and Russia in 2017, the two commenced joint patrols in some areas of the Asia-​Pacific (Wu 2017). Thus, the Sino-​ Russian joint Sea-​2019 exercises and the presence of Russian ships near the Senkaku islands signal an increased presence in the Asia-​Pacific. However, this may be mainly symbolic, as for now at least this does not signal a move to the interoperability of forces, but it does send a signal to others in the region that China has Russian support. Given that, ten years ago, senior Russian naval officials in the Pacific Fleet were referring to China as a potential threat, this is significant.

572

573

Russia and China

Since around 2016 Russia has been selling more hi-​tech weaponry to China, including Su-​35s, S-​400 SAMs and maybe submarines. Nevertheless, Russia continues to sell India the more advanced generation, presumably wary of Chinese military modernisation, which is due to be completed by 2035. In the past, China has been able to replicate Russian weapons with reverse engineering, which has ensured that India remains a leading Russian customer. Having paused the sale of S-​400 SAMs to China in 2020 citing the pandemic, Russia then announced sales of the same to India, eliciting protest and a threat of sanctions from Washington. However, the sanctions imposed on Russia raise the question of whether Russia will still have the requisite technology to maintain its edge in terms of military equipment, and it is doubtful that Russia can obtain this from China. Russia has diversified its customer base, in particular acquiring new customers in the Asia-​ Pacific such as Vietnam and Malaysia. Given that Vietnam and China have clashed in the past over territorial issues, Russian sales to Vietnam of Kilo-​class attack submarines are significant and can potentially alter the strategic balance in the South China Seas (Mizokami 2019). China has also been critical of Russo-​Vietnamese energy cooperation in the “9-​dash line” area in the South China Seas, which Rosneft has been exploring, and Russia’s studied neutrality on this issue irks China (Mourdoukoutas 2019). Overall, Russian arms sales, once a critical source of hard currency, are less critical than before due to other sources of revenue, such as hydrocarbons. This means that Russia has no need to prioritise arms sales to China; further, China has its own indigenous capacity. On the other hand, Russia is seeking to export more advanced technology to China, including an early warning missile system.

Regional cooperation or competition? At the regional level, the SCO is the pre-​eminent forum for dissemination of the norms of sovereignty and stability. The SCO seeks to resist the “three evils” of fundamentalism, separatism and terrorism. China has been the main locomotive behind the SCO and has previously sought to move it in a more economic direction by establishing energy clubs, for example. Such moves have been resisted by Russia, which has been wary of Chinese economic domination in Central Asia. Importantly also, the enlargement of the SCO to include India, which China had long opposed, is a reminder of the lack of unity on regional issues (Wilson 2017). The Collective Security Treaty Organization (CSTO) should be mentioned here. The most interesting developments to take into account are the renewed commitment of its members and the decision of Russia to invest more in it. While China has set up border posts, in 2017 Russia began supplying Tajikistan with modernised military equipment, Kyrgyzstan flirted with the idea of having a second Russian military base, and Russia also shared Special Operations Forces experience with other member countries (Kuhrt and Buranelli 2018). The events of December 2021, when the CSTO intervened in Kazakhstan, would appear to demonstrate the limits of a Chinese security role for the time being, as China was content to let Moscow deal with the uprisings (Klein and Schmitz 2022). The rolling out of the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) changes the whole picture. This makes Russian resistance to Chinese economic plans futile. The so-​called Greater Eurasian partnership, whereby Russia’s Eurasian Economic Union and China’s BRI merge, is better viewed as a Chinese sop to Russia. In Chinese documents and policy speeches little or no mention is made of this partnership. For now, Russia’s dominance of the railway system that China needs to reach Europe is crucial, and the developments in Belarus and Ukraine could upset China’s

573

574

Natasha Kuhrt

plans, but China will soon develop other infrastructure to ensure it does not need to depend on Russia alone. At the same time, some protests and unrest in Central Asia could be uncomfortable for Beijing, as some of these have been anti-​Chinese in nature and ultimately might lead to China’s withdrawal from economic projects there (Kyzy 2019).

Russia, China and the Indo-​Pacific strategy The US tilt to the Indo-​Pacific, which Russia has criticised, tends to imply a more concerted effort to contain China with the help of its allies there in the shape of the “Quad” (US, India, Japan and Australia) and South Korea. Both China and Russia have criticised the US Indo-​Pacific strategy as “destructive” and aimed at containing China. Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov accused the West of attempting to engage India in “anti-​China games” in order to reinstate a unipolar world excluding Beijing and Moscow (at the SCO Defence ministerial meeting September 2020) (Joint Meeting 2020). On another occasion Lavrov contrasted institutions such as BRICS, the RIC (Russia–​India–​China dialogue) and the G20, suggesting they are built on different values to the Indo-​Pacific (Foreign Minister 2020). India’s signing of the Communications Compatibility and Security Agreement with the US demonstrates New Delhi’s close strategic relationship with the US, one that could sit uneasily with closer relations with China and Russia (Mishra 2018). While Russia has good relations with India, the latter’s role as a “linchpin” of the US Indo-​Pacific strategy is troubling, although probably more so for China than for Russia. The Indo-​Pacific tilt of various European countries such as the UK and France adds to the impression of forces arraigned against China; AUKUS (comprising Australia, the UK and the US) has also been criticised by both Russia and China as evidence of exclusive groupings that fuel a bloc mentality (Gubin 2022) Overall, Russia has veered from a studied neutrality on Indo-​Pacific issues to a more pro-​ active role, leading to the afore-​noted US DOD labelling of Russia as a “revitalised malign actor” in its REP 2019 Indo-​Pacific strategy (US Department of Defense 2019).

Normative alignment The normative alignment between Russia and China is striking, in particular as regards “regime change”; Russia’s Military Doctrine, approved in December 2014, lists among internal military threats “subversive information activities against the population, especially young citizens of the State, aimed at undermining historical, spiritual and patriotic traditions related to the defense of the Motherland”. China’s Military Strategy 2015 states that “anti-​China forces have never given up their attempt to instigate a ‘color revolution’ in this country”. It is this normative alignment that most clearly illustrates the two countries’ anti-​Western stance, which for some shows the depth of the “alliance”. Certainly, both China and Russia hold a deep-​rooted opprobrium for the Western liberal order and view the West’s internal troubles (such as Brexit) as further legitimising their own regimes. Both regimes have resisted the invocation of international norms such as the responsibility to protect, and they have worked together in the UN Security Council to block action on Syria. On the other hand, one should be wary of assuming that there is complete agreement, especially regarding issues that affect sovereignty, such as territorial integrity and secession. China failed to criticise Russia over Crimea; however, it was emphatically neutral rather than supportive. It has also not recognised Abkhazia and South Ossetia as sovereign entities and has maintained an ambivalent approach to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, while lambasting the US for a heavy-​handed approach. 574

575

Russia and China

Joint resistance to perceived Western hegemony has strengthened since 2014. In Syria, both Russia and China are united in their stance against terrorism, separatism and fundamentalism as expressed in the SCO compact. Although China remains fairly aloof in military terms, its antiterrorism law of 2015 means that it can deploy security forces abroad if the purpose is counterterrorism. This has meant military advisors being sent to Syria as well as to the Afghan-​Tajik border and to Djibouti (Pauley 2018). Because Russia has operated in Syria under the guise of “intervention by invitation”, Beijing sees the Russian campaign as intrinsically legal and legitimate. The Syrian operation clearly aligns with both states’ views on regime change. Russia’s role as a security provider has also enabled Beijing to reap economic rewards (Xu 2017) Both countries are active on the African continent to varying degrees. China has substantive economic interests, which for now have not been translated into the security dimension. Russia meanwhile has also expanded its economic footprint there, mainly through weapons exports. More importantly, Russia is positioning itself as a “niche” security provider in certain areas, for example Libya, Mali and the Central African Republic (CAR), with its use of mercenary groups such as Wagner in some cases in exchange for mineral concessions (Bugayova and Regio 2019). While Russia emphasises stability and economic prosperity, Russia’s pursuit of short-​term economic gains has led to accusations that Russia seeks to destabilise already precarious situations in some African countries, such as the CAR. Given the presence in Mali and the CAR of UN Peacekeeping/​Stabilisation missions, concern has been expressed regarding the presence of Russian-​backed forces here alongside UN forces. China increasingly positions itself as a “responsible global power”, and as a P5 member of the UN Security Council it has become more active, in particular in relation to UN peacekeeping operations, notably in Mali. China is unique amongst UN member states for being both one of the biggest financial contributors to UN peacekeeping and a sizeable contributor of troops. The other P5 members send very few, if any, peacekeeping troops. China’s increasing economic presence in Africa may be part of this move, but it is also related to China’s need to increase opportunities for its military to obtain combat experience. China and Russia have both criticised the nature of UN peacekeeping/​stabilisation missions, in particular the inclusion of human rights provisions in the mandates, suggesting these should be dealt with by the UN Human Rights Council, of which they were both elected members until Russia’s ejection in April 2022.

Conclusion Whether we term the relationship an alliance, an alignment, an axis or a condominium is in some ways a matter of semantics, but the partnership is certainly strengthening in all dimensions. Overall, Russia’s position vis-​à-​vis China has been to continue the economic relationship, which brings economic rents for Russian elites, but to maintain a policy of equidistance in the Asia-​Pacific region and not to clash with China directly, whether along the Sino-​Russian border, in Central Asia, or in the global arena. The uncertain trajectory of China’s rise makes it more difficult to fashion a strategy to deal with China. On the other hand, there has been significant institutionalisation of the joint relationship in key areas –​the border in particular; the environment; crime and migration; and to some extent within the SCO –​which arguably might insulate the relationship from sudden shocks. Certainly, there remains significant asymmetry in bilateral relations, in particular at the economic level where Russia has tended to play the role of energy supplier, aka “resource appendage”, to China. The Ukraine crisis of 2014–​22 and the fall in the price of oil exacerbated these trends and pushed Russia further in China’s direction. The maximisation of foreign trade rents as central to its medium-​and short-​term 575

576

Natasha Kuhrt

strategy in the wider region means that raw materials will continue to be prioritised, which clearly hampers a diversification of Russia’s energy strategy. Russian rhetoric regarding a switch of gas supplies from Europe to Asia should be treated with caution. Supplying China may not substitute for the European energy market. This economic uncertainty is by far the biggest threat to Russia. Memories of the ill-​fated Sino-​Soviet alliance and the enduring mistrust arising from the Sino-​Soviet split, as well as power asymmetries in China’s favour, will ensure that a formal alliance remains a chimera. Having said that, it is always useful for both if the West overestimates the nature of this relationship. While there is no explicit evidence of Sino-​Russian coordination, a two-​theatre conflict collaboration between the two powers would reduce the efficacy of US economic and political pressure. Like the EU, NATO was slow to recognise the closeness of the Russia–​China partnership. While in 2016 the EU saw relations with Russia as the central challenge, it did not appear to acknowledge the Russia–​China relationship (Kaczmarski 2018). A similar story could be seen within NATO. Indeed, NATO had largely omitted China from any outcome documents. However, by the time of the NATO summit in December 2019 it was clear that NATO was finally acknowledging China in its strategic analysis, while not yet taking into consideration the Russia–​China alignment. Understanding what drives this partnership is crucial: there are real shared interests –​economic, military and normative. On the other hand, residual concerns remain, in particular in Russia, about how autonomous its foreign policy can be if its economic dependence on China grows. Further, China’s narrated identity of itself as a “responsible global power” that seeks to maintain a stable global order does not always cohere with Russia’s more aggressive and chaotic behaviour. The two do not have a complete harmony of views on issues affecting territorial integrity, self-​determination and secession. While for now they do not oppose each other’s positions, nor do they offer wholehearted support: the Russo-​Ukraine war may be the crucible that tests these positions.

References Baev, P.K. (2019), “No Fanfare for Russia’s Reduced-​Scale Strategic Exercises”, Eurasia Daily Monitor 16, 29, https://​jamest​own.org/​prog​ram/​no-​fanf​are-​for-​russ​ias-​redu​ced-​scale-​strate​gic-​exerci​ses/​. Blank, S. (2018), “Russia’s Vostok 2018: A Rehearsal for Global War?”, The Interpreter, Lowy Institute, www.lowyin​stit​ute.org/​the-​inte​r pre​ter/​rus​sia-​s-​vos​tok-​2018-​rehear​sal-​glo​bal-​war. Blank, S. (2019), “The Russo-​Chinese Alliance: What Are Its Limits?” Submitted for Testimony before the U.S. China Economic and Security Review Commission Session on 21 March, “An Emerging China-​Russia Axis? Implications for the United States in an Era of Strategic Competition”, www.uscc.gov/​ sites/​defa​ult/​files/​Blan​k_​Te​stim​ony.pdf. Bugayova, N. and D. Regio (2019), The Kremlin’s Campaign in Africa: Assessment Update (Washington DC: Institute for the Study of War). Ferris, E. and R. Connolly (2020), “Networks and Links: Why Russia’s Infrastructure is Holding Back its Pivot to Asia”, Chatham House, Russia and Eurasia Programme. Flikke, G. (2016) “Sino–​Russian Relations Status Exchange or Imbalanced Relationship?”, Problems of Post-​Communism 63, 3: 159–​70. Foreign Minister (2020), “Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov’s Remarks and Answers to Questions at a Plenary Session of the Raisina Dialogue International Conference, New Delhi, January 15, 2020”, www.rus​emb.org.uk/​arti​cle/​590. Gorenburg, D. (2016), “Russia’s Strategic Calculus, Threat Perceptions and Military doctrine”, www. ponars​eura​sia.org/​memo/​russ​ias-​strate​gic-​calcu​lus-​thr​eat-​perc​epti​ons-​and-​milit​ary-​doctr​ine. Gubin, A. (2022), “Russia’s Blossoming Ties with ASEAN”, www.eastas​iafo​rum.org/​2022/​02/​05/​russ​ ias-​blo​ssom​ing-​ties-​with-​asean/​.

576

577

Russia and China Joint Meeting (2020), “Joint Meeting of SCO, CIS and CSTO Defence Ministers”, 5 September, http://​ eng.sect​sco.org/​news/​20200​905/​675​049.html. China Relations in the Post-​ Crisis International Order (London & Kaczmarski, M. (2015) Russia-​ New York: Routledge). Kaczmarski, M. (2018), “Russian-​Chinese Relations in Eurasia: Harmonization or Subordination?”, Briefing Paper 238, FIIA, www.fiia.fi/​en/​publ​icat​ion/​russ​ian-​chin​ese-​relati​ons-​in-​eura​sia. Kafura, C. (2021), “What do Russians Think about the Relationship with China?”, The Diplomat, 16 September, https://​thed​iplo​mat.com/​2021/​09/​what-​do-​russi​ans-​think-​about-​the-​relat​ions​hip-​with-​ china/​. Kashin, V. (2019), “Tacit Alliance: Russia and China Take Military Partnership to New Level”, Carnegie Moscow Center, 22 October, https://​carne​gie.ru/​com​ment​ary/​80136. Katz, M. (2017), “Fluid Dynamics: Global Great Powers in the 21st Century”, Finnish Institute of International Affairs (Helsinki), www.tepsa.eu/​fluid-​dynam​ics-​glo​bal-​great-​pow​ers-​in-​the-​21st-​cent​ ury-​octo​ber-​2017-​mark-​n-​katz-​fiia-​finl​and/​. Klein, M. and A. Schmitz (2022), “Precedent Kazakhstan”, www.swp-​ber​lin.org/​en/​publ​icat​ion/​preced​ ent-​kaz​akhs​tan. Kolosov, V. and M. Zotova (2021), “The ‘Pivot to the East’ and China in Russian Discourse”, Geopolitics, https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​14650​045.2021.1952​184. Kommersant (2018), “Novoe kitaiskoe predubezhdenie”, 24 October. Korolev, A. (2015) “The Strategic Alliance Between Russia and China: Myths and Reality”, The ASAN https://​theas​anfo​rum.org/​the-​strate​gic-​alignm​ent-​betw​een-​rus​sia-​and-​china-​myths-​and-​ Forum, real​ity/​. Korolev, A. (2016), “Systemic Balancing and Regional Hedging: China-​Russia Relations”, Chinese Journal of International Politics 9, 4: 375–​97 Kremlin (2022), “Joint Statement of the Russian Federation and the People’s Republic of China on the International Relations Entering a New Era and the Global Sustainable Development”, http://​ en.krem​lin.ru/​sup​plem​ent/​5770. Kuhrt, N. (2007), Russian Policy Towards China and Japan: The El’tsin and Putin Periods (London: Routledge). Kuhrt, N. (2012), “The Russian Far East in Russia’s Asia Policy: Dual Integration or Double Periphery?”, Europe-​Asia Studies 64, 3: 471–​93. Kuhrt, N. (2014), “Russia and Asia-​Pacific: From ‘Competing’ to ‘Complementary’ Regionalisms?” Politics 34, 2: 138–​48. Kuhrt, N. (2022), “Die Bedeutung des Russischen Fernen Ostens fuer die Azien-​und-​Pazifik-​Politik Russlands”, Russland-​Analysen No. 412, 24 January, www.laen​der-​analy​sen.de/​russl​and-​analy​sen/​412/​. Kuhrt, N. and F.C. Buranelli (2018), “Russia and the CIS in 2017: Russia in Asia: Succumbing to China’s Embrace?”, Asian Survey 58, 1: 55–​64. Kyzy, A.U. (2019), “Why is Anti-​Chinese Sentiment on the Rise in Central Asia?”, The Diplomat, https://​ thed​iplo​mat.com/​2019/​10/​why-​is-​anti-​chin​ese-​sentim​ent-​on-​the-​r ise-​in-​cent​ral-​asia/​ (accessed 20 January 2022). Larson, D.W. and Shevchenko, A. (2019), Quest for Status: Chinese and Russian Foreign Policy (New Haven: Yale University Press). Lo, B. (2017), A Wary Embrace: What the China-​Russia Relationship Means for the World (Sydney: Penguin). Lukin, A. (2021), “The Russia–​China Entente and Its Future”, International Politics 58, 3: 363–​80. Mishra, S. (2018), “India’s Response to its Strategic Conundrum”, Asia Dialogue: China Policy Institute Blog (email newsletter), 30 September, University of Nottingham. Mizokami, K. (2019), “Russia’s Kilo-​Class Submarines Are a Real Threat”, National Interest, https://​natio​ nali​nter​est.org/​blog/​buzz/​russ​ias-​kilo-​class-​sub​mari​nes-​are-​real-​thr​eat-​89371. Mourdoukoutas, P. (2019) “South China Sea: Like Vietnam Duterte Teams Up with Russia to Stop China”, 12 October, www.for​bes.com/​sites/​pan​osmo​urdo​ukou​tas/​2019/​10/​12/​south-​china-​sea-​ like-​viet​nam-​dute​rte-​teams-​up-​with-​rus​sia-​to-​stop-​china/​?sh=​63d95​75f2​f57. Pauley, L. (2018) “China Stakes Out a Role for Itself in Post-​War Syria”, (Washington D.C.: Stimson Center), www.stim​son.org/​2018/​china-​sta​kes-​out-​role-​its​elf-​post-​war-​syria-​0/​. Roseth, T. (2018), “Moscow’s Response to a Rising China”, Problems of Post-​Communism 66, 4: 268–​86, https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​10758​216.2018.1438​847. Shagina, M. (2020), “Russia’s Pivot to Asia: Between Rhetoric and Substance”, Orbis 64, 3: 447–​60. Spivak, V. and A. Gabuev (2021), “The Ice Age: Russia and China’s Cooperation in the Arctic”, https://​ car​negi​emos​cow.org/​com​ment​ary/​86100.

577

578

Natasha Kuhrt Standish, R. (2022), “New World Order or Hidden Power Struggle?”, Radio Free Europe/​Radio Liberty, 4 February, www.rferl.org/​a/​rus​sia-​china-​relati​ons-​power-​strug​gle-​new-​world-​order/​31686​ 856.html. State Council Information Office of the People’s Republic of China (2019), China’s National Defense in the New Era, http://​engl​ish.www.gov.cn/​arch​ive/​whi​tepa​per/​201​907/​24/​content​_​WS5​d394​1ddc​ 6d08​408f​5022​83d.html. US Department of Defense (2018), Summary of the 2018 National Defense Strategy, https://​dod.defe​nse. gov/​Port​als/​1/​Docume​nts/​pubs/​2018-​Natio​nal-​Defe​nse-​Strat​egy-​Summ​ary.pdf. US Department of Defense (2019), Indo-​Pacific Strategy Report 2019, https://​media.defe​nse.gov/​2019/​Jul/​ 01/​200​2152​311/​-​1/​-​1/​1/​DEP​ARTM​ENT-​OF-​DEFE​NSE-​INDO-​PACI​FIC-​STRAT​EGY-​REP​ ORT-​2019.PDF. US Department of Defense (2022), Fact Sheet US Defense Strategy 2022, https://​media.defe​nse.gov/​2022/​ Mar/​28/​200​2964​702/​-​1/​-​1/​1/​NDS-​FACT-​SHEET.PDF. Wilson, J. (2017), “The Russian Pursuit of Regional Hegemony”, Rising Powers Quarterly 2, 1: 7–​25. Wishnick, E. (2017), “In Search of the ‘Other’ in Asia: Russia–​China Relations Revisited”, The Pacific Review 30, 1: 114–​32. Wu, D.D. (2017), “China and Russia Sign Military Cooperation Roadmap”, The Diplomat, 30 June, https://​thed​iplo​mat.com/​2017/​06/​china-​and-​rus​sia-​sign-​milit​ary-​coop​erat​ion-​road​map/​ (accessed 1 November 2021). Xu, B. and W.M. Reisinger (2019), “Russia’s Energy Diplomacy with China: Personalism and Institutionalism in its Policy-​Making Process”, The Pacific Review 32, 1: 1–​19. Xu, Y. (2017), “Evolving Sino-​Russian Cooperation in Syria”, US Institute of Peace PeaceBrief, No. 236.

578

579

INDEX

Abakan 143 Abdulatipov, R. 455 Abkhazia 96, 244, 480, 495, 526, 532, 534, 542 Abkhazians 534 ABM Treaty 546 Abramovich, R. 277, 281 Adjars 534 Adygea 158, 453 Afghanistan 484, 524, 525, 545, 547, 562, 575 Africa 482, 485, 575 Agency for Strategic Initiatives 187 Agrarian Party of Russia 113, 130 A Just Russia 105, 113, 117, 118, 130, 444 A Just Russia-​For Truth 108, 117–​18, 130 Alekseeva, L. 211 Alexander II 23 Alexievich, S. 518 Alibaba 367, 368 Alisa 368 Aliyev, H. 71, 534 Aliyev, I. 71, 536, 538, 539, 540 Aliyeva, M. 536 Almaz-​Antey 289 Altai 158, 177, 453 Amur 178 Anadyr 140, 143 APT 29 229 Arab Spring 548, 560 Arctic 164, 186, 456, 527, 551, 571–​2 Arkhangel 158, 222, 223 Armenia 10, 47–​9, 51–​9, 66, 67, 200, 470, 516, 528, 532–​42 Armenian Apostolic Church 539 Armenians 450, 452, 456, 534 Artsakh 534, 538, 540, 541 Assad, B. al-​68, 246, 548 assimilation 458–​9

Astrakhan 176 AUKUS 574 authoritarianism 5, 6, 22–​9, 35, 37, 42, 55, 63–​73, 166, 172–​3, 187, 198, 233, 346, 351, 356, 378, 382, 392, 411, 493 Avars 450, 456 Aven, P. 279 Azerbaijan 10, 47–​9, 51–​9, 66, 67, 70, 71, 200, 465, 532–​42 Azeris 450, 456, 534 Baburova, A. 445 Badovsky, D. 187 Bard College 210 Barkashov, A. 19, 443 Barnaul 145, 165, 399 Bashkirs 450, 456, 465 Bashkortostan 152, 153, 173, 177, 280, 452, 453 Bashneft 277 Basmanov, V. 445 Bastrykin, A. 493 Baumgertner, V. 516 Bazalt 289 Belarus 10, 27, 47–​9, 51–​9, 66, 67, 70, 71, 73, 263, 280, 303, 325, 327, 438, 468, 480, 491, 494, 499–​501, 503, 510–​19, 522, 524, 528, 537, 573 Belarusians 450, 452 Belousov, A. 92–​3, 184 Belov, A. 444, 445 Berdyaev, N. 160 Berdymukhamedov, G. 71, 73 Berdymukhamedov, S. 73 Berezovsky, B. 264, 354 Beslan 133, 134 Biden, J. 287, 288, 291, 294, 483, 506, 544, 546, 549, 550–​2, 560, 569

579

580

Index Biryulevo 439, 457 Blagoveshchensk 140 Bobrov, Y. 211 Bortnikov, A. 229, 493 Brazil 36, 46, 293, 312, 313, 325, 360 Brexit 560–​1 Brezhnev, L. 93, 496, 502 BRICS 574 Browder, W. 279 Buddhism 441, 465, 468 Budyonnovsk 241 Bulgaria 47–​60, 266 Bunina, E. 372 Buryatia 152, 158, 177, 453, 453 Buryats 465 Bush, G.W. 480, 536–​7, 546 business 7, 15–​18, 24, 25, 161–​2, 187, 211, 229, 233, 263–​71, 274–​83, 428 Cabinet of Ministers 88, 90, 92, 111, 186 camouflage 419, 420–​1 capitalism: crony 263–​71; patrimonial 253, 257–​60; political 254–​6; state 253, 257 Caucasus 10, 35, 91, 92, 114, 177, 186, 244, 303, 439, 443, 444, 457, 480, 532–​42 censorship 6, 8, 355, 366, 370–​1, 393 Central Asia 10, 41, 443, 444, 457, 465, 513, 522–​30, 539, 574 centralisation 3, 6, 7, 9, 24–​6, 79, 84, 141, 142, 144–​5, 153–​8, 165–​6, 171–​8, 188, 200, 228, 266–​8, 346 Centre for Strategic Research 187 Cheboksary 145 Chechens 450, 452, 456, 457, 464, 465 Chechnya 10, 13, 15, 19, 24, 40, 68–​9, 94, 114, 152, 153, 167, 171, 173, 177, 199, 208, 228, 241–​3, 334, 360, 442, 443, 452, 453, 478, 513, 535, 536 Chelyabinsk 145, 165, 401 Chernetsky, A. 143 Chernobyl 517 Chernomyrdin, V. 132, 281 Chernyshenko, D. 189 Chichvarkin, E. 277 Chikov, P. 211 China 11, 40, 96, 258, 282, 287, 293, 307, 312, 313, 355, 360, 364, 404, 415, 477, 482, 485, 494, 495, 508, 516, 522, 526–​30, 549, 550, 552, 555, 559–​62, 565, 568–​76 Chita 158 Church social doctrine 469–​70 Church-​state relations 466–​9 Chukokta 453 Chuvash 450, 456 Chuvashia 453 civic nationhood 438–​40 civil society 9, 13, 14, 37, 175, 267, 398–​406

class 7, 320–​8 Clinton, B. 286, 545 Clinton, H. 232, 547, 548 Cold War 9​, 29, 34, 46, 240, 286–​8, 294, 477, 478, 482–​3, 499, 505, 508, 539, 544, 548, 558 Collective Security Treaty 512, 513 Collective Security Treaty Organisation 10, 524–​6, 530, 540, 555, 573 colour revolution 10, 25, 286, 294, 327, 382, 390, 400, 479, 480, 503, 526, 546 communism/​communists 12–​14, 19, 22, 36–​8, 41, 46, 54, 378–​80, 438, 443 Communist Party of the Russian Federation 4, 12, 14, 100, 105, 106, 113, 117–​19, 122, 130, 132–​5, 139, 175, 219, 222, 394, 395, 440, 443 Communist Party of the Soviet Union 4, 6, 90, 93, 117, 184, 239, 324, 399 Communists-​Working Russia-​For the Soviet Union 130 Community of Belarus and Russia 510 Congress of Russian Communities 130, 443, 444 conscription 243, 245, 247 constitution 4, 5, 13, 14, 19, 24, 27, 28, 35, 39, 41, 63, 65, 75–​85, 87, 89, 90, 92, 94, 97, 99–​100, 103, 104, 106, 115, 116, 138, 149–​55, 157, 158, 165, 167, 188, 207, 208, 209, 211–​14, 379, 384–​5, 399, 439, 441, 449, 451, 455, 456, 466, 470, 493 contract service 240–​1 control 419–​20 co-​optation 419–​20 Coordination Centre 189 corruption 9, 15, 18, 19, 28, 56–​8, 65, 67, 71, 93, 94, 197, 200, 202, 210, 220–​2, 244, 257, 264, 266, 268, 417, 424–​33 cossacks 441, 446, 500 Council of Legislators 153, 155 Court, Constitutional 76, 77, 79–​83, 89, 97, 153, 155, 156, 207–​12, 455; Supreme 76, 80–​3, 384, 465 COVID-​19 7, 28, 51, 68, 93, 122, 164, 166–​7, 170, 200, 229, 260, 299, 301, 305, 306, 349, 384, 406, 420, 478, 483, 518, 527, 539, 570, 573 Cozy Bear 229 crime 9, 15, 17–​19, 233, 265, 424–​33 Crimea 6, 7, 10, 22, 24, 26, 30, 39, 67–​9, 77, 105, 133, 148, 150, 164, 178, 183, 185, 186, 219, 231, 239, 246, 247, 260, 269, 278, 282, 285, 286, 288–​91, 293, 302, 308, 370, 384, 390, 393, 442, 443, 457, 478, 479, 481, 484, 489, 495, 496, 499, 500, 502, 504, 505, 507, 514, 526, 547–​9, 551, 556, 568, 569, 571, 574 Cuba 492 cultural autonomy 454–​6 Czech Republic 47–​9, 51–​60, 502, 545, 551

580

581

Index Dadin, I. 209–​10 Dagestan 167, 176, 242, 453 Dargins 450 decision-​making 5, 89, 94, 182–​90, 274, 278 Degtyarev, M. 104 democracy 3–​5, 12, 13, 15, 25, 33–​42, 54–​60, 77, 138, 150, 172–​3, 194, 379, 382, 383, 410–​12, 532–​42 Democratic Party of Russia 113 Demushkin, D. 444, 445 Deripaska, O. 276, 279, 326 Derzhava 19 diaspora, Russian 438, 443 Dni.ru 365 Dobrodeev, B. 368 Dobrodeev, O. 368 Dolgoprudny Research Production Enterprise 289 Donbas 67, 68, 88, 185, 219, 246, 393, 443, 445, 489, 495, 496, 504–​7, 526, 547, 551, 552, 556, 558 Donetsk 26, 105, 294, 443, 501, 504, 505, 507, 558 Dozhd 358 Dubrovka Theatre 73 Dudaev, D. 15, 241 Dugin, A. 441 The Dukes 229 Durov, P. 277, 366, 369 Dyachenko, T. 14 economy 3, 6–​7, 12, 16–​18, 22–​7, 29, 48, 50–​4, 65, 66, 160–​2, 253–​61, 263–​71, 274–​83, 285–​94, 325, 333, 335–​7, 344, 426, 431, 483, 514–​16, 527, 571–​2; neo-​Soviet 255–​6, 258 education 344, 348 Ekaterinburg 140, 143, 161, 165, 222 Ekho Moskvy 358 elections 4, 6, 12, 13, 15, 19, 25–​8, 37, 38, 63, 64, 71, 73, 77, 80, 93–​4, 111–​23, 127, 128, 143, 174–​5, 218, 219, 241, 365, 367, 369, 379, 402, 452 electoral authoritarianism 25, 27, 28, 35, 115 Elista 145 energy 253–​61, 263–​71, 274–​83, 493, 502, 503, 515–​6, 537–​8, 569, 571–​3, 575–​6 environment 217, 222, 401, 403 Erdogan, R. 29, 70, 538, 539 Estonia 47–​60, 66, 67, 201, 308, 390, 391, 479 Estonians 465 ethnicity 9, 40, 176–​7, 438, 449–​59 ethno-​territorial autonomy 451–​3 Eurasian Economic Union 10, 480–​1, 516, 524, 528, 530, 537, 540, 557, 564, 565, 573 European Court of Human Rights 208, 209, 212–​14

European Union 10–​11, 25–​7, 29, 33, 34, 41, 46, 71, 288–​91, 295, 390, 442, 477–​85, 492, 495, 503, 504, 506, 511, 512, 523, 527–​9, 532, 537–​40, 542, 546, 548, 555–​65, 569, 576 Evenk 158, 453 Evens 452 experts 187–​9 Facebook 367–​71 Fadeev, V. 211 “family”, the 14, 19 family and gender 336–​8 Far East 140, 143, 146, 164, 186, 217, 281, 456, 465, 527, 570, 572 Fatherland-​All Russia 107, 113, 119, 130, 132 Federal Assembly 39, 76, 81, 99–​108, 111, 138 Federal Guard Service 229, 496 federal subjects 149–​58 federal super districts 153–​4 federalism 5, 14–​15, 19, 24, 39, 78–​9, 84, 142, 149–​58, 160–​8 Federation Council 4, 24, 39, 64, 76, 77, 79–​83, 99–​108, 111, 153–​5, 161, 187, 213, 504 Federation of Independent Trade Unions of Russia 219, 222, 324, 325 Fedorov, E. 446 Fedotov, M. 211 Filatov, S. 107 Filippov, A. 383 Finns 452, 465 flags 378, 380 “For Fair Elections” 105, 133, 135, 218–​22, 402 For Truth 108 foreign policy 6, 9–​10, 26, 67, 68, 79, 95, 142, 199, 245–​6, 269, 280, 445, 471–​85, 489–​97, 499–​508, 510–​19, 522–​30, 532–​42, 544–​52, 555–​65, 568–​76 Forward Russia! 130 Fourth Directorate 229 France 26, 47–​9, 51–​9, 87, 418, 504, 506, 538, 561, 563, 564 Franco, F. 23 fraud, electoral 26–​9, 64, 105, 120–​1, 135, 174–​5, 216, 218, 326, 402 Fridman, M. 279 FSB 28, 97, 145, 228–​30, 233–​5, 243, 365, 369, 493, 496 Furgal, S. 104, 175, 220 G7 26, 545, 547 G20 574 Gaidar, E. 347 Gamsakhurdia, Z. 534 Garibashvili, I. 539 Gazprom 91, 255–​8, 268, 277, 278, 280–​2, 289, 290, 371, 516, 571 gender 7–​8, 331–​8; ideology 332–​8

581

582

Index Georgia 10, 47–​9, 51–​9, 66–​8, 96, 200, 244, 307, 400, 470, 478–​81, 483, 494, 518, 524, 526, 529, 532–​42, 546 Gerasimov, V. 232 Germans 465 Germany 26, 28, 36, 38, 47–​9, 51–​9, 220, 221, 307, 389, 471, 485, 501, 504, 506, 548, 561, 563, 564 globalisation 34, 165, 269–​71, 492 Golunov, I. 222, 359 Gorbachev, M. 19, 38, 93, 94, 198, 240, 286, 332, 365, 378, 380, 398, 451, 477, 502, 510, 534–​5, 569 Gorno-​Altaysk 145 government 80–​3, 88–​90, 92, 101, 103, 106, 143, 161, 183, 185–​6, 439 Grachev, P. 241 Great Patriotic War 379–​82, 384, 388–​95, 439, 440, 491 Great Power 130 Greeks 452, 534 Gref, G. 187, 364 Gromov, A. 91 Grozny 241 GRU 232, 234, 496, 548 Grudinin, P. 112 Gryzlov, B. 104 GULAG Museum 384 Gunvor 281 Gusinsky, V. 264, 354 health 7–​8, 18–​19, 28, 49, 344, 347–​8 Hermitage Capital 209, 279 Higher School of Economics 187, 220 history writing 383–​4 historical narrative 8–​9, 377–​86, 388–​95, 490, 494, 499–​502, 506 holidays 379–​81 housing 344, 348 Hudaverdyan, T. 372 human rights 5, 77, 78, 83, 207–​14, 403, 405, 468, 470, 539–​40, 562 Hungary 37, 38, 47–​9, 51–​9, 70, 349, 442, 500, 539, 545, 551 hybrid war 493 ICT 8, 72, 364–​73 identity 8, 10, 19, 40, 383, 388–​95, 469, 478, 490, 491, 499–​502, 506, 508, 517–​18 Illarionov, A. 393 Immortal Regiment 384, 394–​5 India 293, 552, 559, 572–​4 indigenous rights 456–​7 inequality 7, 15, 17, 18, 51, 160, 263, 274, 311–​18 informality 9, 18, 182, 188, 264, 265, 275, 410–​21

Ingush 457 Ingushetia 152, 163, 453 Institute of Socio-​Economic and Political Research 187 institutionalisation 182–​90 Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces Treaty 549 International Criminal Court 214 Internet 356, 360, 364–​73 Iran 528, 538, 544, 547, 551, 556, 557 Iraq 537, 546, 557 Irkutsk 140, 143, 158, 175 Islam 177, 441, 464–​8 Israel-​Palestine 562 Italy 47–​9, 51–​9, 418, 538, 561, 563, 564 Ivan III 84, 500 Ivan Rybkin Bloc 130 Ivanov, S. 243, 479 Ivanovo 145 Japan 570, 571, 574 Japarov, S. 73 Jehovah’s Witnesses 465 Jewish AO 453 Jews 464, 465 Judaism 441, 465, 468 Kabardino-​Balkaria 453 Kabardins 450 Kaczynski, J. 564 Kadyrov, A. 243 Kadyrov, R. 171, 173, 452 Kalashnikov 289 Kalinin Machine Plant 289 Kaliningrad 140, 143, 178, 217, 513, 514 Kalmykia 152, 453 Kalmyks 465 Kamchatka 158, 189 Karachaevo-​Cherkess 158, 453, 457 Karelia 152, 164, 453 Karimov, I. 71, 527 Kasyanov, M. 286 Katyn 392 Kazakhs 450, 456 Kazakhstan 6, 10, 47–​9, 51–​9, 66, 67, 70, 71, 200, 263, 267, 349, 465, 501, 503, 516, 522–​30, 537, 572, 573 Kazan 161, 165, 439 KBP Instrument Design Bureau 289 Kebich, V. 515 Kemerovo 140 Kereks 453 KGB 69, 90, 227, 228, 229, 243, 431 Khabarovsk 104, 135, 140, 143, 145, 175, 220 Khakassia 158, 175, 453 Khangoshvili, Z. 228 Khanty-​Mansi 143, 158, 167, 453 Kharitonov, N. 112

582

583

Index Khimki 401 Khinstein, A. 366 Khodorkovsky, M. 25, 186, 256, 257, 277, 280, 281 Kholmanskikh, I. 326, 327 Khrushchev, N. 50, 93, 502 Kirienko, S. 91, 368 Kirienko, V. 368 Kirill, Patriarch 441, 467, 468, 470, 494, 518 Kirov 145, 511 Klein, I. 145–​7 Klishas, A. 104 Kogalym 143 Komi 145, 152, 158, 222, 453 Kondopoga 439, 457 Konovalets, Y. 496 Konstantinov, D. 445 Koryak 158, 178, 453 Kosovo 545, 562 Kotov, K. 210 Kovalchuk, Y. 277, 354 Kovalev, S. 208, 210 Kozak, D. 91, 139, 141, 156 Kozhemyako, O. 178 Kozyrev, A. 522 Krasheninnikov, P. 104 Krasnodar 145, 158, 165 Krasnoyarsk 143, 158 Kravchuk, L. 502 Krylov, K. 444 Kuchma, L. 503 Kudrin, A. 103, 165, 187, 323 Kumiks 450 Kuril Islands 77, 164 Kursk submarine 73 Kuzbass 216 Kvashin, A. 243 Kyrgyzstan 47–​9, 51–​9, 66, 67, 73, 200, 400, 479, 489, 516, 522–​30, 546, 572, 573 labour 320–​8 labour unions 176, 320, 324–​5 LGBTQ 208, 403, 442 languages 455–​6 Latvia 47–​9, 51–​60, 66, 67, 200, 308, 390, 479 Lavrov, S. 92, 294, 481, 490, 537, 574 law 5, 15, 18, 28, 37, 41, 58–​9, 67, 71, 77–​84, 100–​2, 115, 151, 197, 200, 207–​14, 275, 325, 366, 370–​2, 383, 384, 393, 400, 401, 429–​31, 454; on foreign agents 210, 213, 219, 221, 371, 383, 403, 405 Lebed’, A. 112 Lenin, V. 331, 449 Leningrad 158 Lenta.ru 365 Lesin, M. 365 Levchenko, S. 175

Liberal Democratic Party 4, 14, 105, 113, 117, 118, 122, 123, 130, 133, 175, 440 Liberal Russia 133 Limonov, E. 446 LinkedIn 371 Lipetsk 140 Lithuania 47–​9, 51–​60, 66, 67, 200, 308, 390, 479, 500, 514 Lithuanians 465 LiveJournal 367, 368 local government 5, 24, 77–​9, 81, 83–​4, 138–​48, 212 Louis Napoleon 23 Lugansk/​Luhansk 26, 105, 294, 443, 504, 505, 507, 558 Lukashenka, A. 10, 27, 29, 71, 327, 328, 510–​19, 539 Lukoil 280, 289 Luzhkov, Y. 132, 267 Macron, E. 538 mafia 424 Magnitsky, S. 209, 279, 485 Magnitsky Act 279 Mail.ru 277, 367–​9 Main Directorate for Combating Extremism 229 Main Directorate for Drugs Control 229 Main Migration Directorate 219 Makarov, A. 146 Malofeev, K. 441 Marches of Dissenters 217 Mari 450 Mari El 145, 453 Markelov, S. 445 market economy 12, 16–​19, 23, 41, 254, 285, 379 Markin case 209 Martsinkevich, M. 445 masculinity 332–​4 Masherau, P. 517 Mashinostroenia 289 Matvienko, V. 105 May, T. 478 McFaul, M. 10 media 6, 8, 14, 25, 26, 55, 57, 68, 104, 121, 132, 135, 187, 214, 218, 221, 267, 354–​61, 364–​73, 383, 518, 529; digital 357–​60, 364–​73, 430, 445 Medinsky, V. 394 Medvedev, D. 3, 4, 25–​7, 30, 64, 75, 77, 87–​90, 92–​6, 100, 112, 114, 117, 120, 185–​9, 193, 198–​200, 209, 216, 218, 220, 222, 234, 235, 242, 260, 279, 348, 355, 364, 382, 383, 392, 401, 402, 425, 427, 429, 431, 458, 467, 468, 489, 496, 506, 511, 513, 516, 546–​7, 552, 569 Melikyan, G. 332–​3 Memorial 213, 214, 384, 389, 405 memory 8, 9, 119, 384, 388–​95

583

584

Index Menatep 256 Merkel, A. 28, 549 migration 306–​8 Militant Organisation of Russian Nationalists 445, 446 military 3, 5, 6, 13, 15, 24, 30, 67–​9, 71–​2, 79, 82, 89, 153, 199, 231–​5, 239–​47, 467, 489–​97, 504–​6, 512–​14, 518–​19, 524–​6, 539, 548, 555, 558, 572–​3; reform 244–​6 Milner, Y. 367 Ministry of Defence 231–​5, 239–​47 Ministry of Interior 229–​30, 243 Minkh, G. 106 Minsk II Agreement 504–​7 Mironov, S. 102, 112, 118 Mirziyoyev, S. 71, 527 Mishustin, M. 92, 93, 186, 189 modernisation 23–​5, 34, 36, 37, 41, 218, 260, 382–​3, 415 Mogherini, F. 555–​7 Moldova 47–​9, 51–​9, 66, 67, 200, 468, 494, 524, 526, 529, 537 Mongolia 36 monotowns 320, 323, 325, 326 Mordovia 174, 453 Mordvins 450, 456 Morschakova, T. 211 Moscow 5, 132, 139, 143, 144, 147, 148, 151, 158, 160, 165, 174–​6, 178, 216, 217, 220–​2, 242, 267, 399, 427, 444, 457 Moscow Helsinki Group 211 Moskalkova, T. 210 Motherland 113, 130 Movement Against Illegal Immigration 444, 457 Movement in Support of the Army, Defence Industry and Military Science 241 Munich speech 25, 441, 478, 532, 537, 546 Municipal reform 139–​43 Murmansk 167, 221 Mytishchinskii Mashinostroitelny zavod 289 Nabiullina, E. 92 Nagorno-​Karabakh 532–​4, 537, 538, 540–​2 Narochnitskaya, N. 441 Naryshkin, S. 393, 430, 490 Nashi 401, 446 nation-​building 438–​40 National Bolsheviks 221, 446 National Coordination Centre for Computer Incidents 228 National Defence Management Centre 231 National Democratic Party 444 National Guard 230–​1, 493 National Idea 379 National Liberation Movement 446 national projects 347–​8

nationalism 9, 19, 36, 437–​47; civilisational 441–​2; opposition 443–​6; religious 441 NATO 9–​10, 25, 41, 68, 247, 286, 288, 294, 295, 388, 390, 441, 443, 444, 478–​81, 484, 485, 494, 503–​8, 513, 514, 524, 525, 532, 537, 540, 544–​8, 551, 552, 555, 561, 576 NATO-​Russia Council 513, 545, 551 Navalny, A. 8, 28, 68, 69, 95, 120, 122, 133, 135, 139, 147, 208, 210, 219–​22, 224, 229, 266, 271, 327, 328, 366–​7, 405, 444 Nazarbayev, N. 71 Nemtsov, B. 27, 73, 219 Nenets 135, 151, 158, 453 New People 113, 118, 130, 134, 135 New START Treaty 96, 546, 549, 551 newspapers 355, 358, 361 NGOs 25, 26, 64, 187, 210, 217, 219, 360, 381, 384, 389, 393, 394, 398–​406, 432, 484; GONGOs 401; SONGOs 403, 404, 406 Nicholas II 394 Night Wolves Club 446 NIIP 289 Nikolaichuk, N.146 Niyazov, S. 71 Nizhny Novgorod 143, 161, 167, 173 Nizhny Tagil 326 North Korea 539, 544, 557 Nord Stream 11, 493, 515, 556, 561 North Ossetia-​Alania 151, 152, 453, 457 Novatek 281, 289, 572 Novaya Gazeta 358 Novocherkassk 325 Novokuznetsk 165 Novosibirsk 140, 143, 161, 165, 167, 399 NTV 355 nuclear weapons 485, 492, 496, 502, 512, 544, 546–​9, 551 Obama, B. 279, 287–​9, 504, 546–​8 Odnoklassniki 368 oligarchs 7, 15, 17, 19, 25, 132, 186, 233, 256, 258, 264, 268–​70, 276, 277, 354, 503 Ombudsman for Human Rights 210 Omsk 140 OMON 230 opposition 5, 13, 26, 27, 95, 105, 107, 114, 115, 118, 122, 133–​5, 144, 216–​24, 357, 367, 401–​3, 438, 443–​6 Orban, V. 70, 539 Orel 145 Oreshkin, M. 103 Orthodox Church, Russian 9, 19, 78, 97, 303, 335, 389, 440, 441, 463–​72, 485, 500, 505, 518, 539; Belarusian 518; Ukrainian 505 Ossetians 450, 457, 534 Other Russia 221 Our Home is Russia 14, 113, 118, 130, 132

584

585

Index Ozero dacha cooperative 265, 278 Ozon 368 Pamfilova-​Gurov-​Lysenko 130 parliament 4, 12–​14, 24–​5, 38–​9, 75, 80, 82, 83, 87–​90, 93, 94, 97, 99–​108, 150, 184, 207, 385, 439 Party of December 5 222 Party of Pensioners and Party of Social Justice 130 Party of Russian Unity and Accord 113, 130 Party of Workers Self Management 130 Pashinyan, N. 538, 539 paternalism 342–​51 patriotism 383, 437–​47 Patriots of Russia 108 Patrushev, N. 185, 229, 490, 493 Pavlovsky, G. 365 pensions 344–​6, 349 Penza 145 People’s Deputy 107 People’s Party of the Russian Federation 130 Perm 143, 158, 161, 174 personalism 22–​30, 63–​73, 129, 166, 173–​4, 182–​4, 188, 199, 265, 266, 268, 275, 276, 278, 379 Peskov, D. 91 Peter the Great 84, 211, 382, 394 Petropavlovsk-​Kamchatsky 145 petrostate 279–​82 Petrozavodsk 140 Pikalevo 276, 326 Pimashkov, P. 143 Poland 37, 38, 47–​9, 51–​9, 217, 442, 500, 501, 504, 513–​15, 545, 551 Poles 464, 465 political culture 37 political parties 4, 12–​14, 25, 39, 40, 64, 111–​23, 127–​35, 166, 439, 452 Poperechnyi, D. 359 population 7, 46–​50, 299–​308 Poroshenko, P. 504, 505, 512 Potanin, V. 354 poverty 313 power ministries 76, 80, 82 Power to the People 130 power vertical 24, 79, 104, 157, 173, 186, 188, 213, 267, 452, 569 presidency 4, 13, 14, 22, 25, 27, 39, 40, 63, 64, 70, 75–​7, 79–​83, 87–​97, 100, 106, 114, 116, 150, 171, 183–​5, 187, 228 Presidential Administration 14, 65, 89–​92, 97, 104, 107, 143, 155, 156, 165, 183–​5, 187, 269, 368, 452, 494 Presidential Guard 229 Presidential Human Rights Council 210–​11, 213 presidential representatives 92 Prigozhin, Y. 550

Primakov, E. 119, 132, 484 prime minister 13–​14, 25, 64, 76, 80, 87–​90, 92, 97, 103, 111, 114, 138, 155, 183–​5 Primorsk 173, 175, 178 privatisation 16, 17, 24, 94, 256, 264, 266, 267, 277, 280, 282, 429–​30 Procuracy 211, 214, 369, 403 Prokhanov, A. 441, 443 Prokhorov, M. 112 Prosvirnin, Y. 445 protest 5, 6, 9, 10, 26, 28, 68, 72, 120, 134, 135, 139, 175–​6, 187, 209–​10, 216–​24, 230, 321, 325–​8, 345, 347, 364–​5, 369, 370, 384, 401–​3, 405, 439, 457 Protestants 465, 467 Public Chamber 107, 401 purges 1937-​8 389, 394 Pussy Riot 219, 334, 470 Putin, V. 3, 4, 6–​10, 15, 19, 20, 22–​30, 35, 39, 41, 63–​73, 75–​7, 80, 81, 84, 87–​97, 99, 100, 106, 112, 114, 115, 117–​19, 121–​3, 129, 132–​4, 138–​40, 146, 149, 153, 154, 156, 158, 163, 165, 166, 167, 170, 171, 173, 175–​8, 183, 184, 186–​9, 193, 198–​200, 204, 208–​14, 216–​20, 222, 227–​9, 232–​5, 239, 242, 243, 245–​7, 253, 257, 258, 260, 261, 265, 267–​9, 274–​9, 281, 282, 285–​8, 290, 291, 293, 294, 301, 302, 320, 322, 326–​8, 331, 334, 335, 343, 346, 348–​51, 355, 356, 358, 364–​7, 380–​5, 388, 390, 393, 394, 398, 400–​2, 424, 427, 430–​3, 438–​44, 452, 457, 458, 463, 470, 478–​84, 489–​97, 503–​8, 511, 512, 513, 515, 519, 523, 528, 535–​41, 545–​52, 568, 569 “Putin team” 90–​3, 97 Quad 574 Radio Electronic Technologies 289 Rahmon, E. 71, 525 Rakhimov, M. 452 RAO EES 282 Reagan, R. 286 regions 5, 13–​15, 24, 25, 28, 39, 64, 79, 81, 83, 93, 103, 114, 132, 135, 138–​58, 160–​8, 170–​8, 186, 355, 439, 451 religion 78, 463–​72; and education 467–​8; “traditional” 465 Renova 279 rent-​seeking 253, 255, 256, 258, 259, 266, 268–​9 representation 103–​4 repression 29, 105, 144–​7, 216–​24, 269, 384, 405, 445 Reshetnikov, M. 92 Reznik, G. 213 Rodina 130 Rogozin, D. 443, 444 Roizman, Y. 140

585

586

Index Rokhlin, L. 241 Roman Catholicism 464, 465, 467, 469 Romania 47–​9, 51–​60 Rosatom 268, 277 Roskomnadzor 366, 367, 371, 445 Roskosmos 268 Rosnano 268, 277 Rosneft 91, 258, 268, 277, 278, 279, 281, 289, 571 Rosselkhozbank 289, 290 Rostec 268, 277 Rostelekom 268 Rostov on Don 165, 167, 279 Rotenberg, A. 267, 278 Rotenberg, I. 267 RuNet 355, 364, 365, 367, 371 RUSAL 279, 282 Russia-​India-​China dialogue 574 Russian Academy of National Economy and Civil Service 187 Russian Democratic Reform Movement 130 Russian-​European Movement 445 Russian Historical Society 384, 393, 439 Russian March 381, 444, 445 Russian Military Historical Society 394 Russian National Unity 19, 443 Russian Railways 277 Russia’s Choice 14, 113, 118, 130 Russia’s Democratic Choice 130 Russia’s Regions 107 Russia Today 358, 359, 361 Rutskoi, A. 19 Saakashvili, M. 96, 480, 532 Sakha-​Yakutia 151, 152, 177, 452, 453 Sakhalin 145, 163, 164, 178, 257, 258, 281–​2 Sakharov Center 389 Samara 143, 161, 165 sanctions 3, 7, 26–​7, 51, 68, 72, 97, 134, 164, 247, 260, 278–​9, 282, 283, 286–​91, 295, 384, 478, 479, 481, 482, 495, 507, 548, 551, 552, 556, 557, 564, 573 Saratov 143, 167 Sberbank 289, 290, 364, 371 Sechin, I. 91, 278, 281 “sects” 465 security 9, 41, 90, 185, 189, 213, 227–​35, 274–​83, 464, 477–​85, 489–​97, 502–​8, 512–​14, 524–​7, 546–​7, 549–​50, 558, 575–​6 Security Council 80, 91–​2, 184, 235, 490, 493, 494, 496 security services 5–​6, 38, 79, 80, 227–​35, 276, 431, 489, 493 selective engagement 555–​7 Serbia 514, 545 Serdyukov, A. 231, 235 Sergeev, I. 243

Sevastopol 147, 148, 150, 178, 288–​91, 308, 500, 502, 503, 547 Shablinsky, I. 211 Shaimiev, M. 452 Shakhrai, S. 454 Shamalov, K. 267 Shanghai Cooperation Organisation 572, 573, 575 Shenderovich, V. 393 Shevardnadze, E. 535 Shmakov, M. 324 Shoigu, S. 92, 231–​2, 245, 479, 490 Shors 452 Shulman, Y. 211 Shushkevich, S. 512, 515, 517 Siberia 140, 143, 146, 177, 220, 281, 465, 527, 570, 571 Sibneft 277, 281 silovik influence 232–​5 Siluanov, A. 92 Simonyan, M. 358 Sistema 415–​18 Skripal, S. 68, 549 Slavic Union 444 Slovak Republic 47–​9, 51–​60 Smirnyagin, L. 163 SMP Bank 278 Snowden, E. 366, 547 Sobchak, A. 139 SOBR 230 Sobyanin, S. 143, 162, 178, 496 social benefits monetisation 346–​7 social rights 207, 211–​12 social stratification 316, 320–​8 Sogaz 371 Solidarnost 221 Solzhenitsyn, A. 503 South Africa 293, 312, 360 South Korea 529, 574 South Ossetia 67, 68, 96, 244, 480, 495, 526, 532, 534, 542, 574 sovereign democracy 42 Sozvezdie 289 Spotify 367 St Petersburg 139, 147, 148, 158, 160–​2, 165, 176, 444 Stalin, J. 8, 22, 63, 87, 93, 210, 213, 321, 378–​82, 389, 392–​5, 464, 501–​2, 533–​4 standard of living 16, 18–​19, 27, 50–​4, 133, 288, 314–​16, 321, 322–​4 state building 198–​204, 265 state capacity 5, 15, 23, 24, 131, 193–​205 state capture 256, 264 state collapse 198–​204 State Council 76, 80–​1, 84, 93, 153, 155, 157, 186–​7, 213 State Duma 4, 13, 14, 25, 27, 28, 38, 65, 75–​7, 79–​83, 89, 93, 99–​108, 111, 114, 116–​20, 123,

586

587

Index 135, 140, 143, 155, 163, 186, 228, 234, 267, 277, 278, 281, 324, 372, 384, 507 state strength 193–​205 Stavropol 143, 158, 165, 167 strategic deterrence 492–​3 Strategy 31 222 Strelkov, I. 445 strikes 216, 217, 321, 325 SUAL 279 Sudoplatov, P. 496 Surgutneftegaz 280, 289 Surkov, V. 269, 441 Suvorov, V. 393 SVR 229, 232–​4, 394, 551 Syktyvkar 145 symbols 8, 19, 269, 377–​86, 388–​95, 517 symphonia 466, 469, 471 Syria 67–​9, 73, 228, 231, 246, 279, 468, 489, 492–​4, 540, 542, 544, 548, 550, 556, 557, 562, 572, 574, 575 Sysnev, O. 143 System for Operative Investigative Activities 228 Taimyr 158, 453 Taiwan 571 Tajikistan 10, 47–​59, 66, 67, 70, 71, 200, 522–​30, 572, 573, 575 Tambov 145 Tatars 450, 452, 453, 456, 464, 465 Tatarstan 15, 152, 153, 156, 171, 173, 177, 280, 452, 453, 455, 511 Taxi 368 Telegram 366, 372 television 354, 355, 357–​9, 361, 441, 490, 539 Ter-​Petrosian, L. 535 Tereshkova, V. 77, 106 terrorism 133 threat perception 489–​92 Tikhon, Metropolitan 441 Timchenko, G. 267, 281 TNK-​BP 277, 279, 280 Tokayev, K-​J. 71, 525 Tolokonsky, V. 143 Tolyatti 165 Tomsk 140, 143, 145–​7, 165, 384, 394 T-​Plus 279 Transneft 268, 280, 289 Treaty on Open Skies 549 truckers’ protest 219, 223, 327 Trump, D. 289, 478, 483, 484, 538–​9, 548–​50, 555, 561, 569 Trutnev, Y. 143 Tsagolov, K. 534 Tsikhanouskaya, S. 518 Turkey 529, 538, 540, 541 Turkmenistan 47–​59, 66, 67, 70, 71, 73, 200, 522–​30

Twitter 367, 371 Tyumen 143, 158, 165, 178 Tyva 152, 177, 452, 453 Udmurtia 145, 453 Udmurts 450 Ukraine 3, 6, 8–​11, 22, 24, 26, 30, 35, 42, 47–​9, 51–​9, 66–​9, 71–​3, 77, 88, 92, 97, 105, 121, 122, 164, 170, 177, 183, 199, 200, 207, 213, 214, 219, 221, 224, 230, 231, 234, 235, 239, 246–​7, 260, 263, 269, 279, 280, 288, 289, 290, 294, 302, 303, 308, 325, 361, 366, 372, 384, 385, 388, 390–​3, 395, 400, 406, 438, 442, 443, 445, 478–​85, 489–​91, 493, 494–​7, 499–​508, 512, 514–​18, 522, 526, 528–​30, 532, 537–​40, 544, 546–​52, 555, 556, 558–​60, 562, 563, 565, 568, 569, 571, 573–​5 Ukrainians 450, 456 Ulan Ude 143 Ulyanovsk 165, 359 Union of Coordination Councils 217 Union of Rightist Forces 113, 118, 130 Union State 27, 511, 512 United Democrats 144 United Kingdom 10, 39, 47–​9, 51–​9, 68, 229, 420, 471, 478, 555, 574 United Nations 72, 288, 492, 495, 555, 559, 574, 575 United Russia 4, 6, 24, 28, 29, 64, 87–​93, 99–​101, 103, 105–​7, 113, 114, 117–​23, 127, 129, 130, 132–​5, 144, 150, 154, 156, 183, 211, 216, 217, 220, 232, 324, 367, 368, 371, 391, 440, 446 United Shipbuilding Corporation 289 United States 10–​11, 25–​7, 29, 39, 46, 47, 51–​9, 68, 69, 71, 95, 96, 209, 210, 213, 221, 229, 232, 277–​80, 283, 287–​91, 294, 364, 366, 383, 388, 432, 441, 471, 477–​85, 490–​92, 494, 495, 503–​7, 511, 513, 522–​6, 528, 529, 532, 536–​8, 542, 544–​52, 555, 561, 563, 565, 569–​71, 574 Unity 107, 113, 119, 129–​31 Urals 167, 326 Uralvagonzavod 289, 326, 327 Usmanov, A. 354, 369, 371 USSR 4, 6, 8, 13, 16, 19, 22, 23, 29, 33, 37, 39, 46, 50, 76–​7, 93, 111–​19, 198, 207, 209, 213, 227, 239–​40, 275, 280, 286, 321, 331–​2, 343–​4, 365, 377, 380–​1, 389, 390, 393–​5, 399, 449–​51, 455, 463–​4, 466, 477, 501, 510–​9, 533–​4 Uzbekistan 47–​9, 51–​9, 66, 67, 70, 71, 200, 522–​30, 546 Vaino, A. 91 VEB 289, 290 Vekselberg, V. 279 Velikiy Novgorod 144

587

588

Index Veshnyakov, A. 120 VGTRK 368 Vietnam 492 VK Group 371, 372 VKontakte 277, 368, 369, 372 Vladimir 175, 500 Vladimir, Prince 499 Vladivostok 145, 570, 571 VPN 367 Volga 177 Volkov, L. 220, 222 Volodin, V. 65, 103, 105 Vorobyov, A. 103 Voronezh 140 VTB 289, 290 Wagner Group 69, 550, 575 welfare 8, 15, 217, 219–​20, 222, 268, 271, 292–​3, 333, 334, 342–​51; reform 344–​8; state 342–​3 West 6, 7, 9–​12, 19, 24, 27, 29, 35, 50, 53, 68, 69, 72, 97, 240, 276, 286, 288–​9, 364, 441, 468, 470, 477, 478–​81, 483, 484, 489, 490, 492–​4, 499, 503, 505, 508, 510, 512, 515, 516, 530, 532, 538, 561, 570, 576 Wildberries 368 women 331–​8; employment 335–​7; rights 403 Women of Russia 113, 132 working class 320–​8 Xi Jinping 528 Yabloko 14, 113, 118, 130, 144 Yakubovsky, V. 143 Yakunin, V. 277, 441 Yakutsk 140, 143, 163 Yamal LNG 572

Yamalo-​Nenets 158, 453 Yandex.ru 358, 364, 367, 371, 372 Yanukovych, V. 24, 26, 481, 503, 504, 547 Yarovaya, I. 392, 393 Yavlinsky, G. 112 Yeltsin, B. 3, 4, 6, 7, 12–​20, 23, 24, 38, 63, 75, 87–​8, 90–​1, 93–​4, 97, 100, 112, 114, 117, 119, 120, 129, 132, 138, 140, 149, 150, 152, 153, 158, 176, 178, 186, 193, 198–​200, 204, 207, 208, 210, 216, 235, 239–​42, 255, 258, 267, 268, 276, 280, 286, 344–​6, 350, 354, 365, 378–​82, 389–​90, 399, 400, 427, 433, 438, 440, 443, 451, 454, 477, 478, 482, 489, 510–​11, 522, 535, 545, 547, 568, 569 Yevroset 277 Young Guard 446 Young Russia 446 YouTube 364 Yugoslavia 478, 537 Yukos 186, 256–​8, 277, 280, 281 Yushenko, V. 390, 503 Yuzhno-​Sakhalinsk 140 Z 385 Zabaikal 158 Zaldostanov, A. 446 Zelensky, V. 495, 505, 550 Zhirinovsky, V. 112, 117, 122, 439, 440, 443 Zhuravlev, A. 446 Zinichev, E. 178 Zolotov, V. 493 Zorkin, V. 208, 211–​12 Zubkov, V. 91 Zubov, A. 393 Zvyagintsev, A. 410 Zyuganov, G. 112, 117, 122, 440

588